by his son, John Bowyer Nichols, in 1848 and 1858.

"H."--Leigh Hunt. We do not know what W.W., presumably Wordsworth, had
to say of him; but this is how Hunt had referred to Moxon's publications
and Lamb's _Satan in Search of a Wife_ in _The Tatler_ for June 4, 1831,
the occasion being a review of "Selections from Wordsworth" for
schools:--

Mr. Moxon has begun his career as a bookseller in singularly high
taste. He has no connection but with the select of the earth. The
least thing he does, is to give us a dandy poem, suitable to Bond
street, and not without wit. We allude to the Byronian brochure,
entitled "_Mischief_." But this is a mere condescension to the
elegance of the street he lives in. Mr. Moxon commenced with some of
the primaeval delicacies of _Charles Lamb_. He then astonished us
with Mr. Rogers' poems on _Italy_.... Of some of these publications
we have already spoken,--Mr. Lamb's _Album Verses_ among them. And
why (the reader may ask) not have noticed his _Satan in Search of a
Wife_? Because, to say the truth, we did not think it worthy of him.
We rejoice in Mr. Lamb's accession to the good cause advocated by
Sterne and Burns, refreshed by the wholesome mirth of Mr. Moncrieff,
and finally carried (like a number of other astonished humanities,
who little thought of the matter, and are not all sensible of it
now) on the triumphant shoulders of the Glorious Three Days. But Mr.
Lamb, in the extreme sympathy of his delight, has taken for granted,
that everything that can be uttered on the subject will be held to
be worth uttering, purely for its own sake, and because it could not
well have been said twelve months ago. He merges himself, out of the
pure transport of his good will, into the joyous common-places of
others; just as if he had joined a great set of children in tossing
over some mighty bowl of snap-dragon, too scalding to bear; and
thought that nothing could be so good as to echo their "hurras!"
Furthermore, we fear that some of his old friends, on the wrong side
of the _House_, would think a little of his merriment profane:
though for our parts, if we are certain of anything in this world,
it is that nothing can be more Christian.

"The Banquet." I cannot find this poem. It is, I think, not in _The
Tatler_.

"How capitally the Frenchman ..." I cannot find any French paraphrase of
_Sa