University of Virginia Library

CHARACTERISTICS OF LAMB.[9]

In adding our tribute to the memory of Lamb, we are
conscious of personal associations of peculiar and touching
interest. We recall the many listless hours he has
beguiled; and the very remembrance of happy moments
induced by his quiet humor, and pleasing reveries inspired
by his quaint descriptions and inimitable pathos, is refreshing
to our minds. It is difficult to realise that these
feelings have reference to an individual whose countenance
we never beheld, and the tones of whose voice never fell
upon our ear. Frequent and noted instances there are
in the annals of literature, of attempts, on the part of authors,
to introduce themselves to the intimate acquaintance
of their readers. In portraying their own characters in
those of their heroes, in imparting the history of their
lives in the form of an epic poem, a popular novel, or
through the more direct medium of a professed autobiography,
writers have aimed at a striking presentation of
themselves. The success of such attempts is, in general,
very limited. Like letters of introduction, they indeed,

prove passports to the acquaintance, but not necessarily
to the friendship of those to whom they are addressed.
At best, they ordinarily afford us an insight into the mind
of the author, but seldom render us familiar and at home
with the man. Charles Lamb, on the contrary,—if our
own experience does not deceive us—has brought himself
singularly near those who have once heartily entered into
the spirit of his lucubrations. We seem to know his
history, as if it were that of our brother, or earliest friend.
The beautiful fidelity of his first love, the monotony of
his long clerkship, and the strange feeling of leisure succeeding
its renunciation, the excitement of his “first
play,” the zest of his reading, the musings of his daily
walk, and the quietude of his fireside, appear like visions
of actual memory. His image, now bent over a huge
ledger, in a dusky compting-house, and now threading the
thoroughfares of London, with an air of abstraction, from
which nothing recalls him but the outstretched hand of
a little sweep, an inviting row of worm-eaten volumes upon
an old book stall, or the gaunt figure of a venerable beggar;
and the same form sauntering through the groves about
Oxford in the vacation solitude, or seated in a little back
study, intent upon an antiquated folio, appear like actual
reminiscences rather than pictures of the fancy. The
face of his old school-master is as some familiar physiognomy;
and we seem to have known Bridget Elia
from infancy, and to have loved her, too, notwithstanding
her one “ugly habit of reading in company.”
Indeed we can compare our associations of Charles
Lamb only to those which would naturally attach to an
intimate neighbor with whom we had, for years, cultivated
habits of delightful intercourse,—stepping over his
threshold, to hold sweet commune, whenever weariness
was upon our spirits, and we desired cheering and amiable
companionship. And when death actually justified the
title affixed to his most recent papers—which we had
fondly regarded merely as an additional evidence of his
unique method of dealing with his fellow beings,—when
they really proved the last essays of Elia, we could unaffectedly
apply to him the touching language, with which an
admired poet has hallowed the memory of a brother bard;—

And were it only for the peculiar species of fame which
Lamb's contributions to the light literature of his country
have obtained him,—were it only for the valuable lesson
involved in this tributary heritage,—in the method by
which it was won,—in the example with which it is associated,
there would remain ample cause for congratulation
among the real friends of human improvement; there
would be sufficient reason to remember, gratefully and
long, the gifted and amiable essayist. Instead of the feverish
passion for reputation, which renders the existence of
the majority of professed literateurs of the present day, a
wearing and anxious trial, better becoming the dust and
heat of the arena, than the peaceful shades of the academy,
a calm and self-reposing spirit pervades and characterises
the writings of Lamb. They are obviously the offspring

of thoughtful leisure; they are redolent of the otium; and
in this consists their peculiar charm. We are disposed to
value this characteristic highly, at a time which abounds,
as does our age, with a profusion of forced and elaborate
writings. It is truly delightful to encounter a work, however
limited in design and unpretending in execution,
which revives the legitimate idea of literature,—which
makes us feel that it is as essentially spontaneous as the
process of vegatation, and is only true to its source and
its object, when instinct with freshness and freedom. No
mind, restlessly urged by a morbid appetite for literary
fame, or disciplined to a mechanical development of
thought, could have originated the attractive essays we are
considering. They indicate quite a different parentage.
A lovely spirit of contentment, a steadfast determination
towards a generous culture of the soul, breathes through
these mental emanations. Imaginative enjoyment,—the
boon with which the Creator has permitted man to meliorate
the trying circumstances of his lot, is evidently the
great recreation of the author, and to this he would introduce
his readers. It is interesting to feel, that among the
many accomplished men, whom necessity or ambition inclines
to the pursuit of literature, there are those who find
the time and possess the will to do something like justice
to their own minds. Literary biography is little else than
a history of martyrdoms. We often rise from the perusal
of a great man's life, whose sphere was the field of letters,
with diminished faith in the good he successfully pursued.
The story of disappointed hopes, ruined health, and a life in
no small degree isolated from social pleasure and the incitement
which nature affords, can scarcely be relieved of
its melancholy aspect by the simple record of literary
success. Earnestly as we honor the principle of self-devotion,
our sympathy with beings of a strong intellectual
and imaginative bias is too great not to awaken, above
every other consideration, a desire for the self-possessed
and native exhibition of such a heaven-implanted tendency.
We cannot but wish that natures thus endowed
should be true to themselves. We feel that, in this way,
they will eventually prove most useful to the world. And
yet one of the rarest results which such men arrive at, is
self-satisfaction in the course they pursue—we do not mean
as regards the success, but the direction of their labors.
Sir James Mackintosh continually lamented, in his diary,
the failure of his splendid intentions, consoled himself
with the idea of additional enterprises, and finally died without
completing his history. Coleridge has left only, in a
fragmentary and scattered form, the philosophical system
he proposed to develop. Both these remarkable men
passed intellectual lives, and evolved, in conversation and
fugitive productions, fruits which are worthy of a perennial
existence; yet they fell so far short of their aims, they
realised so little of what they conceived, that an impression
the most painful remains upon the mind that, with
due susceptibility, contemplates their career. We find,
therefore, an especial gratification in turning from such
instances, to a far humbler one indeed, but still to a man
of genius, who richly enjoyed his pleasant and sequestered
inheritance in the kingdom of letters, and whose comparatively
few productions bear indubitable testimony to
a mind at ease,—a felicitious expansion of feeling, an
imaginative and yet contented life. It is as illustrative
of this, that the essays of Elia are mainly valuable.

