168 



POETRY AND POETS. 



my friends, had an enthusiasm for 

 Wordsworth, and begged I would 

 procure him the happiness of an 

 introduction. He told me he was 

 a comptroller of stamps, and often 

 had correspondence with the poet. 

 I thought it a liberty ; but still, as 

 he seemed a gentleman, I told him 

 he might come. When we retired 

 to tea we found the comptroller. 

 In introducing him to Wordsworth 

 I forgot to say who he was. After 

 a little time the comptroller looked 

 down, looked up, and said to Words- 

 worth, " Don't you think, sir, Mil- 

 ton was a great genius ?' Keats 

 looked at me, Wordsworth looked 

 at the comptroller. Lamb, who 

 was dozing by the fire, turned 

 round and said, " Pray, sir, did you 

 say Milton was a great genius ?' 

 "No, sir, I asked Mr. Words- 

 worth if he were not." "O !" said 

 Lamb, "then you are a silly fellow." 

 "Charles, my dear Charles," said 

 Wordsworth ; but Lamb, perfectly 

 innocent of the confusion he had 

 created, was off again by the fire. 

 After an awful pause the comptrol- 

 ler said, "Don't you think Newton 

 a great genius 1" I could not stand 

 it any longer. Keats put his head 

 into my books. Eitchie. squeezed 

 in a laugh. Wordsworth, seemed 

 asking himself, " Who is this V 

 Lamb got up, and taking a candle, 

 said, "Sir, will you allow me to 

 look at your phrenological develop- 

 ment T He then turned his back 

 on the poor man, and at every 

 question of the comptroller he 

 chaunted : 



" Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John 

 Went to his bed with his breeches on." 



The man in office, finding Words- 

 worth did not know who he was, 

 said in a spasmodic and half-chuck- 

 ling anticipation of assured vic- 

 tory, "I have had the honour of 

 some correspondence with you, Mr. 

 Wordsworth." "With me, sir?" 

 said Wordsworth ; "not that I re- 



member." "Don't you, sir ? lam 

 a comptroller of stamps." There was 

 a dead silence ; the comptroller evi- 

 dently thinking that was enough. 

 While we were waiting for Words- 

 worth's reply, Lamb sung out : 

 " Hey diddle diddle, 

 The cat and the fiddle." 



"My dear Charles," said Words- 

 worth : 



" Diddle diddle dumpling, my son John, " 

 chaunted Lamb ; and then, rising, 

 exclaimed, "Do let me have an- 

 other look at that gentleman's or- 

 gans !" Keats and I hurried Lamb 

 into the painting-room, shut the 

 door, and gave way to inextinguish- 

 able laughter. Monkhouse followed, 

 and tried to get Lamb away. We 

 went back, but the comptroller was 

 irreconcileable. We soothed and 

 smiled, and asked him to supper. He- 

 stayed, though his dignity was sorely 

 affected. However, being a good- 

 natured man, we parted all in good 

 humour, and no ill effects followed. 

 All the while, until Monkhouse suc- 

 ceeded, we could hear Lamb strug- 

 gling in the painting-room, and call- 

 ling at intervals, " Who is that fel- 

 low ? Allow me to see his organs 

 once more." (Life of Benjamin R. 

 Haydon.) 



LEIGH HUNT'S DESCRIPTION OF 

 CAMPBELL. 



" They who knew Mr. Campbell,"" 

 says Leigh Hunt, "only as the 

 author of Gertrude of Wyoming, 

 and the Pleasures of Hope, would 

 not have suspected him to be a. 

 merry companion, overflowing with 

 humour and anecdote, and anything 

 but fastidious. 



"The Scotch poets have always 

 something in reserve. It is the 

 only point in which the major part 

 of them resemble their countrymen. 

 He was one of the few men whom 

 I could at any time have walked 

 half-a-dozen miles through the snow 

 to spend an evening with. 



