s, and the town--
To plough--loom--anvil--spade--&, oh, most sad,
To this dry drudgery of the desk's dead wood?
Who but the Being Unblest, alien from good,
Sabbathless Satan! he who his unglad
Task ever plies 'mid rotatory burnings,
That round and round incalculably reel--
For wrath Divine hath made him like a wheel--
In that red realm from whence are no returnings;
Where toiling and turmoiling ever and aye
He, and his Thoughts, keep pensive worky-day."

C.L.

I fancy the sentiment exprest above will be nearly your own, the
expression of it probably would not so well suit with a follower of John
Woolman. But I do not know whether diabolism is a part of your creed, or
where indeed to find an exposition of your creed at all. In feelings and
matters not dogmatical, I hope I am half a Quaker. Believe me, with
great respect, yours

C. LAMB.

I shall always be happy to see, or hear from you.--

[This is the first of the letters to Bernard Barton (1784-1849), a clerk
in a bank at Woodbridge, in Suffolk, who was known as the Quaker poet.
Lamb had met him at a _London Magazine_ dinner at 13 Waterloo Place, and
had apparently said something about Quakers and poetry which Barton, on
thinking it over, had taken too seriously. Bernard Barton was already
the author of four volumes of poetry, of which _Napoleon and other
Poems_ was the latest, published in 1822. Lamb's essay on "Imperfect
Sympathies" had been printed in the _London Magazine_ for August, 1821.
For John Woolman, see note on page 93. The sonnet "Work" had been
printed in the _Examiner_, August 29, 1819.]

LETTER 291

CHARLES LAMB TO BARRON FIELD

Sept. 22, 1822.

My dear F.,--I scribble hastily at office. Frank wants my letter
presently. I & sister are just returned from Paris!! We have eaten
frogs. It has been such a treat! You know our monotonous general Tenor.
Frogs are the nicest little delicate things--rabbity-flavoured. Imagine
a Lilliputian rabbit! They fricassee them; but in my mind, drest
seethed, plain, with parsley and butter, would have been the decision of
Apicius. Shelley the great Atheist has gone down by water to eternal
fire! Hunt and his young fry are left stranded at Pisa, to be adopted by
the remaining duumvir, Lord Byron--his wife and 6 children & their maid.
What a cargo of Jonases, if they had foundered too! The only use I can
find of friends, is th