| | no-one else | can them, who possesses the charm | of a perfectly original and characteristic style, who sees by the | light of his own eyes, and expresses himself in the unhackneyed | coinage of his own brain, is secure of readers. A fresh style is | more than a new subject. There are minds of such inherent | staleness that all they touch takes that complexion. They start on | their career like the Gibeonites, with old shoes and clouted upon | their feet, and dry provisions for the way. It matters not how | new the topic, with them it is old, we seem to have heard it all | before, and are already weary. In gay contrast with these dull | journeyers are others to whom the common way-side, the | worn-out paths of life, furnish variety enough and matter for their | genius. They find novelty and dignity in what we had hitherto | passed over as common and trivial: they show us distances | bathed in light, a foreground picturesque and fantastic, in scenes | till now too familiar for any definite impressions; but henceforth | never to be looked on without interest, and for ever associated | with their memory. And this gift of theirs is a real power of | perception, it is no exercise of mere fancy. It is not a delusion | substituted for the reality, but the reality itself, which our | careless unobservant glance had failed to discern before in its | true intricacy and grace. | | Of such we reckon Charles Lamb. How many common familiar | things are linked with recollections of his humour, his quaint | wisdom, his tender pathos! And looking for no more than | additional traits of these characteristic qualities in the present | volumes, we yet hailed them as ensuring amusement to their | readers, and something worthy a better name. But these final | memorials are of a deeper interest, and for higher reasons will be | most welcome to such as could not help loving the author as well | as his genius, even while half ashamed of the sentiment. It | cannot be denied that his admirers have sometimes been brought | to a difficulty in defending their favourite against those who | disputed the intellectual rank to which they would raise him. If | the objectors, proof against the fascinations of his style, assured | us that they saw no fun in his humour, and | | only affectation his quaintness, we felt ourselves, so far, more | enlightened and fortunate than they; but if they further asked | how a man who yielded to the vulgar temptation of strong drinks | could be supposed gifted with delicate moral perceptions? | regarding this quality only in its intellectual light, we yet own to | having felt the difficulty; as firmly believing that nothing so dulls | and obscures right reason as a life of self-indulgence. It was | anomaly. We felt, in spite of many things we wished away, that | he had this sensitiveness unblunted; but how it remained there in | companionship with so glaring and degrading a frailty was a | perplexity. | | Serjeant Talfourd's present narrative furnishes some solution of | this difficulty, and the best justification of those who have | always thought they saw something in Lamb's writings higher | than his apparent self. The present true and finished picture of | his life presents a strange contrast ~~ a depth of unconscious | self-sacrifice, of which all but his friends were ignorant, with a | surface of conscious self-indulgence known to all the world. We | call his self-denial unconscious from the humility which would | not allow him to regard it as such, and because the purest, most | disinterested affection, made it necessary and inevitable to him. | Both for the sacrifice itself, and for the affection which prompted | it, Charles Lamb must henceforth be regarded as the type and | hero of fraternal love. | | Twelve years ago, in giving his letters and some account of their | writer to the world, Sergeant Talfourd pointed to a time when he | hoped, by the publication of further letters and details then | necessarily withheld, to enable the reader to form a more | complete estimate of his friend's singular and delightful character. | That period is now arrived, and the death of Mary Lamb, the | object of her brother's lifelong solicitude, has removed the only | obstacle to this fuller knowledge. It would indeed have been a | false delicacy to have withheld, after this event, the | circumstances of a history so necessary to the full appreciation of | the brother's character, and reflecting no disgrace on his unhappy | sister, the unconscious actor in the frightful tragedy which it | discloses. | | The volumes open with the year 1795, when Charles Lamb was | living in straitened circumstances with his father, mother, and | sister ~~ ten years older than himself, in lodgings in Holborn. | He was then just twenty, and a clerk of three years standing in | the India House. Incited by some stirrings of genius, the | example of his friend Coleridge, and chiefly by his admiration | for a certain fair young lady of Islington, he was beginning to | write verses. But this 'fair-haired maid' was not to be his destiny; | how he sped, or might have sped, in his wooing, is not known; | | for he was soon called upon to resign all youth's gay visions to | devote himself to the demands of a less selfish affection. He had | at this time few friends; Coleridge, whose society had always | such a charm for him, had quitted London, leaving him with a | heavy sense of loneliness. This, and, we may gather, the | anxieties of his attachment, for he seems to have been a | desponding lover, combined to develop a constitutional tendency | to insanity, a malady from which his sister had already suffered | more than once. The scourge now fell upon him, and for a few | weeks he was under confinement. , says his biographer, | . Some allusions to his attack occur in letters to | Coleridge in the course of the same year, after which he was | never known to speak or write of it to his dearest friends. | Immediately after his restoration to reason he writes thus: ~~ | | | | We quote it, not simply for its poetical merits, but as an example | of the sincerity which marks his character ~~ of the dependence | that might be placed on his professions. Though