The Best Letters of Charles Lamb. Charles Lamb

Чтение книги онлайн.

       XVIII. To Southey

       XIX. To Thomas Manning

       XX. To Coleridge

       XXI. To Manning

       XXII. To Coleridge

       XXIII. To Manning

       XXIV. To Manning

       XXV. To Coleridge

       XXVI. To Manning

       XXVII. To Coleridge

       XXVIII. To Coleridge

       XXIX. To Manning

       XXX. To Manning

       XXXI. To Manning

       XXXII. To Manning

       XXXIII. To Coleridge

       XXXIV. To Wordsworth

       XXXV. To Wordsworth

       XXXVI. To Manning

       XXXVII. To Manning

       XXXVIII. To Manning

       XXXIX. To Coleridge

       XL. To Manning

       XLI. To Manning

       XLII. To Manning

       XLIII. To William Godwin

       XLIV. To Manning

       XLV. To Miss Wordsworth

       XLVI. To Manning

       XLVII. To Wordsworth

       XLVIII. To Manning

       XLIX. To Wordsworth

       L. To Manning

       LI. To Miss Wordsworth

       LII. To Wordsworth

       LIII. To Wordsworth

       LIV. To Wordsworth

       LV. To Wordsworth

       LVI. To Southey

       LVII. To Miss Hutchinson

       LVIII. To Manning

       LIX. To Manning

       LX. To Wordsworth

       LXI. To Wordsworth

       LXII. To H. Dodwell

       LXIII. To Mrs. Wordsworth

       LXIV. To Wordsworth

       LXV. To Manning

       LXVI. To Miss Wordsworth

       LXVII. To Coleridge

       LXVIII. To Wordsworth

       LXIX. To John Clarke

       LXX. To Mr. Barren Field

       LXXI. To Walter Wilson

       LXXII. To Bernard Barton

       LXXIII. To Miss Wordsworth

       LXXIV. To Mr. and Mrs. Bruton

       LXXV. To Bernard Barton

       LXXVI. To Miss Hutchinson

       LXXVII. To Bernard Barton

       LXXVIII. To Mrs. Hazlitt

       LXXIX. To Bernard Barton

       LXXX. To Bernard Barton

       LXXXI. To Bernard Barton

       LXXXII. To Bernard Barton

       LXXXIII. To Bernard Barton

       LXXXIV. To Bernard Barton

       LXXXV. To Bernard Barton

       LXXXVI. To Wordsworth

       LXXXVII. To Bernard Barton

       LXXXVIII. To Bernard Barton

       LXXXIX. To Bernard Barton

       XC. To Southey

       XCI. To Bernard Barton

       XCII. To J.B. Dibdin

       XCIII. To Henry Crabb Robinson

       XCIV. To Peter George Patmore

       XCV. To Bernard Barton

       XCVI. To Thomas Hood

       XCVII. To P.G. Patmore

       XCVIII. To Bernard Barton

       XCIX. To Procter

       C. To Bernard Barton

       CI. To Mr. Gilman

       CII. To Wordsworth

       CIII. To Mrs. Hazlitt

       CIV. To George Dyer

       CV. To Dyer

       CVI. To Mr. Moxon

       CVII. To Mr. Moxon

INTRODUCTION.

       Table of Contents

      No writer, perhaps, since the days of Dr. Johnson has been oftener brought before us in biographies, essays, letters, etc., than Charles Lamb. His stammering speech, his gaiter-clad legs—"almost immaterial legs," Hood called them—his frail wisp of a body, topped by a head "worthy of Aristotle," his love of punning, of the Indian weed, and, alas! of the kindly production of the juniper-berry (he was not, he owned, "constellated under Aquarius"), his antiquarianism of taste, and relish of the crotchets and whimsies of authorship, are as familiar to us almost as they were to the group he gathered round him Wednesdays at No. 4, Inner Temple Lane, where "a clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigor of the game" awaited them. Talfourd has unctuously celebrated Lamb's "Wednesday Nights." He has kindly left ajar a door through which posterity peeps in upon the company—Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, "Barry Cornwall," Godwin, Martin Burney, Crabb Robinson (a ubiquitous shade, dimly suggestive of that figment, "Mrs. Harris"), Charles Kemble, Fanny Kelly ("Barbara S."), on red-letter occasions Coleridge and Wordsworth—and sees them discharging the severer offices of the whist-table ("cards were cards" then), and, later, unbending their minds over poetry, criticism, and metaphysics. Elia was no Barmecide host, and the serjeant dwells not without regret upon the solider business of the evening—"the cold roast lamb or boiled beef, the heaps of smoking roasted potatoes, and the vast jug of porter, often replenished from the foaming pots which the best tap of Fleet Street supplied," hospitably presided СКАЧАТЬ