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spect, which he would have every one else
equally maintain for himself. He would
have you to think alike with him on this
topic. Many a quarrel have I had with him,
when we were rather older boys, and our tall-
ness1 made us more obnoxious to observa-
tion in the blue clothes, because I would not
thread the alleys and blind ways of the town
with him to elude notice, when we have been
out together on a holiday in the streets of
this sneering and prying metropolis. W
went, sore with these notions, to Oxford,
where the dignity and sweetness of a schol-
ar's life, meeting with the alloy of a humble
introduction, wrought in him a passionate
devotion to the place, with a profound aver-
sion from the society. The servitor's gown?
(worse than his school array) clung to him
with Nessian venom. He thought himself
ridiculous in a garb, under which Latimer
would have walked erect; and in which
Hooker, in his young days, possibly
flaunted in a vein of no discommendable
vanity. In the depth of college shades, or
in his lonely chamber, the poor student
shrunk from observation. He found shelter
among books, which insult not; and studies,
that ask no questions of a youth's finances.
He was lord of his library, and seldom cared
for looking out beyond his domains. The 30
healing influence of studious pursuits was
upon him, to soothe and to abstract. He
was almost a healthy man; when the way-
wardness of his fate broke out against him
with a second and worse malignity. The 35
father of W had hitherto exercised the
humble profession of house-painter at
N-, near Oxford. A supposed interest
with some of the heads of the colleges had
now induced him to take up his abode in
that city, with the hope of being employed
upon some public works which were talked
of. From that moment I read in the coun-
tenance of the young man, the determina-
tion which at length tore him from academ-
ical pursuits forever. To a person unac-
quainted with our universities, the distance
between the gownsmen and the townsmen,
as they are called-the trading part of the
latter especially-is carried to an excess
that would appear harsh and incredible.
The temperament of W-'s father was
1 Lamb really was short of stature.

The distinguishing dress of an undergraduate
who was partly supported by college funds,
and who waited on table at the Commons.
Hercules slew Nessus with a poisoned arrow.
and lost his own life by wearing a
dipped in the poisonous blood of Nessus.
Latimer had been a sizar (same as servitor) at
Cambridge.

Hooker had been a servitor at Oxford.

shirt

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diametrically the reverse of his own. Old W was a little, busy, cringing tradesman, who, with his son upon his arm, would stand bowing and scraping, cap in hand, 5 to anything that wore the semblance of a gown-insensible to the winks and opener remonstrances of the young man, to whose chamber-fellow, or equal in standing, perhaps, he was thus obsequiously and gratuitously ducking. Such a state of things could not last. W- must change the air of Oxford or be suffocated. He chose the former; and let the sturdy moralist, who strains the point of the filial duties as high as they can bear, censure the dereliction; he cannot estimate the struggle. I stood with W, the last afternoon I ever saw him, under the eaves of his paternal dwelling. It was in the fine lane leading from the High-street to the back of College, where W- kept his rooms. He seemed thoughtful, and more reconciled. I ventured to rally him-finding him in a better mood-upon a representation of the Artist Evangelist, which the old man, whose affairs were beginning to flourish, had caused to be set up in a splendid sort of frame over his really handsome shop, either as a token of prosperity, or badge of gratitude to his saint. W looked up at the Luke, and, like Satan, "knew his mounted sign-and fled. ''2 A letter on his father's table the next morning, announced that he had accepted a commission in a regiment about to embark for Portugal. He was among the first who perished before the walls of St. Sebastian.

1

I do not know how, upon a subject which I began with treating half-seriously, I should have fallen upon a recital so eminently painful; but this theme of poor relationship is replete with so much matter for tragic as well as comic associations, that it is difficult to keep the account distinct without blending. The earliest impressions which I received on this matter are certainly not attended with anything painful, or very humiliating, in the recalling. At my father's table (no very splendid one) was to be found, every Saturday, the mysterious figure of an aged gentleman, clothed in neat black, of a sad yet comely appearance. His deportment was of the essence of gravity; his words few or none; and I was not to make a noise in his presence. I had little inclination to have done so-for my cue was