In our view, the form of these writings is a great recommendation.
We confess a partiality for the essay. In the
literature of our vernacular tongue, it shines conspicuous,
and is environed with the most pleasing associations. To
the early English essayists is due the honor of the first and
most successful endeavors to refine the language and manners
of their country. The essays of Dr. Johnson, Goldsmith,
Addison, and Steele, while they answered a most
important immediate purpose, still serve as instructive
disquisitions and excellent illustrations of style. The essay
is to prose literature, what the sonnet is to poetry;
and as the narrow limits of the latter have enclosed some
of the most beautiful poetic imagery, and finished expressions
of sentiment within the compass of versified writing,
so many of the most chaste specimens of elegant periods,
and of animated and embellished prose, exist in the form
of essays. The lively pen of Montaigne, the splendid
rhetoric of Burke, and the vigorous argument of John
Foster, have found equal scope in essay-writing: and
among the various species of composition at present in
vogue, how few can compare with this in general adaptation.
Descriptive sketches and personal traits, speculative
suggestions and logical deductions, the force of direct
appeal, the various power of illustration, allusion and
comment, are equally available to the essayist. His essay
may be a lay-sermon or a satire, a criticism or a reverie.
“Of the words of men,” says Lord Bacon, “there

is nothing more sound and excellent than are letters; for
they are more natural than orations, and more advised
than sudden conferences.” Essays-combine the qualities
here ascribed to the epistolary composition; indeed, they
may justly be regarded as letters addressed to the public;
embodying—in the delightful style which characterises the
private correspondence of cultivated friends—views and
details of more general interest.

There is more reason to regret the decline of essay-writing,
from the fact, that the forms of composition now
in vogue, are so inferior to it both in intrinsic excellence
and as vehicles of thought. There is, indeed, a class of
writers whose object is, professedly and solely, to amuse;
or if a higher purpose enters into their design, it does not
extend beyond the conveyance of particular historical information.
But the majority of prominent authors cherish
as to their great end, the inculcation of certain principles
of action, theories of life, or views of humanity.
We may trace in the views of the most justly admired
writers of our own day, a favorite sentiment or theory pervading,
more or less, the structure of their several volumes,
and constantly presenting itself under various aspects,
and in points of startling contrast or thrilling impression.
We honor the deliberate and faithful presentation of a
theory, on the part of literary men, when they deem it essential
to the welfare of their race. Loyalty to such an
object bespeaks them worthy of their high vocation; and
we doubt if an author can be permanently useful to his
fellow beings and true to himself, without such a light
to guide, and such an aim to inspire. Dogmatical attachment

to mere opinion is doubtless opposed to true
progression in thought, but fidelity in the development
and vivid portraiture of a sentiment knit into the well-being
of man, and coincident with his destiny, is among
the most obvious of literary obligations. Something of
chivalric interest is attached to “Sidney's Defence of
Poesy;” the anxiety for the reform of conventional customs
and modes of thinking in society, so constantly
evinced in the pages of the Spectator, commands our
sympathy and respect; and we think the candid objector
to Wordsworth's view of his divine art, cannot but honor
the steadiness with which he has adhered to, and unfolded
it. Admitting, then, the dignity of such literary
ends,—the manner in which they can be most effectually
accomplished, must often be a subject of serious consideration.

It is generally taken for granted, that the public will
give ear to no teacher who cannot adroitly practise the expedient
so beautifully illustrated by Tasso, in the simile of
the chalice of medicine with a honeyed rim. True as it
is, that in an age surfeited with books of every description,
there exists a kind of necessity for setting decoys afloat
upon the stream of literature—is not the faith in literary
lures altogether too perfect? Does the mental offspring
we have cherished, obtain the kind of attention we desire,
when ushered into the world arrayed in the garb of fiction?
The experiment, we acknowledge, succeeds in one respect.
The inviting dress will attract the eyes of the multitude;
but how few will penetrate to the theory, appreciate
the moral, or enter into the thoughts to which the

fanciful costume is only the drapery and frame-work?
The truth is, the very object of writers who would present
a philosophical problem through the medium of a novel, is
barely recognized. Corinna is still regarded as a romance
sui generis. Several efforts of the kind, on the
part of living British writers of acknowledged power, seem
to have utterly failed of their purpose, as far as the mass of
readers, whom they were especially intended to affect, are
concerned. The plan in such instances, is strictly psychological.
Public attention, however, is at once riveted
on the plot and details; and some strong delineation of
human passion, some trivial error in the external sketching,
some over intense or too minute personation of feeling,
suffices, we do not say how justly, to condemn the
work in the view—even of the discriminating. Now we
are confident, that should the writers in question choose
the essay as a vehicle of communication, their success in
many cases would be more complete. Their ideas of life,
of a foreign land, of modern society, or of human destiny,
presented in this shape, with the graces of style, the attraction
of anecdote, and the vivacity of wit and feeling,
could not but find their way to the only class of readers
who will ever estimate such labors; those who read to
excite thought, as well as beguile time; to gratify an intellectual
taste, as well as amuse an ardent fancy. The
novel, too, is in its very nature ephemeral. The very
origin of the word associates such productions with the
gazettes and magazines—the temporary caskets of literature.
And with the exception of Scott's, and a few admirable
historical romances, novels seem among the most
frail of literary tabernacles. Now, in reference to the
class of authors to whom we have alluded, those who have
a definite and important point in view, who are enthusiastic
in behalf of a particular moral or mental enterprise,
the evanescent nature of the popular vehicle is an important
consideration. We would behold a more permanent
personification of their systems, a more lasting testimony
of their interest in humanity. And such we consider the
essay. When presented, condensed, and embellished in
this more primitive form, a fair opportunity will be afforded
for the candid examination of their sentiments; and
we are persuaded that these very ideas, thus arranged and
disseminated, will possess a weight and an interest which
they can never exhibit when displayed in the elaborate
and desultory manner incident to popular fiction. An
interesting illustration of these remarks may be found in
the circumstance that many intelligent men, who are quite
inimical to Bulwer, as a novelist, have become interested
in his mind by the perusal of “England and the English,”
and “The Student”—works which are essentially
specimens of essay writing. The dramatic form of composition
has recently been adopted in England, to subserve
the theoretical purposes of authors. This, it must
be confessed, is a decided improvement upon the more
fashionable method; and the favor with which it has
been received, is sufficiently indicative of the readiness
of the public to become familiar with nobler models of
literature.

