Charles Lamb: A Memoir | Page 4

Barry Cornwall
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.
He pursued his own fancies, his own predilections. He did not neglect
his own instinct (which is always true), and aim at things foreign to his
nature. He did not cling to any superior intellect, nor cherish any
inferior humorist or wit.
Perhaps no one ever thought more independently. He had great
enjoyment in the talk of able men, so that it did not savor 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. In this respect he seems to have differed from
Milton (who desired fame, like "Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides"),
and to have rather resembled Shakespeare, who was indifferent to fame
or assured of it; but perhaps he resembled no one.
Lamb had not many personal antipathies, but he had a strong aversion
to pretence and false repute. In particular, he resented the adulation of
the epitaph-mongers who endeavored to place Garrick, the actor, on a
level with Shakespeare. Of that greatest of all poets he has said such
things as I imagine Shakespeare himself would have liked to hear. He
has also uttered brave words in behalf of Shakespeare's contemporary

dramatists; partly because they deserved them, partly because they
were unjustly forgotten. The sentence of oblivion, passed by ignorant
ages on the reputation of these fine authors, he has annulled, and forced
the world to confess that preceding judges were incompetent to
entertain the case.
I cannot imagine the mind of Charles Lamb, even in early boyhood, to
have been weak or childish. In his first letters you see that he was a
thinker. He is for a time made sombre by unhappy reflections. He is a
reader of thoughtful books. The witticisms which he coined for
sixpence each (for the Morning Chronicle) had, no doubt, less of
metallic lustre than those which he afterwards meditated; and which
were highly estimated. Effodiuntur opes. 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
naturalized 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. Sometimes,
as he hints, "he affected that dangerous figure, irony;" and he would
sometimes interrupt grave discussion, when he thought it too grave,
with some light jest, which nevertheless was "not quite irrelevant."
Long talkers, as he confesses, "hated him;" and assuredly he hated long
talkers.
In his countenance you might sometimes read--what may be
occasionally read on almost all foreheads--the letters and lines of old,
unforgotten 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.
On referring to his letters, it must be confessed that in literature Lamb's
taste, like that of all others, was at first imperfect. For taste is a portion

of our judgment, and must depend a good deal on our experience, and
on our opportunities of comparing the claims of different pretenders.
Lamb's affections swayed him at all times. He sympathized deeply with
Cowper and his melancholy history, and at first estimated his verse,
perhaps, beyond its strict value. He was intimate with Southey, and
anticipated that he would rival Milton. Then his taste was at all times
peculiar. He seldom
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