Charles Lamb

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When I first became acquainted with Mr. Lamb, he lived, I think, in the
Temple; but I did not visit him then, and could scarcely, therefore, be
said to _know_ him, until he took up his residence in Russell Street,
Covent Garden. He had a first floor there, over a brazier's shop,--since
converted into a bookseller's,--wherein he frequently entertained his
friends. On certain evenings (Thursdays) one might reckon upon
encountering at his rooms from six to a dozen unaffected people, including
two or three men of letters. A game at whist and a cold supper, followed
by a cheerful glass (glasses!) and "good talk," were the standing dishes
upon those occasions. If you came late, you encountered a perfume of the
"GREAT PLANT." The pipe, hid in smoke (the violet amongst its leaves),--a
squadron of tumblers, fuming with various odors, and a score of quick
intelligent glances, saluted you. There you might see Godwin, Hazlitt,
Leigh Hunt, Coleridge (though rarely), Mr. Robinson, Serjeant Talfourd,
Mr. Ayrton, Mr. Alsager, Mr. Manning,--sometimes Miss Kelly, or Liston,--
Admiral Burney, Charles Lloyd, Mr. Alsop, and various others; and if
Wordsworth was in town, you might stumble upon him also. Our friend's
brother, John Lamb, was occasionally there; and his sister (his excellent
sister) invariably presided.

The room in which he lived was plainly and almost carelessly furnished.
Let us enter it for a moment. Its ornaments, you see, are principally
several long shelves of ancient books; (those are his "ragged veterans.")
Some of Hogarth's prints, two after Leonardo da Vinci and Titian, and a
portrait of Pope, enrich the walls. At the table sits an elderly lady (in
spectacles) reading; whilst from an old-fashioned chair by the fire
springs up a little spare man in black, with a countenance pregnant with
expression, deep lines in his forehead, quick, luminous, restless eyes,
and a smile as sweet as ever threw sunshine upon the human face. You see
that you are welcome. He speaks: "Well, boys, how are you? What's the news
with you? What will you take?" You are comfortable in a moment. Reader! it
is Charles Lamb who is before you--the critic, the essayist, the poet, the
wit, the large-minded _human_ being, whose apprehension could grasp,
without effort, the loftiest subject, and descend in gentleness upon the
humblest; who sympathized with all classes and conditions of men, as
readily with the sufferings of the tattered beggar and the poor chimney-
sweeper's boy as with the starry contemplations of Hamlet "the Dane," or
the eagle-flighted madness of Lear.

The books that I have adverted to, as filling his shelves, were mainly
English books--the poets, dramatists, divines, essayists, &c.,--ranging
from the commencement of the Elizabeth period down to the time of Addison
and Steele. Besides these, of the earliest writers, Chaucer was there;
and, amongst the moderns, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and a few others, whom he
loved.

He had more real knowledge of old English literature than any man whom I
ever knew. He was not an antiquarian. He neither hunted after commas, nor
scribbled notes which confounded his text. The _Spirit_ of the author
descended upon him; and he felt it! With Burton and Fuller, Jeremy Taylor
and Sir Thomas Browne, he was an intimate. The ancient poets--chiefly the
dramatic poets--were his especial friends. He knew every point and turn of
their wit, all the beauty of their characters; loving each for some one
distinguishing particular, and despising none. For absolute contempt is a
quality of youth and ignorance--a foppery which a wise man rejects, and
_he_ rejected it accordingly. If he contemned anything, it was contempt
itself. He saw that every one bore some sign or mark (God's gift) for
which he ought to be valued by his fellows, and esteemed a man. He could
pick out a merit from each author in his turn. He liked Heywood for his
simplicity and pathos; Webster for his deep insight into the heart; Ben
Jonson for his humor; Marlow for his "mighty line;" Fletcher for his wit
and flowing sweetness; and Shakespeare for his combination of wonders. He
loved Donne too, and Quarles, and Marvell, and Sir Philip Sidney, and a
long list besides.

No one will love the old English writers again as _he_ did. Others may
have a leaning towards them--a respect--an admiration--a sort of _young_
man's love: but the true relishing is over; the close familiar friendship
is dissolved. He who went back into dim antiquity, and sought them out,
and proclaimed their worth to the world--abandoning the gaudy rhetoric of
popular authors for their sake, is now translated into the shadowy regions
of the friends he worshipped. He who was once separated from them by a
hundred lustres, hath surmounted that great interval of time and space,
and is now, in a manner, THEIR CONTEMPORARY!

* * * * *

The wit of Mr. Lamb was known to most persons conversant with existing
literature. It was said that his friends bestowed more than due praise
upon it. It is clear that his enemies did it injustice. Such as it was, it
was at all events _his own_. He did not "get up" his conversations, nor
explore the hoards of other wits, nor rake up the ashes of former fires.
Right or wrong, he set to work unassisted; and by dint of his own strong
capacity and fine apprehension, he struck out as many substantially new
ideas as any man of his time. The quality of his humor was essentially
different from that of other men. It was not simply a tissue of jests or
conceits, broad, far-fetched, or elaborate; but it was a combination of
humor with pathos--a sweet stream of thought, bubbling and sparkling with
witty fancies; such as I do not remember to have elsewhere met with,
except in Shakespeare. There is occasionally a mingling of the serious and
the comic in "Don Juan," and in other writers; but they differ, after all,
materially from Lamb in humor:--whether they are better or worse, is
unimportant. His delicate and irritable genius, influenced by his early
studies, and fettered by old associations, moved within a limited circle.
Yet this was not without its advantages; for, whilst it stopped him from
many bold (and many idle) speculations and theories, it gave to his
writings their peculiar charm, their individuality, their sincerity, their
pure, gentle original character. Wit, which is "impersonal," and, for that
very reason perhaps, is nine times out of ten a mere heartless matter, in
him assumed a new shape and texture. It was no longer simply malicious,
but was colored by a hundred gentle feelings. It bore the rose as well as
the thorn. His heart warmed the jests and conceits with which his brain
was busy, and turned them into flowers.

Every one who knew Mr. Lamb, knew that his humor was not affected. It was
a style--a habit; generated by reading and loving the ancient writers, but
adopted in perfect sincerity, and used towards all persons and upon all
occasions. He was the same in 1810 as in 1834--when he died. A man cannot
go on "affecting" for five and twenty years. He must be sometimes sincere.
Now, Lamb was always the same. I never knew a man upon whom Time wrought
so little.

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