The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb, Volume 2 | Page 8

They have their good glebe lands in manu,
and care not much to rake into the title-deeds. I gather at least so much
from other sources, for D. is not a man to complain.
D. started like an unbroke heifer, when I interrupted him. A priori it
was not very probable that we should have met in Oriel. But D. would
have done the same, had I accosted him on the sudden in his own walks
in Clifford's-inn, or in the Temple. In addition to a provoking
short-sightedness (the effect of late studies and watchings at the
midnight oil) D. is the most absent of men. He made a call the other
morning at our friend _M.'s_ in Bedford-square; and, finding nobody at
home, was ushered into the hall, where, asking for pen and ink, with
great exactitude of purpose he enters me his name in the book--which
ordinarily lies about in such places, to record the failures of the
untimely or unfortunate visitor--and takes his leave with many
ceremonies, and professions of regret. Some two or three hours after,
his walking destinies returned him into the same neighbourhood again,
and again the quiet image of the fire-side circle at _M.'s_--Mrs. _M._
presiding at it like a Queen Lar, with pretty _A.S._ at her side--striking
irresistibly on his fancy, he makes another call (forgetting that they

were "certainly not to return from the country before that day week")
and disappointed a second time, inquires for pen and paper as before:
again the book is brought, and in the line just above that in which he is
about to print his second name (his re-script)--his first name (scarce dry)
looks out upon him like another Sosia, or as if a man should suddenly
encounter his own duplicate!--The effect may be conceived. D. made
many a good resolution against any such lapses in future. I hope he will
not keep them too rigorously.
For with G.D.--to be absent from the body, is sometimes (not to speak
it profanely) to be present with the Lord. At the very time when,
personally encountering thee, he passes on with no recognition--or,
being stopped, starts like a thing surprised--at that moment, reader, he
is on Mount Tabor--or Parnassus--or co-sphered with Plato--or, with
Harrington, framing "immortal commonwealths"--devising some plan
of amelioration to thy country, or thy species--peradventure meditating
some individual kindness or courtesy, to be done to thee thyself, the
returning consciousness of which made him to start so guiltily at thy
obtruded personal presence.
D. is delightful any where, but he is at the best in such places as these.
He cares not much for Bath. He is out of his element at Buxton, at
Scarborough, or Harrowgate. The Cam and the Isis are to him "better
than all the waters of Damascus." On the Muses' hill he is happy, and
good, as one of the Shepherds on the Delectable Mountains; and when
he goes about with you to show you the halls and colleges, you think
you have with you the Interpreter at the House Beautiful.
[Footnote 1: Januses of one face.--SIR THOMAS BROWNE.]

CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE AND THIRTY YEARS AGO
In Mr. Lamb's "Works," published a year or two since, I find a
magnificent eulogy on my old school,[1] such as it was, or now appears
to him to have been, between the years 1782 and 1789. It happens, very
oddly, that my own standing at Christ's was nearly corresponding with
his; and, with all gratitude to him for his enthusiasm for the cloisters, I
think he has contrived to bring together whatever can be said in praise
of them, dropping all the other side of the argument most ingeniously.
I remember L. at school; and can well recollect that he had some
peculiar advantages, which I and others of his schoolfellows had not.

His friends lived in town, and were near at hand; and he had the
privilege of going to see them, almost as often as he wished, through
some invidious distinction, which was denied to us. The present worthy
sub-treasurer to the Inner Temple can explain how that happened. He
had his tea and hot rolls in a morning, while we were battening upon
our quarter of a penny loaf--our _crug_--moistened with attenuated
small beer, in wooden piggins, smacking of the pitched leathern jack it
was poured from. Our Monday's milk porritch, blue and tasteless, and
the pease soup of Saturday, coarse and choking, were enriched for him
with a slice of "extraordinary bread and butter," from the hot-loaf of the
Temple. The Wednesday's mess of millet, somewhat less
repugnant--(we had three banyan to four meat days in the week)--was
endeared to his palate with a lump of double-refined, and a smack of
ginger (to make it go down the more glibly)