mmend them. The whole latter half, or two thirds, of Colonel Jack is
of this description. The beginning of Colonel Jack is the most affecting
natural picture of a young thief that was ever drawn. His losing the
stolen money in the hollow of a tree, and finding it again when he was
in despair, and then being in equal distress at not knowing how to
dispose of it, and several similar touches in the early history of the
Colonel, evince a deep knowledge of human nature; and, putting out of
question the superior _romantic_ interest of the latter, in my mind very
much exceed Crusoe. Roxana (1st Edition) is the next in Interest, though
he left out the best part of it**in** subsequent Editions from a foolish
hypercriticism of his friend, Southerne. But Moll Flanders, the account
of the Plague &c. &c. are all of one family, and have the same stamp of
character."--

[_At the top of the first page is added:--_]

_Omitted at the end_ ... believe me with friendly recollections,
_Brother_ (as I used to call you) Yours C. LAMB.

[_Below the "Dear Wilson" is added in smaller writing:--_]

The review was not mine, nor have I seen it.

[Lamb's friend Walter Wilson was beginning his _Memoirs of the Life and
Times of Daniel Defoe_, 1830. The passage sent to him in this letter by
Lamb he printed in Vol. III., page 428. Some years later Lamb sent
Wilson a further criticism. See also letter below for the reference to
_Roxana_.

Dodwell we have met. Of Wadd we have no information, except, according
to Crabb Robinson's _Diary_, that he once accidentally discharged a pen
full of ink into Lamb's eye and that Lamb wrote this epigram upon him:--

What Wadd knows, God knows,
But God knows _what_ Wadd knows.]

LETTER 303

CHARLES LAMB TO BERNARD BARTON

[Dated at end: 23 December 1822.]

Dear Sir--I have been so distracted with business and one thing or
other, I have not had a quiet quarter of an hour for epistolary
purposes. Christmas too is come, which always puts a rattle into my
morning scull. It is a visiting unquiet un-Quakerish season. I get more
and more in love with solitude, and proportionately hampered with
company. I hope you have some holydays at this period. I have one day,
Christmas day, alas! too few to commemorate the season. All work and no
play dulls me. Company is not play, but many times hard work. To play,
is for a man to do what he pleases, or to do nothing--to go about
soothing his pa