To Coleridge: "Bless you, old sophist, who next to human nature taught me all the corruption I was capable of knowing." To Mr. Gilman, a surgeon ("query Kill-man?"), he writes, "Coleridge is very bad, but he wonderfully picks up, and his face, when he repeats his verses, hath its ancient glory--an archangel a little damaged." To Wordsworth (who was superfluously solemn) he writes, "Some d-d people have come in, and I must finish abruptly. By d--d, I only mean deuced." The second son of George the Second, it was said, had a very cold and ungenial manner. Lamb stammered out in his defence that "this was very natural in the Duke of Cu-Cum-ber-land." To Bernard Barton, of a person of repute: "There must be something in him. Such great names imply greatness. Which of us has seen Michael Angelo's things? yet which of us disbelieves his greatness?" To Mrs. H., of a person eccentric: "Why does not his guardian angel look to him? He deserves one--may be he has tired him out." "Charles," said Coleridge to Lamb, "I think you have heard me preach?" "I n--n--never heard you do anything else," replied Lamb. One evening Coleridge had consumed the whole time in talking of some "regenerated" orthodoxy. Leigh Hunt, who was one of the listeners, on leaving the house, expressed his surprise at the prodigality and intensity of Coleridge's religious expressions. Lamb tranquillized him by "Ne-ne- never mind what Coleridge says; he's full of fun." There were, &c., &c., "and at the top of all, Hunger (eldest, strongest of the Passions), predominant, breaking down the stony fences of shame." The Bank, the India House, and other rich traders look insultingly on the old deserted South Sea House, as on "their poor neighbor out of business." To a Frenchman, setting up Voltaire's character in opposition to that of Christ, Lamb asserted that "Voltaire was a very good Jesus Christ--_for the French._" Of a Scotchman: "His understanding is always at its meridian. Between the affirmative and the negative there is no border land with him. You cannot hover with him on the confines of truth." On a book of Coleridge's nephew he writes, "I confess he has more of the Sterne about him than the Sternhold. But he saddens into excellent sense before the conclusion." As to a monument being erected for Clarkson, in his lifetime, he opposes it, and argues, "Goodness blows no trumpet, nor desires to have it blown. We should be modest for a modest man." "M. B. is on the top scale of my friendship's ladder, which an angel or two is still climbing; and some, alas! descending." A fine sonnet of his (The Gipsy's Malison) being refused publication, he exclaimed, "Hang the age! I will write for Antiquity." Once, whilst waiting in the Highgate stage, a woman came to the door, and inquired in a stern voice, "Are you quite full inside?" "Yes, ma'am," said Charles, in meek reply, "quite; that plateful of Mrs. Gilman's pudding has quite filled us."