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. Introducing him to
Wordsworth, I forgot to say who he was. After a little time the
comptroller looked down, looked up and said to Wordsworth, "Don't you
think, sir, Milton 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. Wordsworth if he were not." "Oh," 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 comptroller said, "Don't you think Newton a
great genius?" I could not stand it any longer. Keats put his head into
my books. Ritchie squeezed in a laugh. Wordsworth seemed asking himself,
"Who is this?" Lamb got up, and, taking a candle, said, "Sir, will you
allow me to look at your phrenological development?" 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 bed with his breeches on."

The man in office, finding Wordsworth did not know who he was, said in a
spasmodic and half-chuckling anticipation of assured victory, "I have
had the honour of some correspondence with you, Mr. Wordsworth." "With
me, sir?" said Wordsworth, "not that I remember." "Don't you, sir? I am
a comptroller of stamps." There was a dead silence--the comptroller
evidently thinking that was enough. While we were waiting for
Wordsworth's reply, Lamb sung out:

"Hey diddle fiddle,
The cat and the fiddle."

"My dear Charles!" said Wordsworth--

"Diddle, diddle dumpling, my son John"--

chaunted Lamb, and then, rising, exclaimed, "Do let me have another look
at that gentleman's organs." Keats and I hurried Lamb into the
painting-room, shut the door, and gave way to inextinguishable laughter.
Monkhouse followed and tried to get Lamb away. We went back, but the
comptroller was irreconcilable. 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