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The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, Volume 4 written by Charles Lamb

C >> Charles Lamb >> The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, Volume 4



THE WORKS OF CHARLES LAMB

In Four Volumes

VOL. IV.

A New Edition







CONTENTS.

ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS, ETC.

ROSAMUND GRAY

ESSAYS:--

RECOLLECTIONS OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL

ON THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE, CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR
FITNESS FOR STAGE-REPRESENTATION

CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS, CONTEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPEARE

SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF FULLER, THE CHURCH HISTORIAN

ON THE GENIUS AND CHARACTER OF HOGARTH; WITH SOME REMARKS ON A
PASSAGE IN THE WRITINGS OF THE LATE MR. BARRY

ON THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE WITHER

LETTERS UNDER ASSUMED SIGNATURES, PUBLISHED IN "THE REFLECTOR":--

THE LONDONER

ON BURIAL SOCIETIES; AND THE CHARACTER OF AN UNDERTAKER

ON THE DANGER OF CONFOUNDING MORAL WITH PERSONAL DEFORMITY; WITH A
HINT TO THOSE WHO HAVE THE FRAMING OF ADVERTISEMENTS FOR
APPREHENDING OFFENDERS

ON THE INCONVENIENCES RESULTING FROM BEING HANGED

ON THE MELANCHOLY OF TAILORS

HOSPITA ON THE IMMODERATE INDULGENCE OF THE PLEASURES OF THE
PALATE

EDAX ON APPETITE

CURIOUS FRAGMENTS, EXTRACTED FROM A COMMONPLACE BOOK WHICH BELONGED
TO ROBERT BURTON, THE FAMOUS AUTHOR OF THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY

MR. H----, A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS


* * * * *


POEMS.

[_Those marked with an asterisk are by the Author's Sister._]

HESTER

TO CHARLES LLOYD, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

THE THREE FRIENDS

TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

*HELEN

A VISION OF REPENTANCE

*DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD

QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM

A BALLAD, NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A
RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE

HYPOCHONDRIACUS

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO

_TO T. L. H., A CHILD_

BALLAD, FROM THE GERMAN

*DAVID IN THE CAVE OF ADULLAM

*SALOME

*LINES SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES, BY LIONARDO DA VINCI

*LINES ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT
OF A LADY BY TITIAN

*LINES ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE
VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS

*ON THE SAME

SONNETS:--

I. TO MISS KELLY

II. ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN.

III.

IV.

V.

VI. THE FAMILY NAME

VII.

VIII.

IX. TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE

X.

XI.

BLANK VERSE:--

CHILDHOOD

THE GRANDAME

THE SABBATH BELLS

FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS

COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT

JOHN WOODVIL; A TRAGEDY

THE WITCH, A DRAMATIC SKETCH OP THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY


* * * * *


ALBUM VERSES, WITH A FEW OTHERS.

IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W----

TO DORA W----, ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM

IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY

IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S----

IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q----

IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY

IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON

IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS

IN THE ALBUM OF MISS----

IN MY OWN ALBUM

MISCELLANEOUS:--

ANGEL HELP

ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN

THE CHRISTENING

THE YOUNG CATECHIST

TO A YOUNG FRIEND ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY

SHE IS GOING

SONNETS:--

HARMONY IN UNLIKENESS

WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE

TO A CELEBRATED FEMALE PERFORMER IN THE "BLIND BOY"

WORK

LEISURE

TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

THE GYPSY'S MALISON

COMMENDATORY VERSES, ETC.:--

TO J. S. KNOWLES, ESQ., ON HIS TRAGEDY OF VIRGINIUS

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS PUBLISHED UNDER THE NAME OF BARRY CORNWALL

TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERY-DAY BOOK"

TO T. STOTHARD, ESQ., ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR.
ROGERS

TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE

"O LIFT WITH REVERENT HAND"

THE SELF-ENCHANTED

TO LOUISA M----, WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY"

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE:--

THE BALLAD-SINGERS

TO DAVID COOK, OF THE PARISH OF ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER,
WATCHMAN

ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING

EPITAPH ON A DOG

THE RIVAL BELLS

NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA

THE HOUSEKEEPER

ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST

THE FEMALE ORATORS

PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL

GOING OR GONE

FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS

THE WIFE'S TRIAL; OR, THE INTRUDING WIDOW. A DRAMATIC POEM




ROSAMUND GRAY, ESSAYS,

ETC.




TO

MARTIN CHARLES BURNEY, ESQ.