We are under no slight obligations to Charles Lamb,
for so pleasantly reviving a favorite form of English composition.

We welcome Elia as the Spectator-redivivus
It is interesting to be amused and instructed after the
manner of that delectable coterie of lay-preachers, humorists,
and critics, of which Sir Roger de Coverly was so
distinguished a member. It is peculiarly agreeeble to be
talked to in a book, as if the writer addressed himself to
us particularly. Next to a long epistle from an entertaining
friend, we love, of all things in the world, a charming
essay;—a concise array of ideas—an unique sketch, which
furnishes subjects for an hour's reflection, or gives rise to
a succession of soothing day-dreams. Few books are more
truly useful than such as can be relished in the brief intervals
of active or social life, which permit immediate
appreciation, and, taken up when and where they may be,
present topics upon which the attention can at once fix
itself, and trains of speculation into which the mind easily
glides. To such a work we suppose a celebrated writer
alludes, in the phrase “parlor window-seat book.” Collections
of essays are essentially of this order. We would
not be understood, however, as intimating that this kind
of literature is especially unworthy of studious regard;
Bacon's Essays alone would refute such an idea; but from
its conciseness and singleness of aim, the essay may
be enjoyed in a brief period, and when the mind is unable
to attach itself to more elaborate reading. A volume
of essays subserves the purpose of a set of cabinet pictures,
or a port-folio of miniature drawings; they are the
multum in parvo of literature; and, perused, as they generally
are, in moments of respite from ordinary occupation,
turned to on the spur of mental appetite, they not
unfrequently prove more efficient than belles-lettres allurements
of greater pretension. It is seldom that any desirable
additions are made in this important department
of writing; and among the contributions of the present
age, the essays of Elia will deservedly hold an elevated
rank.

Much of the interest awakened by these papers, has
been ascribed to the peculiar phraseology in which they
are couched. Doubtless, this characteristic has had its
influence; but we think an undue importance has been
given it, and we feel that the true zest of Elia's manner
is as spontaneous as his ideas, and the shape in which
they naturally present themselves. If we analyse his mode
of expression, we shall find its charm consists not a little
in the expert variation rather than in a constant maintenance
of style. He understood the proper time and place
to introduce an illustration; he knew when to serve up
one of his unequalled strokes of humor, and when to
change the speculative for the descriptive mood. He had
a happy way of blending anecdote and portraiture; he
makes us see the place, person, or thing, upon which he
is dwelling; and, at the moment our interest is excited,
presents an incident, and then, while we are all attention,
imparts a moral, or lures us into a theorising vein. He
personifies his subjcet, too, at the appropriate moment;
nor idealises, after the manner of many essayists, before
the reader sympathises at all with the real picture. Lamb's
diction breathes the spirit of his favorite school. He
need not have told us of his partiality for the old English
writers. Every page of Elia bears witness to his frequent

and fond communion with the rich, ancient models of
British literature. Yet the coincidence is, in no degree,
that which obtains between an original and a copyist.
The tinge which Lamb's language has caught from intimacy
with the quaint folios he so sincerely admired, is a reflected
hue, like that which suffuses the arch of clouds far
above the setting sun; denoting only the delightful influence
radiated upon the mind which loves to dwell devotedly
upon what is disappearing, and turns with a kind of
religious interest from the new-born luminaries which the
multitude worship, to hover devotedly round the shrine of
the past. If any modern lover of letters deserved
a heritage in the sacred garden of old English literature,
that one was Charles Lamb. Not only did he possess
the right which faithful husbandry yields, but his disposition
and taste rendered him a companion meet for the
noble spirits that have immortalized the age of Elizabeth.
In truth, he may be said to have been on more familiar
terms with Shakspeare, than with the most intimate of
his contemporaries; and it may be questioned whether the
Religio Medici, that truly individual creed, had a more
devout admirer in its originator, than was Elia. He assures
us that he was “shy of facing the prospective,” and
no antiquarian cherished a deeper reverence for old china,
or black letter. Most honestly, therefore, came our
author by that charming relish of olden time, which sometimes
induces in our minds, as we read his lucubrations,
a lurking doubt whether, by some mischance, we have not
fallen upon an old author in a modern dress.

There is another feature in the style of these essays, to

which we are disposed to assign no inconsiderable influence.
We allude to a certain confessional tone, that is
peculiarly attractive. There is something exceedingly
gratifying to the generality of readers in personalities.
On the same principle that we are well pleased to become
the confident of a friend, and open our breasts to receive
the secret of his inmost experience, we readily become
interested in a writer who tells us, in a candid, naïve manner,
the story not merely of his life, in the common acceptation
of the term, but of his private opinions, humors,
eccentric tastes, and personal antipathies. A tone of this
kind, is remarkably characteristic of Lamb. And yet
there is in it nothing egotistical; for we may say of him
as has been said of his illustrious schoolfellow, whom he
so significantly, and, as it were, prophetically, called “the
inspired charity boy;”—that “in him the individual is
always merged in the abstract and general.” Writers
have not been slow to avail themselves of the advantage
of thus occasionally and incidentally presenting glimpses
of their private notions and sentiments; indeed, this
has been called the age of confessions; but with Elia,
they are so delicately yet so familiarly imparted, that they
become a secret charm inwrought through the whole tissue
of what he denominates his “weaved up follies.”
There are passages scattered through these volumes, which
exemplify the very perfection of our language. There
are successive periods, so adroitly adapted to the sentiment
they embody, so easy and expressive, and, at the
same time, so unembellished, that they suggest a new idea
of the capabilities of our vernacular. There are words,
too, at which we should pause, if they were indited by
another, to institute a grave inquiry into their legitimacy,
or, perchance, prefer against their author the charge of
senseless affectation. But with what we know of Elia, in
catching ourselves at such a process, we could not but
waive the ceremony, and say, as he said on some equally
heartless occasion—“it argues an insensibility.”

