it were, compared to H.'s venture, but a
sixteenth in the lottery. Mary and I are to sit next the orchestra in
the pit, next the tweedle-dees. She remembers you. You are more to us
than five hundred farces, clappings, etc.

Come back one day. C. LAMB.

[1] It was precisely this flatness, this slightness of plot and
catastrophe, that doomed "Mr. H." to failure. See next letter.

[2] Godwin. His tragedy of "Faulkner" was published in 1808.

XLIX.

TO WORDSWORTH.

_December_, II, 1806.

Mary's love to all of you; I wouldn't let her write.

Dear Wordsworth,--"Mr. H." came out last night, and failed. I had many
fears; the subject was not substantial enough. John Bull must have
solider fare than a _letter_. We are pretty stout about it; have had
plenty of condoling friends; but, after all, we had rather it should
have succeeded. You will see the prologue in most of the morning papers.
It was received with such shouts as I never witnessed to a prologue. It
was attempted to be encored. How hard! a thing I did merely as a task,
because it was wanted, and set no great store by; and "Mr. H."! The
quantity of friends we had in the house--my brother and I being in
public offices, etc.--was astonishing; but they yielded at last to a
few hisses.

A hundred hisses (Damn the word, I write it like kisses,--how
different!)--a hundred hisses outweigh a thousand claps. [1] The former
come more directly from, the heart. Well, 't is withdrawn, and there
is an end.

Better luck to us,

C. LAMB.

[1] Lamb was himself in the audience, and is said to have taken a
conspicuous share in the storm of hisses that followed the dropping of
the curtain.

L.

TO MANNING.

_January_ 2, 1810.

My best room commands a court, in which there are trees and a pump, the
water of which is excellent,--cold with brandy, and not very insipid
without. Here I hope to set up my rest, and not quit till Mr. Powell,
the undertaker, gives me notice that I may have possession of my last
lodging. He lets lodgings for single gentlemen. I sent you a parcel of
books by my last, to give you some idea of the state of European
literature. There comes with this two volumes, done up as letters, of
minor poetry, a sequel to "Mrs. Leicester;" the best you may suppose
mine, the next best are my coadjutor's. You may amuse yourself in
guessing them out; but I must tell you mine are but one third in
quantity of the whole. So much for a very delicate subj