many | acknowledge 'a mighty debt of love,' and think they mean what | they say, how few are ready to pay it in such true heart's coin as | his: ~~ | | | | | | It was in the autumn of the following year (1796) that the terrible | event occurred which from henceforth separated this brother and | sister from all the common hopes and wishes belonging to their | age, to bind them by sad and indissoluble bonds to each other. | Their mother was suffering from ill-health and infirmity, and | Miss Lamb devoted herself to her with the most affectionate and | constant attention. Her days were spent in needlework, by which | she wearied herself to add to her family's small means, while her | nights were broken by incessant watchings, and the needful | attentions which her mother's infirmities required. It is no | wonder that, thus tried by anxiety and over fatigue, the dreadful | malady inherent in her constitution should break out. She | suddenly lost her senses, and in a fit of frenzy, seizing a knife | which unhappily lay at hand, killed her mother with her own | hand. The newspapers of the time contain the report of the | inquest. Her miserable brother writes the following account of | the calamity, and of his own state under it, to his friend | Coleridge: ~~ | | | | The letter which Coleridge wrote on this occasion will be read | with interest, as that for which Lamb so warmly expresses his | | gratitude. Although often seen in MS., we are not aware whether | Serjeant Talfourd has met with it. We take it from the | affectionate, though not very artistic, work, 'Gillman's Life of | Coleridge,' ~~ p. 338. | | | | A verdict of lunacy had, of course, been returned on the inquest, | and Miss Lamb was immediately removed to an asylum, where | she soon recovered her reason. The following are extracts for | Lamb's next letter to Coleridge on this , as he terms it. | For there was no selfishness in his grief; from the first he thought | most of Mary, felt for her, identified himself with her, and in | such a spirit prepared solemnly to devote his life to save her from | the dreary fate which was the natural consequence of her | misfortune. | | | | | | It seems cold-blooded to dwell on the force | of such a passage as this, but it is not often that real grief is | so piercingly described. We read fictitious scenes, highly | wrought and exciting, and we say, How true to nature! from | vague impressions of what might be; ~~ but this is nature itself. | It was an alleviation to such a mind to analyse sensations, to live | them over again, and, as it were, to face them; he threw himself | upon his friend in intense desire for his sympathy, and painted | his sufferings in vivid truthful colours that he might win it. The | busy thoughtless crowd of friends, the homely supper, the | 'making merry,' ~ who has not recollections of that dreary mirth | and sad festivity, which, in some form or other, seem the | inevitable accompaniment of mourning? as Shakspere sets | clowns and jesters beside his graves. | | The letter, after some minor domestic details, given with much | feeling and simplicity, goes into the question of means. What an | interest his calculations and plans of economy possess with us, | when we bear in mind that it was for his unfortunate sister he | formed them! They were plans and calculations for a life, and he | never broke them, but uniformly made every expense defer to her | wants present and in possibility. | | | | | | He goes on with further arrangements for his sister, and how | much he hopes to be able to spare for her comforts: ~~ | | | The postscript to this remarkable letter expresses a religious hope | and confidence, as well as a devout acknowledgment and | submission to the source of all our trials and blessings, which | would trust that he had wholly lost them, but they were | commonly clouded over by the 'false kind solaces and spells of | earth' in which he took refuge from his troubles. | | | | In the meanwhile he was unwearied in his dutiful attendance on | his father, now wholly dependant on him for such needful cares. | He tended him with a patient indulgence which might have | furnished the model for Emilia Wyndham. The poor old man | was in his dotage, and needed constant humouring and attention. | So short, it is said, was his memory, that a friend was occupied in | playing at cribbage with him to amuse him, at the very time that | the inquest over his wife was sitting; and his son deprived | himself of the most precious moments of his leisure, to enable | him to pass the long evenings more pleasantly. , he | says, . We have seen how cheerfully he took the whole | burden of his only remaining parent upon himself ~~ | | his old aunt Hetty he feels for in the same way. , he | says to Coleridge, . His father died in January, 1797, | and with him ceased an annuity of 100 l. | per year, an important part of their income. The aunt lingered on. | Mary lived up to this time at the asylum, though perfectly calm | and rational. Her brother, who was 'passionately desirous' of | obtaining her liberty, a measure opposed by John Lamb and other | members of his family, had, as may be supposed, some difficulty | in obtaining her discharge; it was only by his solemn promise to | all parties to take her under his own charge for the remainder of | his life, that he carried his point, and brought her home. | . | | | | Poor Mary had returned home to another sick-bed; her | attendance on her poor aunt was too much for her reason, and | before long she had again to be placed under medical care and | restraint. Soon after Lamb wrote the following letter: ~~ | | | | | Nothing is more striking than the humility of the misery here so | keenly portrayed. It is the desolation of a child who has no | thought of escaping from the sorrow that weighs it down further | than hiding its face in its mother's lap. His sense of loneliness, | his shrinking confession of fear, his heart-sinkings are all | detailed so simply to his magnificent friend! Who knows but it | may have been the entire absence of pride | which preserved his reason untouched in the conflict of | such severe suffering? But, indeed, this quality of humility, as | contrasting with the proud self-dependant mind, comes out most | admirably in his whole view of his sister's insanity. It stirs up | none of the common, selfish, natural emotions of shame with | which men ordinarily regard such afflictions, and which so | inconceivably add to their bitterness. , he says, and he | feels for her under this aggravation of her calamity ~~ | | but the thought of it only associates her more closely with | himself. The accumulated sorrows of their position he feels with | an acuteness ordinary minds are not capable of; he realises the | full grief; he sits down, like Job, amongst the ashes, but he is | spared the anguish of pride ~~ he is never | ashamed of the peculiar character of their affliction. He | feels it as a trouble, never as a degradation ~~ and so in after | years, he never shrinks from his share of the sorrow, nor seeks to | forget it in other companionship. The passages in his | correspondence are innumberable where he alludes to her sad | absences from him. Twenty years after the 'evil day,' he says, | . Again, on another occasion, a friend met them slowly | pacing together a little footpath in the Hoxton fields, . | What a picture of humble, patient sympathy and suffering does | this last scene present; so true is it that . | | The object of such affection as this we feel can have been no | common person; though we have not much to guide us in our | estimate beyond her brother's letters, who speaks of her with a | sort of enthusiasm of regard, not only when his mind was exalted | by his recent devotion of himself to her, but throughout the forty | years of their inseparable after-connexion. Serjeant Talfourd, | | who enjoyed her friendship, tells us in his brief | notice, that no-one | observing the habitual serenity of her manner would guess | the calamity of which she had been the instrument, or the malady | that so frightfully chequered her life. It seems that on the | subsiding of the attack after her mother's death, she described | herself as having experienced . She never shrank from | the mention of her mother's name, nor spoke of her as if her | image were associated with any painful recollection; so that | some even of her intimate friends believed her to be ignorant of | her share in her death. | | | | The few letters given of hers are most pleasing, and there is a | family likeness of her brother's in the style, though without his | salient points. The following from a letter to Miss Wordsworth, | is a short example of what we mean: ~~ | | | | | | This gentleness and sedateness of manner for which she was | distinguished, were peculiarly fitted to tranquillize and give a | tone of serenity to their happier hours. No experience can quite | neutralise the confidence inspired by a composed demeanour. So | that while she was herself the relief and | enjoyment may have been less tinctured by fears and | apprehensions than we can suppose, or than seem implied when | he writes of her under her attacks: , as he says, with a | characteristic private application, . Her reasonable self | being thus separated, as if altogether another existence, from her | state of distraction, there was nothing in the one to recal the other, | and the fervour of his respect was spared any rude checks. It was | thus that he could write of her to Miss Wordsworth during one of | their sad temporary separations: | | | | But even in her aberrations, she was everything to him. When in | later years her attacks increased in length and frequency, he | deliberately gave up his home to live constantly with her, where | she was placed under medical care, thinking changes and | removals injurious for her. In writing to a lady, who seems to | have expressed condolence with him under this painful | arrangement, he says: ~~ | | | Throughout he made his dearest tastes defer to her welfare: ~~ | | | | And throughout there are intimations of his giving up the | precious intercourse of friends, which he of all valued so highly: | ~~ | | | And, again, in speaking of an unusually bad attack: ~~ | | | | Here, in the excessive tenderness and consideration of his later | years, we see the fruits of that early sentiment expressed in the | first glow of his devotion: ~~ . | | We will not apologise for having dwelt so long on this one fact, | ~~ this new feature of Charles Lamb's life and character. For let | our readers consider, if anywhere, or under any circumstances, | he can recal an affliction more meekly borne; a trial more nobly | sustained; a generous youthful impulse more fully acted out; a | life-long sacrifice more heroically achieved ~~ if anywhere he | has seen an affection more pure, unselfish, constant, tender, | devoted. It was a love and a sacrifice to have shone in the | records of saints; but, alas! in his case, these virtues are more | intimations of what he might have been than signs of what he | was. For, with deep religious impulses, he yet was not religious; | and thus, defenceless and unarmed, the lower qualities of his | nature, repelled at one point, asserted themselves and gained a | firm footing in another, indemnifying themselves for the | privations they were forced to by a licence of unrestrained | indulgence where they were unopposed. Only these habits of | excess never trenched on the one great excellence. | It was allowed to stand out prominent and | complete. No temptation ever led him to neglect his sister, or to | forget her; for her he was frugal, wise, and provident; thoughtful | for her future exigencies, as well as for her present wants; though | these are qualities least to be looked for in connexion with his | peculiar infirmity. There were no failings and shortcomings in | this one virtue; here, in spite of all his weakness and frailty, he | was permitted to shine, a bright example. | | It is much to be regretted, if such is a suitable expression, that at | a time when religious impressions were almost forced upon him, | when the occasion prompted them as the only consolation, and | the heart was softened and ready for their influence, the hard, dry | forms of Unitarian opinion should by the | | circumstances of his position have been presented to his