Another striking trait of the Essays of Elia, is the familiarity
of their style. In this respect they frequently combine
the freedom of oral with the more deliberative spirit
of epistolary expression. We have already alluded to one
effect of this method of address; it annihilates the distance
between the reader and the author, and so to speak,
brings them face to face. Facility in this kind of writing,
is one of the principal elements in what is called magazine
talent. It consists in maintaining a conversational tone
while discussing a topic of great interest in a humorous
way, or making a light one the nucleus for spirited, amusing,
or instructive ideas. The dearth of this popular tact
in this country and its fertility in England, are well known.
We think the discrepance can be accounted for by reference
to the essential difference in the social habits of the
two countries. The literary clubs are the nurseries of
this attractive talent in Great Britain. The custom of
convening for intellectual recreation, favors the growth of
a ready expression of thought, and of a direct and inviting
flow of language. Writers are habituated to an attractive
style by being trained in a school of conversation. Intimate
connection with the best minds, not only informs
and kindles, but induces vivacity of delivery both in speech

and writing. We can conceive, for instance, of no inspiration
even to the colloquial powers of an intelligent man,
like direct communion with such an individual as Mackintosh;
and we can find no cause for wonder, that one
blessed with the companionship of the literati of London
and Edinburgh, should acquire the power of talking on
paper in a delightful and finished manner. Such society
affords, if we may be allowed the expression, a kind of
intellectual gymnasium, where the art of interesting with
the pen may be, and naturally is, acquired by such as are
endowed with native wit, and reflective or graphic ability.
With us the case is so widely different, the opportunities
for general and exciting association so rare, that it is no
matter of surprise that magazine talent, as it is termed,
should be of slow growth. How far Charles Lamb was
indebted to his social privileges for his style, we are not
prepared to say. Yet there are numerous indications of
the happy influence of which we speak, interspersed
through his commentaries on men and things. We refer,
of course, altogether to the style; for as to the ideas, they are
entirely his own, bearing the genuine stamp of originality.
It seems essential to an efficient light literature, that those
interested in its culture should be brought into frequent
contact with each other, and with general society. A poet
who would evolve representations of humanity in abstract
forms, who would present models beyond and above his
age, may indeed find, in the shades of retirement, greater
scope and a less disturbed scene where in to rear his imaginary
fabric; and the philosopher whose aim is the application
of truth to history, or the delineation of some
important principle in science or art, doubtless requires
comparative solitude. The position of both is contemplative.
The fancy of the one would plume itself for flight,
and the eyry of the noblest birds is always among uninvaded
haunts; the reflection of the other would grapple
with the abstract, and the deepest elemental strife of nature
is ever amid her lofty cloud-retreats, or solitary depths.
But the writer who would beguile, amuse or teach his contemporaries
by some winning literary device, who would
accomplish all these objects at once, and “do it quickly,”
must mix with his fellow-creatures, and make a study of
the passers-by. He must hold familiar intercourse with
the ruling school; not to adopt their principles, but to
become disciplined by their conversation; and he should
note the multitude warily, in order to discover both the
way and the means of affecting them. The legitimate
essayist has need of a rich vocabulary, and a flexible
manner; a quick perception, and a candid address. And
these equipments, if not attainable, are at least improvable,
by social aids. Conversation, were it not utterly misunderstood
and perverted might prove a mighty agent in the
culture of the noblest of human powers, and the sweetest
of human graces. There was a beautiful fidelity to nature
in the habits of the philosophers of the Garden. There
are few pictures so delightful in ancient history, as the
noble figure of a Grecian sage moving through a rural resort,
or beneath a spacious portico, imparting to his youthful
companion lessons of wisdom, or curbing his own
advanced mind to pioneer that of his less mature auditor
through the early mazes of mental experience. The teeming
presence of nature and art in all their variety and
eloquence, the appeal to sympathy lurking in the very
tones of wisdom, the mere inspiration of human presence,
combine to create an impression infinitely more vivid than
lonely gleanings among written lore could awaken. We
are slow to comprehend the capabilities of conversation,
or we should cultivate it sedulously, and with a deeper
faith. The single effect which we have noticed in relation
to English literature, is of itself no inconsiderable argument.
If to social culture we may in a great degree
ascribe the exuberance of talent for periodical literature on
the other side of the water, there is surely no small inducement
to elevate and quicken the conversational spirit of
our country; for whatever rank be assigned to this form of
writing, its history sufficiently attests the great influence
it is capable of exerting, and the important purposes it
may subserve. Elia, we think, gives very satisfactory
indications of his origin. Without the local allusions and
constant references to native authors, there is something
about him which smacks of London. Individual as Lamb
is, he is not devoid of national characteristics; and a reader,
well aware of the composite influences operative upon
men of letters who hail from the British metropolis, will
readily discover, though not informed of the fact, that
Elia was blessed with a score of honorable friends, who
have contributed to the literary fame of Great Britain.

Lamb is not singular in his attachment to minutiæ; it
is characteristic of the literature of the day. In former
times, writers dealt in the general; now they are devoted
to the particular. In almost every book of travels

and work of fiction, we are entertained, or rather the attempt
is made to entertain us, with exceedingly detailed
descriptions of the features of a landscape, the grouping
in a picture, or the several parts of a fashionable dress.
By such wearisome nomenclature, it is expected that an
adequate conception will be imparted, when in many
cases, a single phrase, revealing the impression made by
these objects, would convey more than a hundred such inventories.
Lamb, by virtue of his nice perception, renders
details more effective than we should imagine was
practicable. In a single line, we have the peculiarities of
a person presented; and by a brief mention of the gait,
demeanor, or perhaps a single habit, the ceremony of introduction
is over; we not only stand and look in the direction
we are desired, but we see the object, be it an old
bencher, or a grinning chimney sweep; an ancient courtyard,
or a quaker meeting; a roast pig, or an old actor;
Captain Jackson, or a poor wretch in the pillory, consoling
himself by fanciful soliloquies. We have compared
essays, in their general uses, to a set of cabinet pictures.
Elia's are peculiarly susceptible of the illustration. They
are the more valuable, inasmuch as the mellow hue of old
paintings broods over them; here and there a touch of
beautiful sadness, that reminds us of Raphael; now a line
of penciling, overflowing with nature, which brings some
favorite Flemish scene to mind; and again, a certain
dreamy softness and delicate finish that whisper of Claude
Lorraine.