Forgive me, BURNEY, if to thee these late
And hasty products of a critic pen,
Thyself no common judge of books and men,
In feeling of thy worth I dedicate.
My _verse_ was offered to an older friend;
The humbler _prose_ has fallen to thy share:
Nor could I miss the occasion to declare,
What spoken in thy presence must offend--
That, set aside some few caprices wild,
Those humorous clouds that flit o'er brightest days,
In all my threadings of this worldly maze,
(And I have watched thee almost from a child),
Free from self-seeking, envy, low design,
I have not found a whiter soul than thine.




ROSAMUND GRAY.

* * * * *

CHAPTER I.


It was noontide. The sun was very hot. An old gentlewoman sat
spinning in a little arbor at the door of her cottage. She was blind;
and her granddaughter was reading the Bible to her. The old lady had
just left her work, to attend to the story of Ruth.

"Orpah kissed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her." It was a
passage she could not let pass without a _comment_. The moral she
drew from it was not very _new_, to be sure. The girl had heard it a
hundred times before--and a hundred times more she could have heard
it, without suspecting it to be tedious. Rosamund loved her
grandmother.

The old lady loved Rosamund too; and she had reason for so doing.
Rosamund was to her at once a child and a servant. She had only _her_
left in the world. They two lived together.

They had once known better days. The story of Rosamund's parents,
their failure, their folly, and distresses, may be told another time.
Our tale hath grief enough in it.

It was now about a year and a half since old Margaret Gray had sold
off all her effects, to pay the debts of Rosamund's father--just
after the mother had died of a broken heart; for her husband had fled
his country to hide his shame in a foreign land. At that period the
old lady retired to a small cottage in the village of Widford in
Hertfordshire.

Rosamund, in her thirteenth year, was left destitute, without fortune
or friends: she went with her grandmother. In all this time she had
served her faithfully and lovingly.

Old Margaret Gray, when she first came into these parts, had eyes,
and could see. The neighbors said, they had been dimmed by weeping:
be that as it may, she was latterly grown quite blind. "God is very
good to us, child; I can _feel_ you yet." This she would sometimes
say; and we need not wonder to hear, that Rosamund clave unto her
grandmother.

Margaret retained a spirit unbroken by calamity. There was a
principle _within_, which it seemed as if no outward circumstances
could reach. It was a _religious_ principle, and she had taught it to
Rosamund; for the girl had mostly resided with her grandmother from
her earliest years. Indeed she had taught her all that she knew
herself; and the old lady's knowledge did not extend a vast way.

Margaret had drawn her maxims from observation; and a pretty long
experience in life had contributed to make her, at times, a little
_positive:_ but Rosamund never argued with her grandmother.

Their library consisted chiefly in a large family Bible, with notes
and expositions by various learned expositors, from Bishop Jewell
downwards.

This might never be suffered to lie about like other books, but was
kept constantly wrapt up in a handsome case of green velvet, with
gold tassels--the only relic of departed grandeur they had brought
with them to the cottage--everything else of value had been sold off
for the purpose above mentioned.

This Bible Rosamund, when a child, had never dared to open without
permission; and even yet, from habit, continued the custom. Margaret
had parted with none of her _authority_; indeed it was never exerted
with much harshness; and happy was Rosamund, though a girl grown,
when she could obtain leave to read her Bible. It was a treasure too
valuable for an indiscriminate use; and Margaret still pointed out to
her grand-daughter _where to read._

Besides this, they had the "Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man's
Recreation," with cuts--"Pilgrim's Progress," the first part--a
Cookery Book, with a few dry sprigs of rosemary and lavender stuck
here and there between the leaves, (I suppose to point to some of the
old lady's most favorite receipts,) and there was "Wither's Emblems,"
an old book, and quaint. The old-fashioned pictures in this last book
were among the first exciters of the infant Rosamund's curiosity. Her
contemplation had fed upon them in rather older years.

Rosamund had not read many books besides these; or if any, they had
been only occasional companions: these were to Rosamund as old
friends, that she had long known. I know not whether the peculiar
cast of her mind might not be traced, in part, to a tincture she had
received, early in life, from Walton and Wither, from John Bunyan and
her Bible.

Rosamund's mind was pensive and reflective, rather than what passes
usually for _clever_ or _acute_. From a child she was remarkably shy
and thoughtful--this was taken for stupidity and want of feeling; and
the child has been sometimes whipt for being a _stubborn thing_, when
her little heart was almost bursting with affection.

