into a sack at the corner of the table. Here I was overwhelmed with applause, and half-stunned with shouts of "C'est admirable! Oh! que c'est bien joué!" My fair adversary remarked, that hitherto I had been complaisant, but that now I was growing méchant. My complaisance, however, soon returned, and in a few minutes she won the game, without my having again made one ball strike another. Nothing now was heard of but my complaisance. Madame Saint V was charmed at my politesse: I had allowed her to win the game, playing only one coup, just to prove what I was capable of doing; but she begged that next time I would not treat her so much like a child, but put forth my strength against her, as she was anxious to improve. The result of this was the proposal of a match for the next day between me and Monsieur L (a celebrated player,) but with a particular stipulation, that I should give him two points at starting. The day now went very rainily and pleasantly on, and I was tolerably at my ease, except when, every now and then, I was appealed to to decide some sporting question, or settle some dispute concerning the breed aad management of horses. However, I contrived to get through tolerably well considering, by saying little and shaking my head significantly-a method I have seen adopted with success in much graver matters. For three or four days after this, it rained charmingly. Those showers were to me more than figuratively the "pitying dews of heaven;" for though each morning I was threatened with the infliction of some new party of pleasure on me, either à cheval or à la chasse, the state of the weather prevented the execution of the sentence. Night and morning did I consult the barometer (a Dollond suspended in the salle à manger)-which for two whole days pointed steadfastly to "much rain." My sleep was tranquil,-my spirits were buoyant. On the third day, to my great consternation, the faithless index wavered towards "changeable." My visits to the instrument now became more frequent; and had I had "Argosies at sea," I could not have watched its variations with a more feverish anxiety. On one of these occasions I was roused from my musings by a tap on the back. It was from the hand of Monsieur de V Ah! mon cher," said he, "I don't wonder at your impatience; but fine weather is returning, and then we'll make up for lost time-nous nous amuserons bien, allez." The fine weather did, indeed, return! The barometer had now reached "fair," and was rapidly approaching towards "set fair." Something was necessary to be done, and that speedily. But what? I could not always affect a sudden attack of spasms, nor dared I repeat my unintended joke of mistaking a hat for a partridge; I could not reasonably hope for the arrival of a letter from Paris always at the critical moment; and should I continue to treat Madame Saint V like a child, by allowing her to win every game at billiards, my complaisance would become an offence. On the first morning of fair weather, I arose with a heavy heart. All night had I tossed about in my bed, unable to imagine a decent excuse for withdrawing myself from my sporting friends. To confess my utter incompetency (apparently the most rational way of putting an end to my torments,) I felt to be impossible; I was ashamed-laugh, reader, if you please, but I was ashamed to do so. Besides, the character of a keen and expert sportsman had been thrust upon me; and, as matters stood, my most solemn protestations, that I was unentitled to any sort of claim to it, would have been disbelieved, and, most likely, attributed to an overstrained and affected modesty. Yet something must be done, and, humiliating as such an avowal would be, should I boldly venture it? In the event of its being discredited, should I shoot a favourite dog, or maim my friend, or one of my friend's friends, to prove its veracity? So despe rate a case would warrant the application of a violent remedy. I left my room without having brought my mind to a decision, unless the gloomy resolution of running the hazards of the day is worthy the term. On my way to where the party was assembled, I passed the garde-de-chasse: he was occupied in cleaning my Manton: I beheld it with such feelings as I should have entertained had I been condemned to be shot with it. The garde bowed to me with marked respect: Monsieur l'Anglais had been mentioned to him as a marvellous fine shot; and he accorded me a fitting share of his estimation. Le voila-allons-vite-partons," was the cry the instant I was perceived by Monsieur de V. There was no mention of Hector; that was something; shooting was to be the amusement of the day. The patent, improved, double-barrelled Manton was given to me, and I received it almost unconscious of what I was about. We had just reached the Perron, the double flight of steps leading into the court-yard, when a thought flashed across my mind, as it were by inspiration. I pounced upon it with a sort of desperate avidity, and, as if delay would have diminished its force, I as hastily gave it utterance, "I am not disposed to shoot to-day; I've just a whim