There are two points in which Charles Lamb was eminent,
where tolerable success is rare; these are pathos and

humor. He understood how to deal with the sense of the
humorous and pathetic. He seems to have been intuitively
learned in the secret and delicate nature of these
attributes of the mind; or rather, it would appear that his
own nature, in these respects, furnished a happy criterion
by which to address the same feelings in others. We cannot
analyse, however casually, the humor and pathos of
Elia, without perceiving that they are based on a discerning,
and, if the expression may be allowed, a sentimental
fellow-feeling for his kind. So ready and true was this
feeling, that we find him entering, with the greatest facility,
into the experience of human beings whom the
mass of society scarcely recognize as such. He talks about
a little chimney sweep, and aged mendicant, or an old actor,
as if he had, in his own person, given proof of the
doctrine to which his ancient friend, Sir Thomas Browne
inclined, and actually, by a kind of metempsychois, experienced
these several conditions of life. His pathos
and humor are, for the most part, descriptive; he appeals
to us, in an artist-like and dramatic way, by pictures; we
are not wearied with any preparatory and worked up process;
we are not led to anticipate the effect. But our
associations are skilfully awakened; an impression is
unostentatiously conveyed, and a smile or tear first leads
us to inquire into the nature of the spell. It is as though
in riding along a sequestered road, we should suddenly
pass a beautiful avenue, and catch a glimpse of a garden, a
statue, an old castle, or some object far down its green
vista, so interesting that a reminiscence, an anticipation,
or, perchance, a speculative reverie, is thereby at once
awakened. Endeavors to touch the feelings or excite
quiet mirth fail, generally, because the design is too obvious,
or a strain of exaggeration is indulged in, fatal to
the end in view. Frequently, too, the call upon our mirthful
or compassionate propensities is too direct and strong.
These feelings are not seldom appealed to, as if they were
passions, and to be excited by passionate means. Indignation,
enthusiasm, and all powerful impulses, are doubtless
to be roused by fervent appeals; but readers are best
allured into a laugh, and it is by gentle encroachments upon
its empire, that the heart is best moved to sympathy. In
drawing his pictures, Lamb indulged not in caricature.
It is his truth, not less than his quaintness and minute
touches, that entertains and affects us. He avoids, too,
the vulgar modes of illustration. Not by description of
physiognomy or costume, does he excite our risible tendencies,
nor thinks he to win our pity by over-drawn statements
of the insignia and privations of poverty. Elia is
is no poor metaphysician. He comprehends the delicacy
of touch required in the limner who would impressively
delineate, even in a quaint style, any element or form of humanity.
By what would almost seem a casual suggestion,
we often have a conception imparted worth scores of wire-drawn
exemplifications. Well aware was our essayist
that a single leaf whirled by the breeze of accident upon
the soul's clear fountain, would awaken successive undulations
of thought. He was versed in the philosophy of association.
He possessed the susceptibility of an affectionate
nature, and that fine sense of the appropriate which is one
of the most valuable of our insights; and accordingly, he
caused his inimitable shades of humor and pathos “to
faintly mingle, yet distinctly rise.” He wishes us to
realise the sufferings of poor children, and, by briefly indicating
the mere tenor of their street-talk, causes our
hearts to melt at the piteous accents of care, from lips so
young. He would vindicate that excellent precept in the
counsel of old Polonius,—“Neither a borrower nor a lender
be;” and draws such a full-length portrait of the former
character, that when one of the species has once inspected
it, he can never again lay the flattering unction of self-ignorance
to his heart. He reprimands book-stealers by
describing his own impoverished shelves, and points out
the blessings of existence, by quaintly discussing the
privations attendant upon its loss. The anniversaries of
time pass not by without their several merits being canvassed
by his pen; and although he tells us little that is
absolutely new, he holds the light of his pleasant humor up
to the faces of these annual visitants, and thenceforth
their features possess greater reality and are more easily
recognised. Not a little of Lamb's humor is shadowed
forth in the subject of his essays. Had we fallen upon
such titles in the index of any other anonymous author,
we should have set him down as one who, in straining after
the novel, evidenced a morbid taste; but there is nothing
more characteristic of Elia, than the topics he selects.
They are as legitimate as an undoubted signature. Should
this be questioned, let the treatment bestowed upon these
uninvestigated themes, be examined. They will prove
as well adapted to their author's genius as the life of the
Scottish peasant was to Burn's muse, or the praise of Laura
to Petrarch. Who should have written the history of
England, among the many who have tried their skill in
that illustrious task, may be a matter of doubt; and to what
American Scott are we to look for a series of romances
illustrative of our history, is yet a subject of speculation;
but no man, of ordinary perception, we presume, can for
a moment question that “The Melancholy of Tailors,”—
“the Character of an Undertaker,”—“the Praise of
Chimney-sweepers,”—the “Inconvenience of being
Hanged,” and sundry kindred subjects, were reserved for
the pen of Elia.

That writer is wise who avails himself of a somwhat
familiar idea, in presenting his mental creations to the
public. There is need of as much consideration in bestowing
a name upon an essay or a poem, which we wish
should be read, as in naming a child whom we would dedicate
to fame. The same reasons for circumspection
obtain in both cases. The more original the appellation,
provided it is not utterly foreign to all general associations,
the better. But it is essential that there should be something
which will create an interest at a glance. Our
essayist has been happy in his choice of subjects; his
wit failed him not here. Though no one has previously
written the “Praise of Chimney-sweepers,” yet every one
sees the dusky urchins daily, and would fain know what
can be said in their behalf. Most people have noticed
the “Melancholy of Tailors,” and are glad to find that some
one has undertaken philosophically to explain it. The
headings of all Elia's papers are exactly such as would
beguile us into reading when we desire to enter the region

of quiet thought, and forget our cares in some literary
pastime. There is one element of genius, the influence
of which we have never seen acknowledged, that ever
impresses our minds in reflecting on the themes to which
gifted men apply themselves. We allude to a certain
daring which induces them to grapple with topics, and
give expression to thoughts, which many have mused upon
without thinking of giving them utterance. There is
much of Byron's poetry which seems almost like a literal
transcript of our past or occasional emotions; the more
powerful and acknowledged a genius, the more fervently
do we declare the coincidence of our feelings with his
delineations. Many odd speculations have occurred to us
in reference to the strange subjects to which Lamb is
partial; we respond to most of his portraitures, and sympathise
in the feelings he avows. His humor and pathos,
therefore, are true, singulary, beautifully true, to human
nature; in this consists their superiority. Many have
aimed at the same results in a similar way; but the genius
of Lamb, in this department, has achieved no ordinary
triumph.

