rticular fancies. I have lived to a time of life, to have
outlived the good hours, the nine o'Clock suppers, with a bright hour or
two to clear up in afterwards. Now you cannot get tea before that hour,
and then sit gaping, music-bothered perhaps, till half-past 12 brings up
the tray, and what you steal of convivial enjoyment after, is heavily
paid for in the disquiet of to-morrow's head.

I am pleased with your liking John Woodvil, and amused with your
knowledge of our drama being confined to Shakspeare and Miss Bailly.
What a world of fine territory between Land's End and Johnny Grots have
you missed traversing. I almost envy you to have so much to read. I feel
as if I had read all the Books I want to read. O to forget Fielding,
Steele, &c., and read 'em new.

Can you tell me a likely place where I could pick up, cheap, Fox's
Journal? There are no Quaker Circulating Libraries? Ellwood, too, I must
have. I rather grudge that S[outhe]y has taken up the history of your
People. I am afraid he will put in some Levity. I am afraid I am not
quite exempt from that fault in certain magazine Articles, where I have
introduced mention of them. Were they to do again, I would reform them.

Why should not you write a poetical Account of your old Worthies,
deducing them from Fox to Woolman?--but I remember you did talk of
something in that kind, as a counterpart to the Ecclesiastical Sketches.
But would not a Poem be more consecutive than a string of Sonnets? You
have no Martyrs _quite to the Fire_, I think, among you. But plenty of
Heroic Confessors, Spirit-Martyrs--Lamb-Lions.--Think of it.

It would be better than a series of Sonnets on "Eminent Bankers."--I
like a hit at our way of life, tho' it does well for me, better than
anything short of _all one's time to one's self_, for which alone I
rankle with envy at the rich. Books are good, and Pictures are good, and
Money to buy them therefore good, but to buy _TIME!_ in other words,
LIFE--

The "compliments of the time to you" should end my letter; to a Friend I
suppose I must say the "sincerity of the season;" I hope they both mean
the same. With excuses for this hastily penn'd note, believe me with
great respect--

C. LAMB.

23 dec. 22.

[Miss Bailly would be Joanna Baillie (1762-1851), author of _Plays on
the Passions_.

The copy of Fox's _Journal_, 1694, which was lent to Lamb is now in the
possession of the Society of Friends. In it is written:

"This copy of Ge