to go a fishing." " Parbleu !" said Monsieur de V 'just as you will, my dear; in the country liberté entière: I'll give you my own tackle." Accordingly he re-entered the house, and presently returned with two or three rods, and different kinds of lines, hooks, floats, &c. "There," said he, "you may now angle for what fish you choose, and you'll find abundance of all sorts, great and small, in the canal." My delight at this relief is not to be described. I knew as little about angling as about shooting, but (thought I) by fishing, or seeming to fish, I am in no danger of compromising my reputation; I have seen many an angler, and expert ones too, sit, from morning till night, bobbing into a pond, and after all return with an empty basket, their skill suffering no stain from their want of success. I have merely to say, as I have heard them say, "Curse em, they won't bite." But my delight was of short duration. Conceive my horror and consternation, when I heard Monsieur de V- call out to the cook, "Monsieur Goulard, you need not fricassée the hare to-day, Monsieur P.* is going to fish; so you'll dress a pike or two, à la maître d'hotel, make a matelote of some of his carp, and fry the rest." Here was dinner for a party made to depend upon the rather uncertain result of my first attempt at angling! The misfortune was of my own seeking, and there was no escape. Monsieur de V. recommended me to take Etienne, the gardener's son, with me, to help me in unhooking the large fish, else, said he, 'As they are in such quantities, and bite so fast, you'll very soon be fatigued." We separated: he and the rest to shoot hares and partridges, I to catch pike and carp. Now was I once again left without any of those excuses for failure, which, like an different workman, I might have derived from the badness of my tools. Hector was the best horse in France; my gun was a patent, improved, doubled-barrelled Manton; and my fishing tackle, plague on it! perfect and complete. To add to my distress, the fish abounded; they had the reputation of biting well, and be hanged to them! and the only thing an angler could complain of was, that they bit so fast as to destroy the pleasure of the sport. On my way to the canal I endeavoured to reason myself into composure. Surely there can be no great difficulty in what I am now about to perform: I have but to bait my hook, throw it into the water, and the instant a fish bites at it, pull him out." From a sort of misgiving, however, which my best arguments failed to conquer, I thought it prudent to dismiss Etienne, desiring him to leave the basket (and they had furnished me with one sufficiently capacious to contain Falstaff,) telling him I would call him in the event of my hooking any fish beyond my strength to manage. Monsieur de V- had not deceived me. Scarcely had I thrown my bait into the water ere it was caught at ; I drew in my line, and found my hook void. A second, and a third, and a twentieth, and a fiftieth experiment succeeded in precisely the same manner. I no sooner renewed my bait than it was purloined with perfect impunity. Had the cursed fry passed by it without deigning to notice it, I might have consoled myself with examples of similar occurrences; but to catch it, and give me fair notice of their intention to abscond with it by a gentle tug at my line, was provoking beyond bearing; it would have exhausted the patience of Izaak Walton himself. Notwithstanding my regard for Monsieur de V- -, I began to tire of feeding his fishes; and suspected that I must be cutting a ridiculous figure in the eyes of the finny tribe; in short, that they were making what is vulgarly termed a dead set against me. I varied my manner; I increased, I diminished, the quantity of my bait; I tried different sorts; now and then I tempted them with the bare hook, but all was to no purpose. After four hours of unrewarded efforts (in the course of which time I was once on the point of calling Etienne to assist me in pulling in what proved to be a tuft of weeds), I had the mortification to find dangling at the end of my line a wretched miserable little gudgeon, two inches long, which had caught itself-I have not the vanity to suppose I caught itupon my hook. Though in itself worse than nothing, I received it as a promise of better fortune, and threw the tiny fish into my huge basket, whence, to say the truth, it looked an epigram at me. But this was the beginning and the ending of my prosperity. At the expiration of another four hours I was joined by Monsieur de V- On looking into the basket, he said that I had done right in sending the others up to the house. I assured him that THE FISH he detected at the bottom was the only one I had caught. He burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, saying, he saw through the jest at once; that I was a furceur, and had thrown all the large fish back again into the canal as fast as I had drawn them out, for the sake of the caricature of so small a fish in so large a basket. I insisted that that one fish was the sole result of my day's labour. No, no. The English were