Even now her grandmother would often reprove her, when she found her
too grave or melancholy; give her sprightly lectures about good-humor
and rational mirth; and not unfrequently fall a-crying herself, to
the great discredit of her lecture. Those tears endeared her the more
to Rosamund.

Margaret would say, "Child, I love you to cry, when I think you are
only remembering your poor dear father and mother;--I would have you
think about them sometimes--it would be strange if you did not; but I
fear, Rosamund--I fear, girl, you sometimes think too deeply about
your own situation and poor prospects in life. When you do so, you do
wrong--remember the naughty rich man in the parable. He never had any
good thoughts about God, and his religion: and that might have been
your case."

Rosamund, at these times, could not reply to her; she was not in the
habit of _arguing_ with her grandmother; so she was quite silent on
these occasions--or else the girl knew well enough herself, that she
had only been sad to think of the desolate condition of her best
friend, to see her, in her old age, so infirm and blind. But she had
never been used to make excuses, when the old lady said she was doing
wrong.

The neighbors were all very kind to them. The veriest rustics never
passed them without a bow, or a pulling off of the hat--some show of
courtesy, awkward indeed, but affectionate--with a "Good-morrow,
madam," or "young madam," as it might happen.

Rude and savage natures, who seem born with a propensity to express
contempt for anything that looks like prosperity, yet felt respect
for its declining lustre.

The farmers, and better sort of people, (as they are called,) all
promised to provide for Rosamund when her grandmother should die.
Margaret trusted in God and believed them.

She used to say, "I have lived many years in the world, and have
never known people, _good people_, to be left without some friend; a
relation, a benefactor, a _something_. God knows our wants--that it
is not good for man or woman to be alone; and he always sends us a
helpmate, a leaning place, a _somewhat_." Upon this sure ground of
experience, did Margaret build her trust in Providence.


* * * * *


CHAPTER II.


Rosamund had just made an end of her story, (as I was about to
relate,) and was listening to the application of the moral, (which
said application she was old enough to have made herself, but her
grandmother still continued to treat her, in many respects, as a
child, and Rosamund was in no haste to lay claim to the title of
womanhood,) when a young gentleman made his appearance and
interrupted them.

It was young Allan Clare, who had brought a present of peaches, and
some roses for Rosamund.

He laid his little basket down on a seat of the arbor; and in a
respectful tone of voice, as though he were addressing a parent,
inquired of Margaret "how she did."

The old lady seemed pleased with his attentions--answered his
inquiries by saying, that "her cough was less troublesome a-nights,
but she had not yet got rid of it, and probably she never might; but
she did not like to tease young people with an account of her
infirmities."

A few kind words passed on either side, when young Clare, glancing a
tender look at the girl, who had all this time been silent, took
leave of them with saying, "I shall bring _Elinor_ to see you in the
evening."

When he was gone, the old lady began to prattle.

"That is a sweet-dispositioned youth, and I _do_ love him dearly, I
must say it--there is such a modesty in all he says or does--he
should not come here so often, to be sure, but I don't know how to
help it; there is so much goodness in him, I can't find it in my
heart to forbid him. But, Rosamund, girl, I must tell you beforehand;
when you grow older, Mr. Clare must be no companion for _you_: while
you were both so young it was all very well--but the time is coming,
when folks will think harm of it, if a rich young gentleman, like Mr.
Clare, comes so often to our poor cottage.--Dost hear, girl? Why
don't you answer? Come, I did not mean to say anything to hurt
you--speak to me, Rosamund--nay, I must not have you be sullen--I
don't love people that are sullen."

And in this manner was this poor soul running on, unheard and
unheeded, when it occurred to her, that possibly the girl might not
be _within hearing_.

And true it was, that Rosamund had slunk away at the first mention of
Mr. Clare's good qualities: and when she returned, which was not till
a few minutes after Margaret had made an end of her fine harangue, it
is certain her cheeks _did_ look very _rosy_. That might have been
from the heat of the day or from exercise, for she had been walking
in the garden.

Margaret, we know, was blind; and, in this case, it was lucky for
Rosamund that she was so, or she might have made some not unlikely
surmises.

I must not have my reader infer from this, that I at all think it
likely, a young maid of fourteen would fall in love without asking
her grandmother's leave--the thing itself is not to be conceived.

To obviate all suspicions, I am disposed to communicate a little
anecdote of Rosamund.

A month or two back her grandmother had been giving her the strictest
prohibitions, in her walks, not to go near a certain spot, which was
dangerous from the circumstance of a huge overgrown oak-tree
spreading its prodigious arms across a deep chalk-pit, which they
partly concealed.

