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.
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