mythical tales of friendship; but we do not recollect any instance in which a great object has been so unremittingly carried out throughout a whole life, in defiance of a thousand difficulties, and of numberless temptations, straining the good resolution to its utmost, except in the case of our poor clerk of the India House. This was, substantially, his life. His actions, thoughts, and sufferings were all concentred on this one important end. It was what he had to do; it was in his reach; and he did it, therefore, manfully, religiously. He did not waste his mind on too many things; for whatever too much expands the mind weakens it; nor on vague or multitudinous thoughts and speculations, nor on dreams or things distant or unattainable. However interesting, they did not absorb him, body and soul, like the safety and welfare of his sister. Subject to this primary unflinching purpose, the tendency of Lamb's mind pointed strongly towards literature. He did not seek literature, however; and he gained from it nothing except fame. He worked laboriously at the India House from boyhood to manhood, for many years without repining; although he must have been conscious of an intellect qualified to shine in other ways than in entering up a trader's books. None of those coveted offices which bring money and comfort in their train, ever reached Charles Lamb. He was never under that bounteous shower which government leaders and persons of influence direct towards the heads of their adherents. No Dives ever selected him for his golden bounty. No potent critic ever shouldered him up the hill of fame. In the absence of these old-fashioned helps, he was content that his own unassisted efforts should gain for him a certificate of capability to the world; and that the choice reputation which he thus earned should with his own qualities, bring round him the unenvying love of a host of friends. Apart from his humour and other excellences, Charles Lamb combined qualities such as are seldom united in one person; which indeed seem not easily reconcilable with each other: namely, much prudence, with much generosity; great tenderness of heart, with a firm will. To these was superadded that racy humour which has served to distinguish him from other men. There is no other writer that I know of, in whom tenderness and good sense and humour are so intimately and happily blended; no one whose view of men and things is so invariably generous, and true, and independent. These qualities made their way slowly and fairly. They were not taken up as a matter of favour or fancy, and then abandoned. They struggled through many years of neglect, and some of contumely. before they took their stand triumphantly, and as things not to be ignored by any one. Lamb pitied all objects which had been neglected or despised. Nevertheless the lens through which he viewed the objects of his pity— beggars, and chimney-sweepers, and convicts-was always clear: it served him even when the shortcomings were to be contemplated. For he never paltered with truth. He had no weak sensibilities, few tears for imaginary griefs. But his heart opened wide to real distress. He never applauded the fault; but he pitied the offender. By education and habit,

he was a Unitarian. Indeed, he was a true Nonconformist in all things. He was not a dissenter by imitation, nor from any deep principle of obstinate heresy; nor was he made servile and obedient by formal logic alone. His reasoning always rose and streamed through the heart. He liked a friend for none of the ordinary reasons, because he was famous, or clever, or powerful, or popular. He at once took issue with the previous verdicts, and examined the matter in his own way. If a man was unfortunate, he gave him money; if he was calumniated, he accorded him sympathy. He gave freely; not to merit but to want. Perhaps no one ever

thought more independently. He had great enjoyment in the talk of able men, so that it did not savour of form or pretension. He liked the strenuous talk of Hazlitt, who never descended to fine words. He liked the unaffected, quiet conversation of Manning; the vivacious, excursive talk of Leigh Hunt. He heard with wondering admiration the monologues of Coleridge. Perhaps he liked the simplest talk the best; expressions of pity or sympathy or affection for others; from young people, who thought and said little or nothing about themselves. He had no craving for popularity, nor even for fame. I do not recollect any passage in his writings, nor any expression in his talk, which runs counter to my opinion. His jests were never the mere overflowings of the animal spirits, but were exercises of the mind. He brought the wisdom of old times and old writers to bear upon the taste and intellect of his day. What was in a manner foreign to his age, he naturalised and cherished. And he did this with judgment and great delicacy. His books never unhinge or weaken the mind; but bring before it tender and beautiful thoughts, which charm and nourish it, as only good books can. No one was ever worse from reading Charles Lamb's writings; but many have become wiser and better. In his countenance you might sometimes read-what may be occasionally read on almost all foreheads the letters and lines of old, forgotten calamity. Yet there was at the bottom of his nature a buoyant self-sustaining strength: for although he encountered frequent seasons of mental distress, his heart recovered itself in the interval, and rose and sounded, like music played to a happy tune. Upon fit occasion, his lips could shut in a firm fashion; but the gentle smile that played about his face showed that he was always ready to relent. His quick eye never had any sullenness; his mouth tender and tremulous, showed that there would be nothing cruel or inflexible in his nature.