To this fatal place Rosamund came one day--female curiosity, we know,
is older than the flood--let us not think hardly of the girl, if she
partook of the sexual failing.

Rosamund ventured further and further--climbed along one of the
branches--approached the forbidden chasm--her foot slipped--she was
not killed--but it was by a mercy she escaped--other branches
intercepted her fall--and with a palpitating heart she made her way
back to the cottage.

It happened that evening, that her grandmother was in one of her best
humors, caressed Rosamund, talked of old times, and what a blessing
it was they two found a shelter in their little cottage, and in
conclusion told Rosamund, "she was a good girl, and God would one day
reward her for her kindness to her old blind grandmother."

This was more than Rosamund could bear. Her morning's disobedience
came fresh into her mind; she felt she did not deserve all this from
Margaret, and at last burst into a fit of crying, and made confession
of her fault. The old gentlewoman kissed and forgave her.

Rosamund never went near that naughty chasm again.

Margaret would never have heard of this, if Rosamund had not told of
it herself. But this young maid had a delicate moral sense, which
would not suffer her to take advantage of her grandmother, to deceive
her, or conceal anything from her, though Margaret was old, and
blind, and easy to be imposed upon.

Another virtuous _trait_ I recollect of Rosamund, and now I am in the
vein will tell it.

Some, I know, will think these things trifles--and they are so--but
if these _minutiae_ make my reader better acquainted with Rosamund, I
am content to abide the imputation.

These promises of character, hints, and early indications of a _sweet
nature_, are to me more dear, and choice in the selection, than any
of those pretty wild flowers, which this young maid, this virtuous
Rosamund, has ever gathered in a fine May morning, to make a posy to
place in the bosom of her old blind friend.

Rosamund had a very just notion of drawing, and would often employ
her talent in making sketches of the surrounding scenery.

On a landscape, a larger piece than she had ever yet attempted, she
had now been working for three or four months. She had taken great
pains with it, given much time to it, and it was nearly finished. For
_whose_ particular inspection it was designed, I will not venture to
conjecture. We know it could not have been for her grandmother's.

One day she went out on a short errand, and left her landscape on the
table. When she returned, she found it _gone_.

Rosamund from the first suspected some mischief, but held her tongue.
At length she made the fatal discovery. Margaret, in her absence, had
laid violent hands on it; not knowing what it was, but taking it for
some waste-paper, had torn it in half, and with one half of this
elaborate composition had twisted herself up--a thread-paper!

Rosamund spread out her hands at sight of the disaster, gave her
grandmother a roguish smile, but said not a word. She knew the poor
soul would only fret, if she told her of it,--and when once Margaret
was set a fretting for other people's misfortunes, the fit held her
pretty long.

So Rosamund that very afternoon began another piece of the same size
and subject; and Margaret, to her dying day, never dreamed of the
mischief she had unconsciously done.


* * * * *


CHAPTER III


Rosamund Gray was the most beautiful young creature that eyes ever
beheld. Her face had the sweetest expression in it--a gentleness--a
modesty--a timidity--a certain charm--a grace without a name.

There was a sort of melancholy mingled in her smile. It was not the
thoughtless levity of a girl--it was not the restrained simper of
premature womanhood--it was something which the poet Young might have
remembered, when he composed that perfect line,

"Soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair."

She was a mild-eyed maid, and everybody loved her. Young Allan Clare,
when but a boy, sighed for her.

Her yellow hair fell in bright and curling clusters, like

"Those hanging locks
Of young Apollo."

Her voice was trembling and musical. A graceful diffidence pleaded
for her whenever she spake--and, if she said but little, that little
found its way to the heart.

Young, and artless, and innocent, meaning no harm, and thinking none;
affectionate as a smiling infant--playful, yet inobtrusive, as a
weaned lamb--everybody loved her. Young Allan Clare, when but a boy,
sighed for her.

* * * * *

The moon is shining in so brightly at my window, where I write, that
I feel it a crime not to suspend my employment awhile to gaze at her.

See how she glideth, in maiden honor, through the clouds, who divide
on either side to do her homage.

Beautiful vision!--as I contemplate thee, an internal harmony is
communicated to my mind, a moral brightness, a tacit analogy of
mental purity; a calm like _that_ we ascribe in fancy to the favored
inhabitants of thy fairy regions, "argent fields."