1 St. Luke, by tradition a painter as well as a physician.

2 Paradise Lost, 4, 1013.

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man really ruffled, and I remember with anguish the thought that came over me: "Perhaps he will never come here again." He had been pressed to take another plate of the viand, which I have already mentioned as the indispensable concomitant of his visits. He had refused, with a resistance amounting to rigor-when my aunt, an old Lincolnian, but who had something of this, 10 in common with my cousin Bridget, that she would sometimes press civility out of season-uttered the following memorable application-"Do take another slice, Mr. Billet, for you do not get pudding every day." The old gentleman said nothing at the time-but he took occasion in the course of the evening, when some argument had intervened between them, to utter with an emphasis which chilled the company, and which chills me now as I write it-"Woman, you are superannuated." John Billet did not survive long, after the digesting of this affront; but he survived long enough to assure me that peace was actually restored! and, if I remember aright, another pudding was discreetly substituted in the place of that which had occasioned the offence. He died at the Mint (Anno 1781) where he had long held, what he accounted, a comfortable independence; and with five pounds, fourteen shillings, and a penny, which were found in his escrutoire after his decease, left the world, blessing God that he had enough to bury him, and that he had never been obliged to any man for a sixpence. This was-a Poor Relation.

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to admire in silence. A particular elbow
chair was appropriated to him, which was
in no case to be violated. A peculiar sort
of sweet pudding, which appeared on no
other occasion, distinguished the days of his
coming. I used to think him a prodigiously
rich man. All I could make out of him was,
that he and my father had been school-
fellows a world ago at Lincoln, and that he
came from the Mint. The Mint I knew to
be a place where all the money was coined-
and I thought he was the owner of all that
money. Awful ideas of the Tower twined
themselves about his presence. He seemed
above human infirmities and passions. A
sort of melancholy grandeur invested him.
From some inexplicable doom I fancied him
obliged to go about in an eternal suit of
mourning; a captive-a stately being, let
out of the Tower on Saturdays. Often have
I wondered at the temerity of my father,
who, in spite of an habitual general respect
which we all in common manifested towards
him, would venture now and then to stand
up against him in some argument, touching
their youthful days. The houses of the
ancient city of Lincoln are divided (as most
of my readers know) between the dwellers
on the hill, and in the valley. This marked
distinction formed an obvious division be-
tween the boys who lived above (however
brought together in a common school) and
the boys whose paternal residence was on
the plain; a sufficient cause of hostility in
the code of these young Grotiuses.2 My 35
father had been a leading Mountaineer; and
would still maintain the general superiority,
in skill and hardihood, of the Above Boys
(his own faction) over the Below Boys (so
were they called), of which party his con- 40
temporary had been a chieftain. Many and
hot were the skirmishes on this topic-the
only one upon which the old gentleman was
ever brought out-and bad blood bred; even
sometimes almost to the recommencement 45
(so I expected) of actual hostilities. But
my father, who scorned to insist upon ad-
vantages, generally contrived to turn the
conversation upon some adroit by-commen-
dation of the old Minster, in the general
preference of which, before all other cathe-
drals in the island, the dweller on the hill,
and the plain-born, could meet on a conciliat-
ing level, and lay down their less important
differences. Once only I saw the old gentle- 55
1 The Mint was near the Tower of London, the
state prison.
Hugo Grotlus (1583-1645) was
the great Dutch authority on international
law.

Law students.

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SANITY OF TRUE GENIUS
1826

So far from the position holding true, that great wit (or genius, in our modern way of speaking) has a necessary alliance with insanity, the greatest wits, on the contrary, will ever be found to be the sanest writers. It is impossible for the mind to conceive of a mad Shakspeare. The greatness of wit, by which the poetic talent is here chiefly to be understood, manifests itself in the admirable balance of all the faculties. Madness is the disproportionate straining or excess of any one of them. "So strong a wit." says Cowley, speaking of a poetical friend,

"" -did Nature to him frame,
As all things but his judgment overcame,
His judgment like the heavenly moon did show,
Tempering that mighty sea below.''1

1 On the Death of Mr. William Hervey, 97-100.