mind. | Coleridge, his great idol, was then a Unitarian, and he had been | fascinated earlier by Priestley himself and his writings. His real | belief, though vague, was evidently superior by far to his | professed creed; but in a sense he did profess it, while seemingly | conscious of its inefficiency. His reason in a careless sense | acquiesced; his feelings rebelled. So that while on one occasion | he announces himself a Unitarian, we find him in another | offended by, and fully alive to the irreverence his professed | opinions lead to. As where he describes a man writing of death | and all its attributes . It was clearly not the creed to | satisfy such a heart and understanding; but instead of seeking for | a truer and fuller one, he rested content, or rather he resigned | himself to vague generalities; reverence for those of stricter | views than himself; horror and contempt for infidelity; and | professions, sincere not doubt, of his own unworthiness. In | illustration of this sense of unworthiness, we cannot resist | extracting the following beautiful lines, written in a glow of | feeling within a year of his mother's death, and, as he says, with | unusual celerity. His later correspondence contains no such | record of impressions, but we need not conclude them to be | necessarily absent from his heart because no longer matter for his | pen: ~~ | | | | | | There is something in that keen enjoyment of the small delights | of daily life which was one of Lamb's characteristics, ~~ | constitutional probably, and not wrong in itself, ~~ which yet | may have tended to make him satisfied with the present. It is | good to be content with small pleasures; it is ill to be satisfied | with them. Such full apprehension of the things that we see may | stand in the way of realising the things that are not seen. | Towards such a state of feeling he had no ordinary temptations. | The temporal future with which most men console themselves, | was full of fears for him. He could entertain no bright hopes on | this side the grave, they were not within the range of his | possibility. But the present was his, and all his gifts and powers | of mind formed him to appreciate it with a feverish, tremulous | satisfaction. The transient gleam of sun shone all the brighter for | the black clouds through which it forced its way. And we would | add, this is a state of mind which no-one | has a right to despise | whose hopes stop short of heaven. A mere earthly future is no | better than an earthly present, and | | has beside less contentment in it. In his case there is | something in his most pathetic plea ~~ | ; and this was the rule of his life. | | In this view, we cannot esteem his friendship with Coleridge to | have been so great an advantage to his character as at first sight | might be supposed. He learnt other things beside divine | philosophy in those evenings at the 'Salutation,' which left such a | trail of glory behind them in his youthful imagination. They | were not wholly spent by the poet in discussing a glorious future, | or in planning mighty works. It was not all a feast of reason. | The lower nature had its indulgences, the present hour its | delights. 'Egg-hot, punch,' and such inferior joys, live in the fond | pupil's memory, for ever coupled in unworthy alliance with | poetry, metaphysics, and the noblest speculations of genius. In | plain English, Coleridge drank as well as talked, and the sublime | stream of eloquence may have justified in his enthusiastic | admirer's judgment the potations which sustained it, and seemed | its necessary concomitant. And yet what a friendship it was, at | least on Lamb's part! It warms the heart to contemplate such a | full outpouring of feeling, such exuberant love, such unbounded | admiration. Perhaps the present day is not favourable to the full | development of this virtue, or more likely it is rare in all ages; | but certainly, as we read Lamb's letters to Coleridge, we can | recal few similar examples. We think of Damon and Pythias, or | even of David and Jonathan, sooner than of any parallel in our | own day, and among our own acquaintance. Perhaps an | orthodox exemplary friendship, one to live in books, and be | celebrated in song, requires great powers (and | such a friendship implies these) to be joined in one of the | actors with something feminine and dependent. Charles Lamb's | certainly assumes this tone. Men do not throw their heart into | letters now-a-days, they have something else to do. So that with | ladies commonly rests les frais | as our neighbours express it, of this virtue; the fulfillment of its | more tender duties and exactions. Not that we would admit | ourselves insensible to the pleasure, familiar and close | intercourse brings. Men like one another, and so long as they are | together they tell each other their thoughts; but that delicacy of | the sentiment which is implied by the epistolary form of it, is left | generally to the gentler sex. We find ourselves content, during | the longest ' long ' to know of our dearest | friend's well-being, either by a few lines, or at second hand; or | we even trust confidingly in the cool, steady aphorism of no | news being good news; and our friends in their turn manifest the | same sensible and self-possessed state of mind towards ourselves. | Charles Lamb showed a different | | estimate of the daily duties and requirements of this virtue. With | him it was a passion. He apostrophizes Coleridge; he raves of | him; he triumphs in his success; he idolizes his gifts; he feels the | pains of absence; he dwells on their last meeting; he yearns to | meet once more. ? he asks. . , he | says, on another occasion; . Again, . | , he writes, once more, . . There is no | doubt youthful ardour in all this; but it was also a necessary part | of his gentle dependent character clinging to what it held to be | higher and nobler than itself. And as far as it was possible to be | constant to Coleridge in the moral wreck of his later years, he | was constant through life; for his friendships were as lasting as | they were ardent. , he signs himself to Wordsworth; | and it was no high sounding profession, but the simple truth. His | friends, and even most of his acquaintance, he kept through life. | | And how many graces and good qualities ~~ how many of the | passive gentler virtues are implied in ! Such an one | must be patient under many a transient neglect and forgetfulness; | not jealous, though newer intimacies gain an apparent | ascendancy; not resenting small provocations, nor bitter under | them; not disputatious, but content to seem in the wrong in minor | things, trusting, in his conscious integrity, to time to clear all. | Alive to excellences, tolerant of weaknesses, full of sympathy in | his friends' joys and sorrows, and making no unreasonable | demands in his own; giving more than he looks for again; open, | candid, indulgent, ad above all unselfish. | | There is a certain dogged, unreasoning fidelity necessary to this | character ~~ the constant friend, ~~ answering to a parent's love | for his child, which lasts not only while he is good, but at all | times. For on this subject there are two conditions of feeling | which seem to justify two opposite lines of conduct. Some think | it a just ground for breaking with their friends, that they are, | | or that they esteem them to be, inconsistent; every transient | coldness, each smaller fault will be judged by its own light, and | visited by the penalty of separation; and these will enjoy a | succession of intimacies making a fair show for a season, but | having no lasting root, and nipped by the first rough weather. | Others deem the mere fact of friendship an argument for its | continuance, and hold it inconsistent to break with their friends; | with them, present neglects will be lost in the remembrance of | former faithfulness, smaller errors in the thought of atoning good | qualities. These are the perennials, the constant flowers, caring | for neither heat nor rain, nor yet afraid of the snow, and | blooming out year by year, the strength and dependence, the | grace and pride, of our life's garden. | | It is a difficult question, for no doubt there are abundance of | legitimate causes for the separation of chief friends ~~ but the | constant heart is slow to recognise and acknowledge them; his | prayer will rather be 'Grant me, Lord, to love those who love me, | my own friend and my father's friend, and my friends' children | never to forsake.' | | But to return to our subject. It is a considerable trial to | independence of mind, to be gifted as Lamb was with friends of | great intellectual eminence. The rushing mighty flood of | Wordsworth's or Coleridge's thoughts might well swamp the | smaller streams of their intimates. But he was too much himself | really to incur this danger, though he professes to have felt it. In | a letter to Wordsworth he makes the following naïve | confession ~~ | | | | The feeling is well described, yet we cannot imagine any serious | ground for the alarm, nor suppose his conversation and manner, | which we take on hearsay, to have had any closer affinity to his | great associates than his style, of which each of us can judge for | himself. Simplicity is probably the true safeguard in all cases. If | a man does not think of his manner, it is very sure to be his own; | and that must be a very bad manner indeed which is not better | than any imitation: and so in all matters where the less powerful | mind is prone to lose its identity. A living dog is better than a | dead lion. The mastiff is a nobler | | brute in himself than assuming the mane and tail of his majestic | friend; these external attributes are nothing in themselves when | severed from the spirit which makes them terrible. | | But, indeed, Lamb had too keen a sense of fellowship with | mankind at large to be in danger of being hampered, as he says, | in the net of one great man's thoughts. All people, with him, | were worth pleasing, not only a few choice spirits. Spheres, sets, | circles, parties, were not in his way, he desired a more universal | sympathy. This was the object for which he wrote; as some men | write for influence, some for money, some for fame, some to do | good, ~~ he wrote for sympathy, to enlist men's tastes and | fancies and feelings on his side, to get them to think with him, to | feel with him, to laugh with him, to like what he liked, to enjoy | what he enjoyed, to appreciate in literature what he admired; and | whoever did this, he admitted to a full equality with himself. We | are never repelled by any assumption of superiority. No writer | less sets himself above his readers. He acknowledges the | popular voice to be a true critic, and its appreciation a just test of | merit; and this as much when he fails as when he succeeds. | , he candidly says to Miss Wordsworth, . Again, | . When his farce failed, more celebrated in its failure | than others in their success, he is not angry but really sorry. He | wanted so much to amuse people, and because they were not | amused he gave up his farce. Instead of denouncing the public | according to the approved method of authors, he makes a good | resolution, , he says, . , he | pathetically exclaims, . | | It is said of Coleridge that his conversation did not vary with his | hearers; he talked the same, let who would listen. Eloquence is | always compared to a stream, and his had the still closer | resemblance to flowing waters, that it rolled on the same, | whatever spectators witnessed the glorious torrent. This is the | reverse of the sympathetic, ~~ he was self-sufficient. The | opposite frame of mind, so evident in Lamb's correspondence, | claims more of our regard, as having more of human feeling in it. | There we see always that he is addressing an individual mind, | that he is acquainted with and mindful of its characteristics, that | he has, as it were, his friends' countenance before him, and is | watching the effect of each turn of humour, each happy thought. | | He exerts himself to please for love, not for display, and in this | temper he thinks no trouble superfluous, no pains too great. | What elaborate jests, what felicitous hoaxes, what sparkling fun, | he lavishes on his correspondent Mr. Manning! in society, we are | informed, only a quiet courteous gentleman, more disposed to | listen than to