MY dear Friend, I am not ignorant that to be a
partaker of the Divine Nature is a phrase to be met with in Scripture: I am
only apprehensive, lest we in these latter days, tinctured (some of us perhaps
pretty deeply) with mystical notions and the pride of metaphysics, might be apt
to affix to such phrases a meaning, which the primitive users of them, the
simple fishermen of Galilee for instance, never intended to convey. With
| 52 | LETTERS OF C. AND M. LAMB | Oct. |
I have satisfaction in being able to bid you rejoice with me in my sister’s continued reason and composedness of mind. Let us both be thankful for it. I continue to visit her very frequently, and the people of the house are vastly indulgent to her; she is likely to be as comfortably situated in all respects as those who pay twice or thrice the sum. They love her, and she loves them, and makes herself very useful to them. Benevolence sets out on her journey with a good heart, and puts a good face on it, but is apt to limp and grow feeble, unless she calls in the aid of self-interest by way of crutch. In Mary’s case, as far as respects those she is with, ’tis well that these principles are so likely to co-operate. I am rather at a loss sometimes for books for her,—our reading is somewhat confined, and we have nearly exhausted our London library. She has her hands too full of work to read much, but a little she must read; for reading was her daily bread.
Have you seen Bowles’s new poem on “Hope?” What character does it bear? Has he exhausted his stores of tender plaintiveness? or is he the same in this last as in all his former pieces? The duties of the day call me off from this pleasant intercourse with my friend—so for the present adieu.
Now for the truant borrowing of a few minutes from
business. Have you met with a new poem called the “Pursuits of Literature?” From the
extracts in the “British Review” I judge
it to be a very humorous thing; in particular I remember what I thought a very
happy character of Dr. Darwin’s
poetry. Among all your quaint readings did you ever light upon Walton’s “Complete Angler?” I asked you the
question once before; it breathes the very spirit of innocence, purity, and
simplicity of heart; there are many choice old verses interspersed in it; it
would sweeten a man’s temper at any time to read it; it would
Christianise every discordant angry passion; pray make yourself acquainted with
it. Have you made it up with Southey
yet? Surely one of you two must have been
| 1796 | SOUTHEY AND COLERIDGE | 53 |
When will he be delivered of his new epic? Madoc I think, is to be the name of it; though that is a name not familiar to my ears. What progress do you make in your hymns? What Review are you connected with? If with any, why do you delay to notice White’s book? You are justly offended at its profaneness; but surely you have undervalued its wit, or you would have been more loud in its praises. Do not you think that in Slender’s death and madness there is most exquisite humour, mingled with tenderness, that is irresistible, truly Shakspearian? Be more full in your mention of it. Poor fellow, he has (very undeservedly) lost by it; nor do I see that it is likely ever to reimburse him the charge of printing, etc. Give it a lift, if you can. I suppose you know that Allen’s wife is dead, and he, just situated as he was, never the better, as the worldly people say, for her death, her money with her children being taken off his hands. I am just now wondering whether you will ever come to town again, Coleridge; ’tis among the things I dare not hope, but can’t help wishing. For myself, I can live in the midst of town luxury and superfluity, and not long for them, and I can’t see why your children might not hereafter do the same. Remember, you are not in Arcadia when you are in the west of England, and they may catch infection from the world without visiting the metropolis. But you seem to have set your heart upon this same cottage plan; and God prosper you in the experiment! I am at a loss for more to write about; so ’tis as well that I am arrived at the bottom of my paper.
God love you, Coleridge!—Our best loves and tenderest wishes await on you, your Sara, and your little one.
