ffect upon matter-of-fact readers. Indeed, it is to such
principally that he writes. His style is everywhere beautiful, but plain
and _homely._ "Robinson Crusoe" is delightful to all ranks and classes;
but it is easy to see that it is written in phraseology peculiarly
adapted to the lower conditions of readers,--hence it is an especial
favorite with seafaring men, poor boys, servant-maids, etc. His novels
are capital kitchen-reading, while they are worthy, from their deep
interest, to find a shelf in the libraries of the wealthiest and the
most learned. His passion for _matter-of-fact narrative_ sometimes
betrayed him into a long relation of common incidents, which might
happen to any man, and have no interest but the intense appearance of
truth in them, to recommend 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" (first 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," etc., are all of one
family, and have the same stamp of character. Believe me, with friendly
recollections--Brother (as I used to call you), Yours,

C. LAMB.

[1] Wilson was preparing a Life of De Foe, and had written to Lamb for
guidance.

LXXII.

TO BERNARD BARTON.

_December_ 23, 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 skull. It is a visiting, unquiet, unquakerish season. I get more
and more in love with solitude, and proportionately hampered with
company. I hope you have some holidays 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 bard work. To
play, is for a man to do what he