talk; though Lamb said, marvellous in a tête-à-tête; | knowing, no doubt, how fully his sedate friend would enter into | and enjoy them. All his letters vary with the receiver, yet all are | equally characteristic. There is a peculiar grace in those to his | lady friends, of whom he had many, a nice comfortable domestic | tone, mingled with pleasant confidences about himself. To | Coleridge, again, he has another vein ~~ to Wordsworth another, | and to great or obscure the same deferential consideration joined | to perfect freedom of thought and expression. There are some | grotesque examples of ease and coolness towards his grand | intellectual friends ~~ as if, indeed, their lofty eminence gave a | zest to the indulgence of any absurd passing whim ~~ as where | he takes the trouble to write a long letter to Wordsworth in | alternate lines of red and black ink, a labour which he carries on | with all gravity, and almost without comment, ~~ only in one | place congratulating himself that a passage of strong vituperation | against the satirists of Peter Bell falls upon a red line, as making | it 'the more bloody,' ~~ till the end, when he quietly inquires of | the inspired poet, . Following out the same conceit, he | pathetically commences a letter to Coleridge, . | | The elaborate criticisms which occupy many of the present | letters upon the subject of his friends' poems, ~~ always acute, | ~~ are as sincere and uncompromising as in some cases they are | enthusiastic. A few examples, taken almost at random, will be | interesting, as showing his instant appreciation and just view of | works which, by slow degrees and against fierce opposition, have | since won a world-wide fame. In acknowledging an early copy | of the Excursion, he says to Wordsworth: ~~ | | | | | Again, on receiving Wordsworth's second volume, he | enumerates some poems that please him most. | | | Of the beautiful poem called 'the Force of Prayer,' developing the | depths of a mother's grief, he says ~~ | | | | | | It was something for the reader, the literary man, the critic, to | live in those days when the young century started as a giant | refreshed. From Wordsworth we pass on to different short | comments and criticisms in Coleridge's verse. It is pleasant to | know that these poets were cheered on by contemporary applause. | The following on the 'Ancient Mariner,' is a letter to Wordsworth. | | | | To Coleridge himself his comments are characterized by a | candour unusual in the friendly intercourse of author and critic. | The following passages are from early letters: ~~ | | | | | He then adduces a number of lines with such dashing comments | as , , , , ? and so | on, ending by enthusiastic praise of the Religious musings; | telling him, | | | | Coleridge's delineations of common natural feeling remind him | of Montauban dancing with Roubigné's tenants, | much of his native loftiness remained in the | execution . For 'Christabel,' in MS., he makes the | following appeal: ~~ | | | | He is jealous of these inharmonious associations, as in another | instance where he thus apologizes to Coleridge for the expense | his particularity puts him to. | | | | Most people have tried to make out some meaning in Kubla | Khan. It is satisfactory to find one's own dim suspicions thus | sanctioned. | | | | Of Cowper he is a warm and tender admirer, talking of his | . | | ? he asks Coleridge. | | | | The religious novel was not likely to meet with much favour | from him. The following is his respectful notice to Coleridge of | 'Cœlebs,' one of the first and most popular of this class. | | | | There is one point on which the humblest are vulnerable, which | would seem to furnish the last trial of self-control and resignation. | Men who can bear with meekness any personal slight or | misapprehension, receiving it, though unmerited in the individual | instance, as no more than their deserts, assume another aspect | towards their works, and are keenly sensitive to all injustice | towards them. It is often less trial to an author to have his | character tampered with than the labours of his brain ~~ it gives | him less pain to find his motives misinterpreted and undervalued | than his writings; these are his children, his dearest self, 'his ewe | lambs,' as our present author calls his sonnets ( ). And | yet this sensitiveness is not incompatible with a writer's just and | due estimate of the value of his performances. Lamb, for | instance, never overrated his powers, he could make confessions | which would demand rated his powers, he could make | confessions which would demand no small effort. His letters on | literary subjects contain abundant evidence of this, and we may | always believe him that he says what he | means, and not angling for compliments, in return for his modest | disclaimers. , he cries, . He criticizes his | prose too with the same candour. But though thus modest for | himself, there were limits to his forbearance when others took it | in hand to show his deficiencies, or, as they thought, to supply | them. For example, the Monthly Review, misunderstanding | something he has said about Milton, 'sneers' at him; when he thus | apostrophises his friend: . And, to give a more | | serious instance of our meaning, he would admit with ready | contrition to his friends, , . . But | who does not remember his splendid burst of recriminating wrath | against Southey, his friend, for using his powerful engine the | Quarterly, to cast some slur on the religious tone of his Essays, | printed in hot anger the very day he read the insult, and repented | of and humbly apologized for almost as soon? | | The present volumes contain almost as eloquent an example of | vituperation against the then editor of the Quarterly for having | mutilated his review of the Excursion; and in this instance, with | all his natural tolerance and gentleness, the indignation remained | unquenched through life. In extenuation of this implacable spirit, | we must however bear in mind that he was wounded in his | friendship as well as in his vanity. All writers in reviews, at least, | will sympathize in his grievance. We give the letter entire. It is | long, but we have a sort of