There is one feature in Lamb's character worthy of being specially noted. With every temptation, placed as he was, to crowd into the present moment as much enjoyment as possible, even to the neglect of prudential considerations, he never allowed his humble fortunes to become embarrassed. Moderate as his earnings were, he not only lived within his modest income, but contrived to exercise an amount of hospitality, and to perform substantial acts of generosity, which might have shamed men of far ampler means. Without the slightest sacrifice of the prudential duties, or the incurring of any obligations having a tendency to lower his own self-respect, he realised the delights of social intercourse without stint or measure. Ever ready was he with his helping hand and modest mite to aid the struggling and the deserving-"giving away money, even annuities, to old impoverished friends whose wants were known to him." A circle of chosen companions-among whom were some of the wisest and wittiest, the most imaginative, and most profoundly thinking men of the

age

regularly partook of his unostentatious cheer, and gathered, at stated intervals, round his fireside to enjoy the delights of social converse, and utter freely their thoughts and opinions upon every conceivable topic. All this he did without compromising his pecuniary independence, of which he was fastidiously jealous, or causing himself or his sister to submit to after painful privations. His example is one of the finest on record of "plain living and high thinking" in the domestic life of a man of genius. Here is an account of the memorable evenings at his hospitable fireside :

:

THE EVENINGS AT LAMB'S HOUSE.

He seldom or never gave dinners. You were admitted at all times to his plain supper, which was sufficiently good when any visitor came; at other times, it was spare. You were sure of a welcome at his house; sure of easy, unfettered talk. After supper, you might smoke a pipe with your host, or gossip (upon any subject) with him or his sensible sister. Lamb and his sister had an open party once a week, every Wednesday evening, when his friends generally went to visit him, without any special invitation. He invited you suddenly, not pressingly; but with such heartiness that you at once agreed to come. There was usually a game at whist on these evenings, in which the stakes were very moderate, indeed almost nominal. When my thoughts turn backward, as they sometimes do to these past days, I see my dear old friend again-"in my mind's eye, Horatio" with his outstretched hand and his grave sweet smile of welcome. It was always in a room of moderate size, comfortably but plainly furnished, that he lived. An old mahogany table was opened out in the middle of the room, round which, and near the walls, were old high-backed chairs (such as our grandfathers used), and a long plain bookcase completely filled with old books. These were his "ragged veterans." In one of his letters he says "My rooms are luxurious, one for prints and one for books; a summer and winter parlour." They, however, were not otherwise decorated. I do not remember ever to have seen a flower or an image in them. He had not been educated into expensive tastes. His extravagances were confined to books. These were all chosen by himself, all old, and all in "admired disorder;" yet he could lay his hand on any volume in a moment. "You never saw," he writes, "a bookcase in more true harmony with the contents than what I have nailed up in my room. Though new, it has more aptitude for growing old than you shall often see; as one sometimes gets a friend in the middle of life who becomes an old friend in a short time." Here Charles Lamb sate, when at home, always near the table. At the opposite side was his sister, engaged in some domestic work, knitting or sewing, or poring over a modern novel. Bridget in some things is behind her years." In fact, although she was ten years older than her brother, she had more sympathy with modern books and with youthful fancies than he had. She wore a neat cap, of the fashion of her youth; an old-fashioned dress. Her face was pale and somewhat square, but very placid, with grey intelligent eyes. She was very mild in her manner to strangers; and to her brother gentle and tender, always. She had often an upward look of peculiar meaning, when directed towards him; as though

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to give him assurance that all was then well with her. His affection for her was somewhat less on the surface, but always present. There was great gratitude intermingling with it. "In the days of weakling infancy," he writes, "I was her tender charge, as I have been her care in foolish manhood since." Then he adds, pathetically-"I wish I could throw into a heap the remainder of our joint existences, that we might share them in equal division. His clothes were entirely black; and he wore long black gaiters up to the knees. His head was bent a little forward, like one who had been reading; and, if not standing or walking, he generally had in his hand an old book, a pinch of snuff, or, later in the evening, a pipe. He stammered a little, pleasantly, just enough to prevent his making speeches; just enough to make you listen eagerly for his words; always full of meaning, or charged with a jest; or referring (but this was rare) to some line or passage from one of the old Elizabethan writers, which was always ushered in with a smile of tender reverence. No one has described Lamb's manner or merits so well as Hazlitt; "He always made the best pun and the best remark in the course of the evening. His serious conversation, like his serious writing, is his best. No one ever stammered out such fine piquant, deep, eloquent things, in half a dozen sentences as he does. His jests scald like tears; and he probes a question by a play upon words. There was no fuss or cant about him. He has furnished many a text for Coleridge to preach upon." (I. Plain Speaker.) Charles was frequently merry; but ever, at the back of his merriment, there reposed a grave depth, in which rich colours and tender lights were inlaid. For his jests sprang

