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 me so forcibly as the
"Ancient Mariner," "The Mad Mother," or the "Lines at Tintern Abbey.
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