conscientious scruple against | breaking the continuity of its flow; and honesty will not allow us | to curtail it of one or two expletives foreign to his usual style; | | | | | | The main reasons for publishing these 'final memorials' being | more to throw new light on Lamb's character and moral nature | than to illustrate his genius, we have allowed these objects to | occupy our space, to the exclusion of much that is interesting, but | which our limits now will only allow us to glance upon. The | editor in his preface apologizes for the insertion of some | fragments of correspondence, which he owns he had before | thought insignificant; but the eager appreciation with which the | former correspondence was received, has induced him to | withhold nothing; feeling, as he says, that there is scarcely a note | Lamb ever wrote which has not some tinge of that quaint | sweetness, some hint of that peculiar union of kindness and | whim, which distinguish him from all other poets and humorists. | Though these volumes have thus a fragmentary character, and | cannot compete, in a literary point of view, with their | predecessors, there are yet many happy traits of Lamb's peculiar | style, which, if our space would allow, we would bring before | our readers. As, for example, his various notices of his eccentric | friend, George Dyer, celebrated in the Essays for his absent feat | of walking into the New River in broad daylight; himself the | , and, we should guess, to less indulgent tempers, simply a | bore, but furnishing | | his good-natured friend with great entertainment, which is here | transferred to the reader. Also we must resist the insertion of two | letters, felicitous in their style of wild fun, to a friend suffering | under rheumatism, where in the first Lamb affects himself to | have the disorder, and describes all the excruciating symptoms | his friend was probably enduring, with a sort of poignant | self-pity; and in the next owns the mischief, and boasts of his own | immunity. Some shorter passages we may adduce as specimens | of his manner ~~ he was skilful in slight sketches of character, | which bring the man before us. Many will sympathise with his | feelings towards the 'well-informed man.' | | | Who, again, is not acquainted with some wrong-headed seeker | after prosperity like the following? ~~ | | | | As a brother-poet, Wordsworth had sent George Dyer a copy of | his poems through Lamb; he thus announces the fulfilment of his | commission in the 'pretty and motley' letter: ~~ | | | | | | Here, again, is an experimental agriculturist struck off in a few | lines: ~~ | | | | The following is a graceful mode of asking a small favour; from | the opening of a letter to Mr. Manning: ~~ | | | | After hearing an author read his own MS tragedy, where some | 'heroic touch' had betrayed him into a burst of laughter, he draws | the following moral from the misfortune. | | | | Being himself a lender in all ways, he | was qualified to speak upon the subject of borrowers: he | threatens to chain Wordsworth's poems to his shelves: ~~ | | | | It is remarkable, indeed, how much he did in the way of lending | money. With his limited income, the constant expenses of his | poor sister's illnesses, his own hospitality, which, though simple, | seems to have been unbounded ~~ bewitched by a fatal habit | besides, which commonly keeps men poor, he seems always to | have had money to spare. He never, as his friend assures us, | exceeded his income ~~ when scantiest ~~ by a shilling, he had | always a reserve for Mary's periods of seclusion, and something | in hand beside for a friend in need. Some of his least worthy | literary associates seem to have taken undue advantage of | | his kind and easy temper, importuning him for assistance in the | difficulties their own folly had brought them into; and he gave, | even when quite aware that he was doing them no good by his | compliance. , he would say, . He did not wait | to be asked when he thought his real | friends needed his assistance, but would press loans of 50 l. or 100 l. upon | them, keeping that sum for days in his pocket, waiting for a | favourable moment, when he might assure them of his difficulty | of disposing of a little money, stammering out, . | | Our business being only with Lamb himself, we pass over an | account by the editor of some of his more distinguished friends | ~~ Hazlitt, Godwin, Thelwall, etcetera | etcetera ~~ a dangerous | brotherhood, disputers of creeds, and starters of 'new theories,' in | morals, religion, and politics. Their tacit influence must have | been injurious to Lamb's tone of mind, and no doubt contributed | towards that deadness to religious truth which seems to have | invaded his later years. But their speculations were rather | tolerated than entered into, much less shared by him. We are | earnestly assured that for the new theories of morals which | gleamed out in the conversation of some of his friends, he had no | sympathy: that never, either in writing or in speech, did he | purposely confound good with evil; and though in his boundless | indulgence to the perversities and faults of those whom long | familiarity had endeared to him, he did not suffer their frailties to | impair his attachment to the individuals, he never palliated the | frailties themselves. | | Serjeant Talfourd also describes with interesting minuteness the | 'two circles of rare enjoyment,' which were at that time open to | men of letters, distinguished by points of resemblance, and of | difference so striking, as so make them fit subjects for | comparison ~~ the Saturday dinners at Holland House, the | Wednesday suppers of 'the Lambs' at the Temple. The luxury of | Holland House, the high-bred courtesy of the hosts, the | splendour of the entertainment, the rank of the guests, the | political importance of some, the literary reputation of others, | evidently made a great impression. There is considerable | unction in the description, though tempered by a certain tone of | moralizing. | | | | | | From this picture, a very Rubens for gorgeousness, we turn to the | Rembrandt hues of the Temple ~~ the old furniture, the smoky | walls, and the bright winter fire