The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 1: Miscellaneous ProseLamb, Charles
General
The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 1: Miscellaneous Prose
Lamb, Charles
English literature
I'm going (hard task) to complain, and beg your assistance. When I came
up here I brought very little money along with me; expecting some more
upon the selling of Widehope, which was to have been sold that day my
mother was buried. Now it is unsold yet, but will be disposed of as soon
as can be conveniently done; though indeed it is perplexed with some
difficulties. I was a long time living here at my own charges, and you
know how expensive that is; this, together with the furnishing of myself
with clothes, linen, one thing and another, to fit me for any business
of this nature here, necessarily obliged me to contract some debts.
Being a stranger, it is a wonder how I got any credit; but I cannot
expect it will be long sustained, unless I immediately clear it. Even
now, I believe it is at a crisis--my friends have no money to send me,
till the land is sold; and my creditors will not wait till then. You
know what the consequence would be. Now the assistance I would beg of
you, and which I know, if in your power, you will not refuse me, is a
letter of credit on some merchant, banker, or such like person in
London, for the matter of twelve pounds; till I get money upon the
selling of the land, which I am at last certain of, if you could either
give it me yourself, or procure it: though you owe it not to my merit,
yet you owe it to your own nature, which I know so well as to say no
more upon the subject: only allow me to add, that when I first fell upon
such a project, (the only thing I have for it in my present
circumstances,) knowing the selfish inhumane temper of the generality of
the world, you were the first person that offered to my thoughts, as one
to whom I had the confidence to make such an address.
* * * * *
Now I imagine you are seized with a fine romantic kind of melancholy on
the fading of the year--now I figure you wandering, philosophical and
pensive, amidst brown withered groves; whilst the leaves rustle under
your feet, the sun gives a farewell parting gleam, and the birds--
Stir the faint note, and but attempt to sing.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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