The drama was a rich source of pleasure and reflection
to Lamb. During a life passed almost wholly in the metropolis,
the theatre afforded him constant recreation, and
the species of exitement his peculiar genius required. It
was to him an important element in the imaginative being
he cherished. By means of it, he continually renewed
and brightened the rich vein of sentiment inherent in his
nature. To him it addressed language rife with the meaning
which characterised its ancient voice,—full of suggestive

and impressive eloquence. Deeply versed in the
whole range of dramatic literature, master of the philosophy
of Shakspeare, and overflowing with a highly cultivated
taste for the dramatic art, the drama was ranked by
Elia among the redeeming things of life. He did not
coldly recognise, but deeply felt, its importance to modern
society. Surrounded by the bustle, the worldliness and
the material agencies of a populous capital, he daily saw
man struggling on beneath the indurating pressure of
necessity, or presenting only artificial aspects,—and to
the strong and true representation of human nature, on
the stage and in the works of the dramatist, he looked as
a noble means of renovation. It gratified his humane
spirit, that the poor mechanic should lose, for an hour, the
memory of his toilsome lot, in sympathy with some vivid
personation of that love which once sent a glow to his
now hallow temples; that the creature of fashion and
pride should, occasionally, be led back to the primal fountains
of existence by the hand of Thespis; that an unwonted
tear should sometimes be drawn, like a pearl from
the deep, to the eye of some fair worlding, at the mighty
appeal of nature, in the voice of an affecting portrayer of
her truth. Elia had faith in the legitimate drama, as the
native offspring of the human mind, significant of its
successive eras, and as fitted to supply one of its truest
and deepest wants; and well he might have had, for its
history was as familiar to him as a household tale; he
had explored its chronicles with the assiduity of an enthusiast,
and the acumen of a virtuoso; he had garnered up
its gems as the true jewels of his country's literature; he
honored its worthy votaries as ministrants at the altar of
humanity; and, above all, in his own experience, he had
learned what human taste, judgment and feeling, may
derive from the wise appropriation of dramatic influence.
He knew, as well as his readers, how much he was indebted
to an intelligent devotion to them, for the vividness
of his pencilings, the fertility of his associations, and the
beauty of his imagery. Not in vain did he seek, in Hamlet's
musings, “grounds more relative” than popular reading
could afford, or turn from the inconsistencies of modern
gallantry, which he so admirably delineated, to bestow
his fond attentions upon the “bright angel” of Verona,
and “the gentle lady wedded to the Moor.”

Lamb's interest in the drama was too well founded to
be periodical, as is generally the case. He shared, indeed,
the common destiny, in beholding his youthful
visions of theatrical glory fade; the time came to him, as
it comes to all, when the mysterious curtain was reduced
to its actual quality, and became bona fide green baize,
and when the polished pilasters lost their likeness to
“glorified sugar candy;” but the histrionic art retained
its interest, and the literature of the drama yielded a
continual pastime. From the rainy afternoon which the
“child Elia” spent in such hope and fear, lest the wayward
elements should deprive him of his “first play”—to
the night when the sleep of the man Elia was disturbed
with visions of old Muden—he sought and found, in the
drama, food for his reflective humor and pleasurable occupancy
in his weary moods—if such e'er came to him—

which may be doubted, since he has not so informed
us. Notwithstanding his partiality for theatrical representations,
few play-goers entertained a more just idea
of their frequent and necessary inadequateness. He
recognised the limits of the dramatic art. He realised,
beyond the generality of Shakspeare's admirers, the impossibility
of presenting, by the most successful performance,
our deepest conception of his characters. He
knew that the wand of that enchanter dealt with things
too deep, not only for speech, but for expression. He
was impatient at the common interpretation of Shakspeare's
mind. In the stillness of his retired study, the
creations of the bard appeared to him, as in an exalted
dream. In the attentive perusal of his plays,—the delicate
touches, the finer shades, the under current of philosophy,
were revealed to the mind of Lamb with an
impressiveness, of which personification is unsusceptible;
and few of his essays are more worthy of his
genius than that which embodies his views on this subject.
It should be attentively read by all who habitually honor
the minstrel of Avon, without being perfectly aware why
the honor is due. It will lead such to new investigations
into the mysteries of that wonderful tragic lore, upon
which the most gifted men have been proud to offer
one useful comment, or advance a single illustrative hint.
To the acted and written drama, Lamb assigned an
appropriate office; he believed each had its purpose
and that he who would derive the greatest benefit
from either, should study them relatively and in conjunction.
Such was his own method, and to the steadiness
and success with which he pursued it, his writings bear
the most interesting testimony. The goût with which he
dwells upon his dramatic reminiscences, the delight he
takes in living over scenes of this kind,—in recalling,
after an interval of years, the enjoyment of a single evening
of Liston's or Bensley's acting, indicate the intelligence
and warmth of his love of theatrical performances;
while his successful efforts in reviving the nearly forgotten
dramatic literature of the English stage, and his admirable
essays, directly or indirectly devoted to the general
subject, evince his application and attachment to it.
His talents as a dramatic critic are everywhere visible.
There is one feature of our author's devotion to the drama,
which is too characteristic of the man, and too intrinsically
pleasing, to be unnoticed. He never forgot those who
had contributed to his pleasure in this manner. They
were not to him the indifferent, unestimated beings they
are to the majority of those who are amused and instructed
by their labors. Charles Lamb respected the genius
of a splendid tragedian on the same grounds that that of a
fine sculptor won his admiration. He believed one as
heaven-bestowed as the other. He recognized his intellectual
or moral obligations to an affecting actor as readily
as to a favorite author. He sincerely respected the
ideality of the profession, sympathised in the life of toil
and comparative isolation it imposes, and felt for the deserving
and ambitious who had, by assiduous culture and
native energy, risen to its summit only to look forward
from that long sought elevation, to a brief continuance of
success, followed by an unhonored decline, an age of
neglect, and the world's oblivion.