of the Lambs' chambers. The | hearth is swept, the whist tables are spread, all things, in spite of | the dinginess, wear an air of comfort, and that great equalizer of | mere external distinctions ~~ the salt of all entertainments ~~ a | hearty welcome awaits the guests. There assemble in the course | of the evening poets, authors, critics, actors, philosophers, | politicians, dreamers; some who come to talk, and some to listen, | and each in their department knowing his place, and all there for | enjoyment. Happily, people can enjoy themselves without every | appliance of physical luxury; and for want of the 'delicate art' of | Holland House, and the intellectual page in green, Becky, who | spreads the side table with a liberal supply of cold meat, heaps of | smoking potatoes, and vast jugs of porter, does very well. It | must be a melancholy thought to a chef-de-cuisine | , if he has ever time to think, that people can | luxuriate in such barbarian entertainments as these. Miss Lamb | gliding about, setting her guests at ease, listening, pressing the | hungry or more timid to partake of her good cheer, is a full | equivalent for her titled rival; and her hospitable solicitations | seem to have been as effectual; for talking makes most people | hungry, especially where they are put upon their mettle, and | called on to do their best. The hot water 'and its | accompainments' appear; whist relaxes, and the talk thickens; | Lamb begins to stammer out puns 'suggestive of wisdom,' and to | delight his hearers by those alternations between the intense | | and the grotesque; eccentric bursts of wild mirth, changing | suddenly from the serious to the farcical, which seem to have | been the characteristics of his conversation. , however, | it was said of him, . This is better than Lord Holland's | bacchanalian stories. There is certainly something more of | freedom, heartiness, and comfort, in the idea of these Wednesday | evenings, than in their aristocratic Saturday rivals. They are | pleasanter to the fancy, more a flow of soul. Luxury, refined to | the eye, has a touch of sensuality to the ear; the simpler fare has | the advantage in description; it is impossible to set the mind in | the same way upon it; it would be easier to enter into a jest or a | new idea, while partaking of these primitive viands, than the | elaborate entrées of the other banquet, | which for their appreciation demand a fuller and more engrossing | attention. Yet, in the partaker of the Holland House festivities, | we can imagine a wavering judgment. A perfect dinner leaves | (as is evidently the case in this instance,) a memory, a fragrance | behind it, which hangs around the broken vase of pleasure, and | which time even cannot destroy. It is, we confess, easy to | despise a dinner in description, but philosophy itself might have | been put to the proof had it been there. | | Lamb, at least, would have enjoyed his own circle best. The | luxurious on a large scale, would have oppressed him like the | future he so much feared. All pleasure with him must wear a | domestic impress; something of the homely, though not inelegant, | was needful to keep his nervous shivering spirit warm. The net | was homespun, not golden, which held him down to earth. That | beloved sister, those sympathizing friends, the old familiar faces, | the whist table, with 'the rigour of the game,' and all its friendly | bickerings; the social intercourse, the wit, the jest, the banter, | these altogether satisfied him, and he shrank from higher things | as a child trembles at a ghost story told on a winter night, to | whom everything beyond that glowing hearth and that cheerful | crowding circle seems dark and vague, and peopled with | gathering unknown terrors, till the simple homely comfort of the | present scene gains an undue, strange fascination, not so much | for its own delights as for what it hides. This 'social comparison' | is in both cases a melancholy one. The spirit of the one circle | was to defy the future; of the other, to shut the eyes to it. Both | scenes of pleasure ~~ clung to so eagerly, enjoyed so resolutely | ~~ have passed away. | | | In his summary of Lamb's character, his affectionate biographer | is tempted to palliate some errors and peculiarities, ~~ to speak | of them in the mildest phrase ~~ on the ground of the | constitutional tendency once manifested having permanently | affected the construction, as it were, of his mind ~~ not his | reason, which ever after remained clear and unclouded, but ~~ | the framework through which it acted; and we own it is an appeal | to which we are disposed to listen. | | His were no ordinary troubles, and the sensitiveness of his nature | inclined him to be keenly impressed by them. The recollection | of what had once befallen himself ~~ the constant apprehension | of a return of his sister's malady ~~ the sudden demands | sometimes made upon his energy ~~ the presiding 'giant sorrow' | lowering over his happiest, brightest hours ~~ a man under so | awful a discipline cannot remain like his fellows. Where he fails | he will be weaker than other men, where he endures he will have | a strength beyond theirs. As he says of the 'Mariner' conversant | with the supernatural, he must needs acquire a strange cast of | phrase, answering to the strangeness of the trials he has | undergone; he will not see things under our light; what startles us | as a new or a false juxtaposition will be natural to him, | accustomed to strange transitions and conjunctions; hopeless, or | terror-struck, he may sometimes yield to temptations which we | spurn, and in the midst of our triumph rise to a height of which | we are incapable. | | We would not palliate Charles Lamb's errors; he had faults, | indeed, beyond anyone's will to excuse. But who, after knowing | all, but must feel tenderly towards him , | pitying him for his trials, reverencing him for his heroic | self-devotion, grieving over his failings ~~ not excusing his | frailties, but thankful to Heaven, which has imposed on us a lighter | burden, and mercifully bestowed on us helps and guidance, | which from him were, in God's inscrutable providence, | apparently withheld.