from his sensibility; which was as open to pleasure as to pain. This sensibility, if it somewhat impaired his vigour, led him into curious and delicate fancies, and taught him a liking for things of the highest relish, which a mere robust jester never tastes. Large sounding words, unless embodying great thoughts (as in the case of Lear), he did not treasure up or repeat. He was an admirer of what was high and good, of what was delicate (especially); but he delighted most to saunter along the humbler regions, where kindness of heart and geniality of humour made the way pleasant. His intellect was very quick, piercing into the recondite meaning of things in a moment. His own sentences were compressed and full of meaning; his opinions independent and decisive; no qualifying or doubting. His descriptions were not highly coloured; but, as it were, sharply cut, like a piece of marble, rather than like a picture. He liked and encouraged friendly discussion; but he hated contentious argument, which leads to quarrel rather than to truth. There was an utter want of parade in everything he said and did, in everything about him and his home. The only ornaments on his walls were a few engravings in black frames; one after Leonardo da Vinci; one after Titian; and four, I think by Hogarth, about whom he has written so well. Images of quaint beauty, and all gentle, simple things (things without pretension) pleased him to the fullest extent; perhaps a little beyond their strict merit. None of

Lamb's intimates were persons of title or fashion, or of any political importance. They were reading men, or authors, or old friends who had no name or pretensions. The only tie that held these last and Lamb together was a long-standing mutual friendship; a sufficient link. None of them ever forsook him; they loved him, and in return he had a strong regard for them. His affections, indeed, were concentrated on few persons; not widened (weakened) by too general a philanthropy. When you went to Lamb's rooms on the Wednesday evenings (his "At Home"), you generally found the card table spread out, Lamb himself one of the players. On the corner of the table was a snuff-box; and the game was enlivened by sundry

brief ejaculations and pungent questions, which kept alive the wits of the party present. It was not "silent whist." His short, clear sentences always produced effect. He never joined in talk unless he understood the subject; then, if the matter in question interested him, he was not slow in showing his earnestness; but I never heard him argue or talk for argument's sake. If he was indifferent to the question, he was silent. The supper of cold meat, on these occasions, was always on the side-table; not very formal, as may be imagined; and every one might rise, when it suited him, and cut a slice or take a glass of porter, without reflecting on the abstinence of the rest of the company Lamb would, perhaps, call out and bid the hungry guest help himself without ceremony. We learn (from Hazlitt) that Martin Burney's eulogies on books were sometimes intermingled with expressions of his satisfaction with the veal pie which employed him at the sideboard. After the game was won (and lost) the ring of the cheerful glasses announced that punch or brandy and water had become the order of the night. The beauty of these evenings was that every one was placed upon an easy level. No one out-topped the others. No one-not even Coleridge—was permitted to out-talk the rest. No one was allowed to hector another, or to bring his own greivances too prominently forward; so as to disturb the harmony of the night. Every one had a right to speak, and to be heard; and no one was ever trodden or clamoured down (as in some large assemblies), until he had proved that he was not entitled to a hearing, or until he had abused his privilege. I never, in all my life, heard so much unpretending good sense talked as at Charles Lamb's social parties. Often, a piece of sparkling humour was shot out that illuminated the whole evening. Sometimes there was a flight of high and earnest talk that took one half way toward the stars.

Those of our readers who know that exquisite essay of his ("Old China") in which he describes Cousin Bridget (his sister) discoursing over their "Hyson" one evening, on the different relish they had in their enjoyments, after he had retired from those life-long labours of his at the India House, and felt himself almost a rich man on his retiring allowance-will remember the inimitable way in which he makes visible to us the struggles and patient economies, and snatchings of brief, inexpensive delights in the earlier period of his life when he was 66 not quite so rich." He makes her say that she is sure they were far happier in those days of comparative poverty; and in proof of it, she recalls to him how, at that time, when they coveted a cheap luxury, they used to have a debate two or three days before, and weigh the for and against before they decided, and consider what they could spare it out of; how he once took to wearing a certain brown suit till it was threadbare, until his friends cried shame, that he might safely indulge in the purchase of a folio copy of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays, which he had long coveted, but which could not be secured for a less sum than sixteen shillings;