One of Lamb's most winning traits is his sincerity.
The attractiveness of this beautiful virtue, even in literature,
is worthy of observation. It seems to be an ordination
of the intellectual world, and a blessed one it is to
those who cherish faith in a spiritual philosophy—that
truth of expression shall alone prove powerfully and permanently
effective. It is happy that we are so constituted
as to be moved chiefly, if not solely, by voices attuned
and awakened by genuine emotion; it is well when foreign
aids and the most insinuating of conventional appliances
fail to deceive us into admiration of an artificial
literary aspirant; it is a glorious distinction of our common
nature, that soul-prompted language is the only universally
acknowledged eloquence. The mission of individual
genius is to exhibit itself. The advocacy of
popular opinions, the illustration of prevailing theories—
the literary party-work of the day, may be undertaken by
such as are unconscious of any more special and personal
calling. But let there be a self-preaching priesthood
in the field of letters and of art, to teach the great lesson
of human individuality. Let some gifted votaries of literature
and philosophy breathe original symphonies, instead
of merging their rich tones in the general chorus. Unfortunate
is the era when such men are not; and thrice
illustrious that in which they abound. The history of the
world proves this; and in proportion as an author is sincere,
in whatever age, he deserves our respect. We spontaneously
honor minds of this order, in whatever form

they are encountered. The complacent smile with which
douce Davie Deans, in Scott's most beautiful tale, hears
himself denominated a Deanite, recommends him to our
esteem. And when a poet or an essayist is as habitually
and earnestly candid as is Elia, we feel and acknowledge
his worth, whatever may be the calibre of his genius.

Many and singular are the advantages attendant upon
this characteristic. The most obvious is that it brings
out the true power—the propium ingenium—of the individual.
Look at the history of Milton and Dante. They
surveyed their immediate social circumstances for a reflection
of themselves in vain; and then in calm confidence
they turned to the mirror fountain within themselves,
and thence evolved thoughts—unappreciated, indeed,
by their contemporaries, yet in the view of posterity
none the less oracular. And such intellectual laborers—
however confined and comparatively unimportant the
sphere of effort—being absolved from any undue allegiance
to merely temporary influences, give to their productions
a free and personal stamp. Truth is to literature,
what, in the view of the alchymists, the philosopher's
stone was to the base metals; it converts all it touches into
gold. And, although our author had to do mainly with
topics which a superficial reasoner would term trifling,
yet his lovely sincerity gives them a character, and sheds
upon them a warm and soothing light more pleasing than
weightier themes, less ingenously treated, can often boast.
Being sincere, of course Elia wrote only from the inspiration
of his overflowing spirit; he seems to have penned
every line, to have thrown off every essay, con amore.

He did not require the expedient of the Greek painter,
who covered the face of one of his great figures with a
mantle, not daring to attempt a portraiture of the intense
grief which he represented him as suffering. Lamb endeavored
not to express what he did not feel; he wrote
not from necessity or policy, but from enthusiasm, from
his own gentle, sweet, yet deep enthusiasm. He had a
feeling for the art of writing, and therefore he would not
make it the hackneyed conventional agent it often is;
but ever regarded it as a crystalline mould wherein he could
faithfully present the form, hues, and very spirit of his
sentiments and speculations.

A striking and delightful consequence of this literary
sincerity is, that it preserves and developes the proper
humanity of the author. Literati of this class are utterly
devoid of pedantry. In society, and the common business
of life, they are as other men, except that a finer sensibility,
and more elevated general taste, distinguishes
them. In becoming writers, they cease not to be men.
Literature is then, indeed, what the English poet would
have it,—“an honorable augmentation” to our arms; it
is not exclusively pursued as if it were life's only good,
and a human being's sole aim; but it is applied to as a
beautiful accomplishment—a poetical recreation amid less
humanizing influences. Thus, instead of serving merely
as an arena for the display of selfish ambition, or a cell
wherein unsocial and barren devotion may find scope, it
is valued chiefly as the means of embodying the unforced
impressions of our own natures, for the happiness and
improvement of our fellow creatures. We say that such

a view must be taken by sincere authors of their vocation,
because they cannot but feel that by the very constitution of
their natures, literature is only a part of the great whole
of the soul's being—a single form of its development, and
one among the thousand offices to which the versatile
mind is called.

It is needless to prove, in detail, Lamb's sincerity. It
is, perhaps, his most prominent characteristic; but in tracing
out and dwelling upon its influence, we are newly
impressed with the truth of Shaftesbury's declaration, that
“wisdom is more from the heart than from the head.”
We have ever remarked that the most delightful and truly
sincere writers are the most suceptible, affectionate, and
unaffected men. We have felt, that however intellectually
endowed, the feelings of such individuals are the true
sources of their power. Sympathy we consider one of the
primal principles of efficient genius. It is this truth of
feeling which enabled Shakspeare to depict so strongly
the various stages of passion, and the depth, growth, and
gradations of sentiment. In whom does this primitive
readiness to sympathize—to enter into all the moods of the
soul—continue beyond early life, so often as in men devoted
to imaginative objects? How frequently are we
struck with the child-like character of artists and poets!
It sometimes seems as if, along with childhood's ready
sympathy, many of the other characteristics of that epoch
were projected into the more mature stages of being.
“There is often,” says Madame de Staël, “in true genius
a sort of awkwardness, similar, in some respects, to the
credulity of sincere and noble souls.”

This readiness to catch impressions, this delicacy and
warmth of sympathy which belongs to the sincere school
of writers, is inestimable. It is said that a musical amateur
traversed the whole of Ireland, and gathered from the
peasants the delightful airs to which Moore's beautiful
Irish melodies were afterwards adapted. How much of
the charm of those sweet songs is owing to their associations
with the native and simple music thus gleaned
from voices to which it had traditionally descended!
And it is by their sympathy—their sincere and universal
interest in humanity, that the sweetest poets, the most renowned
dramatists, and such humble gleaners in the field
of letters, as our quaint essayist, are enabled to write in a
manner corresponding with the heaven-attuned, unwritten
music of the human heart. Sincerity gives them the
means of interpreting for their fellow beings—not only
the lofty subjects which filled the soul of the “blind bard
of Paradise,” and the broad range of life upon which the
observant mind of the poet of human nature was intent,
but those lesser and more unique themes which Elia loved
to speculate about, and humorously illustrate.

