Charles Lamb: A Memoir | Page 3

lead
to the contemplation of character, and which nourish those moods out
of which humor ultimately arises.
So much has been already published, that it is needless to encumber
this short narrative with any minute enumeration of the qualities which
constitute his station in literature; but I shall, as a part of my task,
venture to refer to some of those which distinguish him from other
writers.
Lamb's very curious and peculiar humor showed itself early. It was
perhaps born of the solitude in which his childhood passed away;
perhaps cherished by the seeds of madness that were in him, that were
in his sister, that were in the ancestry from which he sprung. Without
doubt, it caught color from the scenes in the midst of which he grew up.
Born in the Temple, educated in Christ's Hospital, and passed onwards
to the South Sea House, his first visions were necessarily of antiquity.
The grave old buildings, tenanted by lawyers and their clerks, were
replaced by "the old and awful cloisters" of the School of Edward; and
these in turn gave way to the palace of the famous Bubble, now
desolate, with its unpeopled Committee Rooms, its pictures of
Governors of Queen Anne's time, "its dusty maps of Mexico, dim as
dreams, and soundings of the Bay of Panama." These things, if they
impressed his mind imperfectly at first, in time formed themselves into
the shape of truths, and assumed significance and importance; as words
and things, glanced over hastily in childhood, grow and ripen, and
enrich the understanding in after days.
Lamb's earliest friends and confidants, with one exception, were
singularly void of wit and the love of jesting. His sister was grave; his
father gradually sinking into dotage; Coleridge was immersed in

religious subtilties and poetic dreams; and Charles Lloyd, sad and
logical and analytical, was the antithesis of all that is lively and
humorous. But thoughts and images stole in from other quarters; and
Lamb's mind was essentially quick and productive. Nothing lay barren
in it; and much of what was planted there, grew, and spread, and
became beautiful. He himself has sown the seeds of humor in many
English hearts. His own humor is essentially English. It is addressed to
his own countrymen; to the men "whose limbs were made in England;"
not to foreign intellects, nor perhaps to the universal mind. Humor,
which is the humor of a man (of the writer himself or of his creations),
must frequently remain, in its fragrant blossoming state, in the land of
its birth. Like some of the most delicate wines and flowers, it will not
bear travel.
Apart from his humor 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 humor 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 humor 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 favor 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 their short-comings 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. He had a word of
compassion for the sheep-stealer, who was arrested and lost his
ill-acquired sheep, "his first, last, and only hope of a mutton pie;" and
vented his feelings in that sonnet (rejected by the magazines) which he
has called "The Gypsey's Malison." Although he was willing to

acknowledge merit when it was successful, he preferred it, perhaps,
when it was not clothed with prosperity.
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 or 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