expert anglers: the canal was abundantly stocked, I had exhausted all my bait, and he was certain of the trick. Goulard was ordered to cook the hare. The plaisanterie of my one little gudgeon in the huge basket was frequently repeated in the course of dinner, and applauded as a most humourous jest. One of the party, however, observed, that though he admired the joke, he thought a matelote de carpe would have been a better; and proposed that, as I had deprived them of a service of fish, I should be punished by the deduction of half an hour from my next day's ride, which time I should occupy in providing fish for the dinner. Already was I suffering by anticipation the morrow's torments, when a servant entered with a bundle of newspapers and letters just arrived from Paris. Among them was a letter for me. I read it, and affecting considerable surprise and concern, declared that I must leave Vilette early the next morning on business which would admit of no delay. Entreaties that I would stay but to enjoy one day's shooting-one day's trial of Hector-were unavailing,-I was resolved. But it was not without great difficulty that I succeeded in resisting Monsieur de V's pressing offer to lend me Hector, to carry me back to Paris, which mode of conveyance, he assured me, would save me much time, though I should even sleep one night on the road, as Hector would fly with me like an eagle. The next morning I took my departure, after having passed a week in unspeakable torments, where I had expected to spend a month in tranquillity and repose: and by one of those whimsical chains of circumstances, to which many persons, with a certain prejudice in their favour, have been indebted for the reputation of possessing great talents, without ever having given any distinct manifestation of them, I left behind me the reputation of being the most expert horseman, the surest shot, the best and politest billiard player, and the most dexterous angler, that had ever visited Vilette. P. April.-VOL. XLIII. NO. CLXXII. 2 L CHARLES LAMB. AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. We have been favoured, by the kindness of Mr. Upcott, with the following sketch, written in one of his manuscript collections, by Charles Lamb. It will be read with deep interest by all, but with the deepest interest by those who had the honour and the happiness of knowing the writer. It is so singularly characteristic, that we can scarcely persuade ourselves we do not hear it, as we read, spoken from his living lips. Slight as it is, it conveys the most exquisite and perfect notion of the personal manner and habits of our friend. For the intellectual rest, we lift the veil of its noble modesty, and can even here discern them. Mark its humour, crammed into a few thinking words; its pathetic sensibility in the midst of contrast; its wit, truth, and feeling; and, above all, its fanciful retreat at the close under a phantom cloud of death. Of the last we shall remark hereafter. "Charles Lamb, born in the Inner Temple, 10th February, 1775, educated in Christ's Hospital; afterwards a clerk in the Accountants' Office, East India House; pensioned off from that service, 1825, after thirty-three years' service; is now a gentleman at large; -can remember few specialties in his life worth noting, except that he once caught a swallow flying (teste sud manû); below the middle stature; cast of face slightly Jewish, with no Judaic tinge in his complexional religion; stammers abominably, and is therefore more apt to discharge his occasional conversation in a quaint aphorism or a poor quibble, than in set and edifying speeches; has consequently been libelled as a person always aiming at wit, which, as he told a dull fellow that charged him with it, is at least as good as aiming at dullness. A small cater but not drinker; confesses a partiality for the production of the juniper berry; was a fierce smoker of tobacco, but may be resembled to a volcano burnt out, emitting only now and then a casual puff. Has been guilty of obtruding upon the public a tale in prose, called Rosamund Gray; a dramatic sketch, named John Woodvil; a Farewell Ode to Tobacco; with sundry other poems, and light prose matter, collected in two slight crown octavos, and pompously christened his works, though in fact they were his recreations, and his true works may be found on the shelves of Leadenhall-street, filling some hundred folios. He is also the true Elia, whose essays are extant in a little volume, published a year or two since, and rather better known from that name without a meaning, than from any thing he has done, or can hope to do, in his own. He also was the first to draw the public attention to the old English Dramatists, in a work called "Specimens of English Dramatic Writers," who lived about the time of Shakspeare, published about fifteen years since. In short, all his merits and demerits to set forth, would take to the end of Mr. Upcott's book, and then not be told truly. "He died 18 much lamented.* "Witness his hand, CHARLES LAMB. "18th April, 1827." «* To anybody—please to fill up these blanks.” |