I marvel not, O moon, that heathen people, in the "olden times," did
worship thy deity--Cynthia, Diana, Hecate. Christian Europe invokes
thee not by these names now--her idolatry is of a blacker stain:
Belial is her God--she worships Mammon.

False things are told concerning thee, fair planet--for I will ne'er
believe that thou canst take a perverse pleasure in distorting the
brains of us, poor mortals. Lunatics! moonstruck! Calumny invented,
and folly took up, these names. I would hope better things from thy
mild aspect and benign influences.

Lady of Heaven, thou lendest thy pure lamp to light the way to the
virgin mourner, when she goes to seek the tomb where her warrior
lover lies.

Friend of the distressed, thou speakest only _peace_ to the lonely
sufferer, who walks forth in the placid evening, beneath thy gentle
light, to chide at fortune, or to complain of changed friends, or
unhappy loves.

Do I dream, or doth not even now a heavenly calm descend from thee
into my bosom, as I meditate on the chaste loves of Rosamund and her
Clare!


* * * * *


CHAPTER IV.


Allan Clare was just two years older than Rosamund. He was a boy of
fourteen, when he first became acquainted with her--it was soon after
she had come to reside with her grandmother at Widford.

He met her by chance one day, carrying a pitcher in her hand, which
she had been filling from a neighboring well--the pitcher was heavy,
and she seemed to be bending with its weight.

Allan insisted on carrying it for her--for he thought it a sin that a
delicate young maid, like her, should be so employed, and he stand
idle by.

Allan had a propensity to do little kind offices for everybody--but
at the sight of Rosamund Gray, his first fire was kindled--his young
mind seemed to have found an object, and his enthusiasm was from that
time forth awakened. His visits, from that day, were pretty frequent
at the cottage.

He was never happier than when he could get Rosamund to walk out with
him. He would make her admire the scenes he admired--fancy the wild
flowers he fancied--watch the clouds he was watching--and not
unfrequently repeat to her poetry which he loved, and make her love
it.

On their return, the old lady, who considered them yet as but
children, would bid Rosamund fetch Mr. Clare a glass of her
currant-wine, a bowl of new milk, or some cheap dainty which was more
welcome to Allan than the costliest delicacies of a prince's court.

The boy and girl, for they were no more at that age, grew fond of
each other--more fond than either of them suspected.

"They would sit, and sigh,
And look upon each other, and conceive
Not what they ail'd; yet something they did ail,
And yet were well--and yet they were not well;
And what was their disease, they could not tell."

And thus,

"In this first garden of their simpleness
They spent their childhood."

A circumstance had lately happened, which in some sort altered the
nature of their attachment.

Rosamund was one day reading the tale of "Julia de Roubigne"--a book
which young Clare had lent her.

Allan was standing by, looking over her, with one hand thrown round
her neck, and a finger of the other pointing to a passage in Julia's
third letter.

"Maria! in my hours of visionary indulgence, I have sometimes painted
to myself a _husband_--no matter whom--comforting me amidst the
distresses which fortune had laid upon us. I have smiled upon him
through my tears; tears, not of anguish, but of tenderness!--our
children were playing around us, unconscious of misfortune; we had
taught them to be humble, and to be happy; our little shed was
reserved to us, and their smiles to cheer it.--I have imagined the
luxury of such a scene, and affliction became a part of my dream of
happiness."

The girl blushed as she read, and trembled--she had a sort of
confused sensation, that Allan was noticing her--yet she durst not
lift her eyes from the book, but continued reading, scarce knowing
what she read.

Allan guessed the cause of her confusion, Allan trembled too--his
color came and went--his feelings became impetuous--and flinging both
arms round her neck, he kissed his young favorite.

Rosamund was vexed and pleased, soothed and frightened, all in a
moment--a fit of tears came to her relief.

Allan had indulged before in these little freedoms, and Rosamund had
thought no harm of them; but from this time the girl grew timid and
reserved--distant in her manner, and careful of her behavior in
Allan's presence--not seeking his society as before, but rather
shunning it--delighting more to feed upon his idea in absence.

Allan too, from this day, seemed changed: his manner became, though
not less tender, yet more respectful and diffident--his bosom felt a
throb it had till now not known, in the society of Rosamund--and, if
he was less familiar with her than in former times, that charm of
delicacy had superadded a grace to Rosamund, which, while he feared,
he loved.

There is a _mysterious character_, heightened, indeed, by fancy and
passion, but not without foundation in reality and observation, which
true lovers have ever imputed to the object of their affections. This
character Rosamund had now acquired with Allan--something _angelic,
perfect, exceeding nature._