The Hunchback would be Knowles; the Straitback I do not recognise.
John Forster (1812-1876), whom we now meet for the first time, one of Lamb’s last new friends, was the author, later, of Lives of the Statesmen of the Commonwealth and the Lives also of Goldsmith and of Landor and Dickens, whose close friend he was. His Life of Pym, which was in Vol. II. of the Statesman, did not appear until 1837, but I assume that he had ridden the hobby for some years.]
CHARLES LAMB TO EDWARD MOXON (?)
[P.M. June 1, 1832.]
I am a little more than half alive— I was more than half dead— the Ladies are very agreeable— I flatter myself I am less than disagreeable— Convey this to Mr. Forster— Whom, with you, I shall just be able to see some 10 days hence and believe me ever yours C.L.
I take Forster’s name to be John, But you know whom I mean, the Pym-praiser not pimp-raiser.
[This letter possibly is not to Moxon at all, as the wrapper (on which is the postmark) may belong to another letter.]
CHARLES LAMB TO THOMAS ALLSOP
July 2, 1832.
AT midsummer or soon after (I will let you know the previous day), I will take a day with you in the purlieus of my old haunts. No offence has been taken, any more than meant. My house is full at present, but empty of its chief pride. She is dead to me for many months. But when I see you, then I will say, Come and see me. With undiminished friendship to you both,
Your faithful but queer C.L.
How you frighted me! Never write again, “Coleridge is dead,” at the end of a line, and tamely come in with “to his friends” at the beginning of another. Love is quicker, and fear from love, than the transition ocular from Line to Line.
CHARLES LAMB TO WALTER WILSON
[Dated at end: Aug., 1832.]
My dear Wilson, I cannot let my old friend Mrs. Hazlitt (Sister in Law to poor Wm. Hazlitt) leave Enfield, without endeavouring to introduce her to you, and to Mrs. Wilson. Her daughter has a School in your neighbourhood, and for her talents and by [for] her merits I can answer. If it lies in your power to be useful to them in any way, the obligation to your old office-fellow will be great. I have not forgotten Mrs. Wilson’s Album, and if you, or she, will be the means of procuring but one pupil for Miss Hazlitt, I will rub up my poor poetic faculty to the best. But you and she will one day, I hope, bring the Album with you to Enfield— Poor Mary is ill, or would send her love—
Yours very Truly
News.—Collet is dead, Du Puy is dead.
I am not.—Hone! is turned
Believer in Irving and his unknown Tongues.