thing; nor have I ever seen any picture
(not even Leonardo's very fine one) that gave me the least idea of it."

"You have said enough, Mr. Lamb, to justify your choice."

"Oh! ever right, Menenius--ever right!"

"There is only one person I can ever think of after this," continued
Lamb; but without mentioning a name that once put on a semblance of
mortality. "If Shakespeare was to come into the room, we should all rise
up to meet him; but if that person was to come into it, we should all
fall down and try to kiss the hem of his garment."

HAYDON'S IMMORTAL NIGHT
[Sidenote: _B.R. Haydon_]

On December 28th the immortal dinner came off in my painting-room, with
Jerusalem towering up behind us as a background. Wordsworth was in fine
cue, and we had a glorious set-to--on Homer, Shakespeare, Milton, and
Virgil. Lamb got exceedingly merry and exquisitely witty; and his fun in
the midst of Wordsworth's solemn intonations of oratory was like the
sarcasm and wit of the fool in the intervals of Lear's passion. He made
a speech and voted me absent, and made them drink my health. "Now," said
Lamb, "you old lake poet, you rascally poet, why do you call Voltaire
dull?" We all defended Wordsworth, and affirmed there was a state of
mind when Voltaire would be dull. "Well," said Lamb, "here's
Voltaire--the Messiah of the French nation, and a very proper one too."

He then, in a strain of humour beyond description, abused me for putting
Newton's head into my picture--"a fellow," said he, "who believed
nothing unless it was as clear as the three sides of a triangle." And
then he and Keats agreed he had destroyed all the poetry of the rainbow
by reducing it to the prismatic colours. It was impossible to resist
him, and we all drank "Newton's health, and confusion to mathematics."
It was delightful to see the good-humour of Wordsworth in giving in to
all our frolics without affectation, and laughing as heartily as the
best of us.

By this time other friends joined, amongst them poor Ritchie, who was
going to penetrate by Fezzan to Timbuctoo. I introduced him to all as "a
gentleman going to Africa." Lamb seemed to take no notice; but all of a
sudden he roared out, "Which is the gentleman we are going to lose?" We
then drank the victim's health, in which Ritchie joined.

In the morning of this delightful day, a gentleman, a perfect stranger,
had called on me. He said he knew my friends, had an enthusiasm for
Wordsworth, and begged