Give my kindest love and my sister’s to D. and yourself.  And a kiss from me to little Barbara Lewthwaite. [1] Thank you for liking my play!

C.L.

XXXVI.

TO MANNING.

February, 1801.

I am going to change my lodgings, having received a hint that it would be agreeable, at our Lady’s next feast.  I have partly fixed upon most delectable rooms, which look out (when you stand a-tiptoe) over the Thames and Surrey Hills, at the upper end of King’s Bench Walks, in the Temple.  There I shall have all the privacy of a house without the encumbrance; and shall be able to lock my friends out as often as I desire to hold free converse with my immortal mind; for my present lodgings resemble a minister’s levee, I have so increased my acquaintance (as they call ’em), since I have resided in town.  Like the country mouse, that had tasted a little of urban manners, I long to be nibbling my own cheese by my dear self without mousetraps and time-traps.  By my new plan, I shall be as airy, up four pair of stairs, as in the country; and in a garden, in the midst of enchanting, more than Mahometan paradise, London, whose dirtiest drab-frequented alley, and her lowest-bowing tradesman, I would not exchange for Skiddaw, Helvellyn, James, Walter, and the parson into the bargain.  Oh, her lamps of a night; her rich goldsmiths, print-shops, toy-shops, mercers, hardwaremen, pastrycooks; St. Paul’s Churchyard; the Strand; Exeter ’Change; Charing Cross, with a man upon a black horse!  These are thy gods, O London!  Ain’t you mightily moped on the banks of the Cam?  Had not you better come and set up here?  You can’t think what a difference.  All the streets and pavements are pure gold, I warrant you,—­at least, I know an alchemy that turns her mud into that metal:  a mind that loves to be at home in crowds.

’Tis half-past twelve o’clock, and all sober people ought to be a-bed.  Between you and me, the L. Ballads are but drowsy performances.

C. LAMB (as you may guess).

[1] The child in Wordsworth’s “The Pet Lamb.”

XXXVII.

TO MANNING.

February 15, 1801.

I had need be cautious henceforward what opinion I give of the “Lyrical Ballads.”  All the North of England are in a turmoil.  Cumberland and Westmoreland have already declared a state of war.  I lately received from Wordsworth a copy of the second volume, accompanied by an acknowledgment of having received from me many months since a copy of a certain tragedy, with excuses for not having made any acknowledgment sooner, it being owing to an “almost insurmountable aversion from letter-writing.”  This letter I answered in due form and time, and enumerated several of the passages which had most affected me, adding, unfortunately, that no single piece had moved