There is a unity of design in the essays of Elia. Disconnected
and fugitive as we should deem them at first
sight, an attentive persual reveals, if not a complete theory,
yet a definite and pervading spirit which is not devoid of
philosophy. After being amused by Lamb's humor, interested
by his quaintness, and fascinated by his style, there
yet remains a more deep impression upon our minds.
We feel that he had a specific object as an essayist; or, at
least, that the ideas he suggests tend to a particular result.

What, then, was his aim? As an author, what mission
does he fulfil? We think Charles Lamb is to life what
Wordsworth is to nature. The latter points out the
field flowers, and the meadow rill, the soul's most primal and
simple movements, the mind's most single and unsophisticated
tendencies; the former indicates the lesser, and
scarcely noticed sources of pleasure and annoyance, mirth
and reflection, which occur in the beaten track of ordinary
life. It was remarked, by an able critic, of the author
of the Lyrical Ballads, that, “he may be said to take a
personal interest in the universe;” with equal truth Elia
may be regarded as taking a personal interest in life. He
delighted in designating its every-day, universal, and for
that very reason—disregarded experiences. Leaving the
delineation of martyrdoms, and the deeper joys of the
heart, to more ambitious writers, he preferred to dwell upon
the misery of children when left awake in their solitary
beds in the dark; to shadow forth the peace destroying
phantom of a “poor relation;” to draw up eloquent
bacheloric complaints of the behavior of “married people;”
to describe in touching terms, the agony of one condemned
to hear music “without an ear;” and to lament pathetically
the unsocial aspect of a metropolitan Sabbath, and
the disturbing, heartless conduct of those who remove
old landmarks. He did not sorrow only over minor miseries,
but gloried in minor pleasures. To him, “Elysian
exemptions” from ordinary toil—a sweet morning's nap—
a “sympathetic solitude”—an incidental act or emotion of
benevolence, and, especially, those dear “treasures cased
in leathern covers,” for which he was so thankful that he
assures us that he could say grace before reading them;—
these, and such as these, were to Charles Lamb absolute
and recognized blessings. He seems to have broken away
from the bondage of custom and to have seen all things
new. One would think, to note the freshness of his perceptions
in regard to the most familiar objects of London,
that in manhood he was for the first time initiated into city
life—that he was a new comer in the world at an advanced
age. Hogarth found no more delight in his street-pencilings,
than Lamb in his by-way speculations. In the
voyage of life he seemed to be an ordained cicerone, directing
attention to that lesser world of experience to
which the mass of men are insensible,—drawing their attention
from far-off visions of good, and oppressive reminiscences
of grief, to the low green herbage, springing up
in their way, and the soft gentle voices breathing at their
firesides, and around their daily steps. And there is truth
in Elia's philosophy, for,—

We never rise from one of his essays without a feeling
of contentment. He leads our thoughts to the actual, available
springs of enjoyment. He reconciles us to ourselves;
causing home-pleasures, and the charms of the wayside,
and the mere comforts of existence, to emerge from the
shadow into which our indifference has cast them, into
the light of fond recognition. The flat dull surface of common
life, he causes to rise into beautiful basso-relievo. In

truth, there are few better teachers of gratitude than Lamb.
He rejuvenates our worn and weary feelings, revives the
dim flame of our enthusiasm, opens our eyes to real
and present good, and with his humorous accents, and unpretending
manner, reads us a homily on the folly of desponding,
and the wisdom of appreciating the cluster of
minor joys which surround, and may be made continually
to cheer our being.

We have endeavored to designate the most prominent
of Charles Lamb's traits as an essayist. There is, however,
one point to which all that we know of the man converges.
His literary and personal example tends to one
striking lesson, which should not be thoughtlessly received.
We allude to his singular and constant devotion to
the ideal. Indeed he is one of those beings who make us
deeply and newly feel how much there is within a human
spirit,—how independent it may become of extrinsic aids,—
how richly it may live to itself. Here is an individual
whose existence was, for the most part, spent within the
smoky precincts of London; first a school-boy at a popular
institution, then a laborious clerks, and at length a
“lean annuitant.” Public life, with its various mental incitements,—foreign
travel, with its thousand fertilizing
associations,—fortune, with the unnumbered objects of
taste she affords,—ministered not to him. Yet with what
admirable constancy did he follow out that sense of the
beautiful, and the perfect, which he regarded as most essentially
himself! How ardently did he cherish an
ideal life! When outward influences and social restrictions
encroached upon this, his great end,—the drama,

his favorite authors, a work of art, or a musing hour, were
proved restoratives. He did not gratify his fondness for
antiquity among the ruins of the ancient world; but the
Temple cloisters, or an old folio, were more eloquent to
him of the past, than the Coloseum is to the mass of travellers.
He knew not the happiness of conjugal affection;
but his attachment to a departed object was to him a
spring of as deep joy, as the unimaginative often find in
an actual passion. No little prattlers came about him at
even-tide; but dream-children, as lovely as cherubs, solaced
his lonely hours. The taste, the love, the very
being of Charles Lamb, was ideal. The struggles for
power and gain went on around him; but the tumult disturbed
not his repose. The votaries of pleasure swept by
him with all the insignia of gaiety and fashion; but the
dazzle and laugh of the careless throng lured him not
aside. He felt it was a blessed privilege to stand beneath
the broad heavens, to saunter through the fields, to
muse upon the ancient and forgotten, to look into the
faces of men, to rove on the wings of fancy, to give scope
to the benevolent affections, and especially to evolve from
his own breast a light “touching all things with hues of
heaven;” in a word to be Elia. And is there not a delight
in contemplating such a life beyond that which the
annals of noisier and more heartless men inspire? In an
age of restless activity, associated effort, and a devotion to
temporary ends, is there not an unspeakable charm in the
character of a consistent idealist? When we can recall so
many instances of the perversion of the poetical temperament
in gifted natures, through passion and error, is
there not consolation in the serene and continuous gratification
with which it blessed Lamb? He has now left
forever, the haunts accustomed to his presence. No
more will Elia indite quaint reminiscences and humorous
descriptions for our pleasure; no more will his criticism
enlighten, his pathos affect, or his aphorisms delight us.
But his sweet and generous sympathies, his refined taste
for the excellent in letters, his grateful perception of the
true good of being, his ideal spirit, dwells latently in
every bosom. And all may brighten andr adiate it, till
life's cold pathway is warm with the sunshine of the soul.