“You have said enough, Mr. Lamb, to justify your choice.”

“Oh! ever right, Menenius—­ever right!”

“There is only one person I can ever think of after this,” continued Lamb; but without mentioning a name that once put on a semblance of mortality.  “If Shakespeare was to come into the room, we should all rise up to meet him; but if that person was to come into it, we should all fall down and try to kiss the hem of his garment.”

HAYDON’S IMMORTAL NIGHT
[Sidenote:  B.R.  Haydon]

On December 28th the immortal dinner came off in my painting-room, with Jerusalem towering up behind us as a background.  Wordsworth was in fine cue, and we had a glorious set-to—­on Homer, Shakespeare, Milton, and Virgil.  Lamb got exceedingly merry and exquisitely witty; and his fun in the midst of Wordsworth’s solemn intonations of oratory was like the sarcasm and wit of the fool in the intervals of Lear’s passion.  He made a speech and voted me absent, and made them drink my health.  “Now,” said Lamb, “you old lake poet, you rascally poet, why do you call Voltaire dull?” We all defended Wordsworth, and affirmed there was a state of mind when Voltaire would be dull.  “Well,” said Lamb, “here’s Voltaire—­the Messiah of the French nation, and a very proper one too.”

He then, in a strain of humour beyond description, abused me for putting Newton’s head into my picture—­“a fellow,” said he, “who believed nothing unless it was as clear as the three sides of a triangle.”  And then he and Keats agreed he had destroyed all the poetry of the rainbow by reducing it to the prismatic colours.  It was impossible to resist him, and we all drank “Newton’s health, and confusion to mathematics.”  It was delightful to see the good-humour of Wordsworth in giving in to all our frolics without affectation, and laughing as heartily as the best of us.

By this time other friends joined, amongst them poor Ritchie, who was going to penetrate by Fezzan to Timbuctoo.  I introduced him to all as “a gentleman going to Africa.”  Lamb seemed to take no notice; but all of a sudden he roared out, “Which is the gentleman we are going to lose?” We then drank the victim’s health, in which Ritchie joined.

In the morning of this delightful day, a gentleman, a perfect stranger, had called on me.  He said he knew my friends, had an enthusiasm for Wordsworth, and begged I would procure him the happiness of an introduction.  He told me he was a comptroller of stamps, and often had correspondence with the poet.  I thought it a liberty; but still, as he seemed a gentleman, I told him he might come.

When we retired to tea we found the comptroller.  Introducing him to Wordsworth, I forgot to say who he was.  After a little time the comptroller looked down, looked up and said to Wordsworth, “Don’t you think, sir, Milton was a great genius?” Keats looked at me, Wordsworth looked at the comptroller.  Lamb, who was dozing by the fire, turned round and said, “Pray, sir, did you say Milton was a great genius?” “No, sir; I asked Mr. Wordsworth if he were not.”  “Oh,” said Lamb, “then you are a silly fellow.”  “Charles! my dear Charles!” said Wordsworth; but Lamb, perfectly innocent of the confusion he had created, was off again by the fire.