Charles Lamb | Page 9

of sub-editor." The new proprietors gave monthly dinners to their
writers, and here Lamb would meet some of his old friends and many
new. Hood has recorded his first meeting with Elia in the offices of the
magazine, and his account may be quoted, affording as it does
something like a glimpse of Lamb in his habit as he lived at the time of
the full maturity of his powers:
I was sitting one morning beside our Editor, busily correcting proofs,
when a visitor was announced, whose name, grumbled by a low
ventriloquial voice, like Tom Pipes calling from the hold through the
hatchway, did not resound distinctly on my tympanum. However, the
door opened, and in came a stranger,--a figure remarkable at a glance,
with a fine head, on a small spare body, supported by two almost
immaterial legs. He was clothed in sables, of a bygone fashion, but
there was something wanting, or something present about him, that
certified he was neither a divine, nor a physician, nor a school master:
from a certain neatness and sobriety in his dress, coupled with his
sedate bearing, he might have been taken, but that such a costume
would be anomalous, for a Quaker in black. He looked still more like
(what he really was) a literary Modern Antique, a New-Old Author, a
living anachronism, contemporary at once with Burton the Elder, and
Colman the Younger. Meanwhile he advanced with rather a peculiar
gait, his walk was plantigrade, and with a cheerful "How d'ye do," and
one of the blandest, sweetest smiles that ever brightened a manly
countenance, held out two fingers to the Editor. The two gentlemen in
black soon fell into discourse; and whilst they conferred the Lavater
principle within me set to work upon the interesting specimen thus
presented to its speculations. It was a striking intellectual face, full of
wiry lines, physiognomical quips and cranks, that gave it great
character. There was much earnestness about the brows, and a deal of
speculation in the eyes, which were brown and bright, and "quick in
turning"; the nose, a decided one, though of no established order; and
there was a handsome smartness about the mouth. Altogether it was no

common face--none of those willow-pattern ones, which Nature turns
out by thousands at her potteries;--but more like a chance specimen of
the Chinese ware, one to the set--unique, antique, quaint. No one who
had once seen it, could pretend not to know it again. It was no face to
lend its countenance to any confusion of persons in a Comedy of Errors.
You might have sworn to it piecemeal,--a separate affidavit for every
feature. In short his face was as original as his figure; his figure as his
character; his character as his writings; his writings the most original of
the age. After the literary business had been settled, the Editor invited
his contributor to dinner, adding "we shall have a hare"--
"And--and--and--and many friends?"
The hesitation in the speech, and the readiness of the allusion were
alike characteristic of the individual, who his familiars will perchance
have recognized already as the delightful Essayist, the capital Critic,
the pleasant Wit and Humorist, the delicate-minded and large-hearted
Charles Lamb!
This gives us at once something of a glimpse of Lamb as he appeared
to the eyes of his contemporaries, and an indication of the impression
which his genius had made on another man of genius. With his Elia
essays he may be said to have crowned his achievements in the eyes of
those who knew him, and, in fact, his active work, or that part of it
which counts, may be said to have ended with the production of these
essays, which he wrote at first for the "London," and occasionally later
for other periodicals.
In 1823 came another removal. During the summer, or when busy over
some piece of writing, Lamb had stayed a while at Dalston or other
semi-rural place away from the time-wasting friends and fascinations of
town. Thus when it was decided to leave Russell Street the move was
made to semi-suburban quietude and retirement.
When you come London-ward you will find me no longer in Covt Gard.
I have a Cottage, in Colebrook row, Islington. A cottage, for it is
detach'd; a white house, with 6 good rooms; the New River (rather
elderly by this time) runs (if a moderate walking pace can be so termed)

close to the foot of the house; and behind is a spacious garden, with
vines (I assure you), pears, strawberries, parsnips, leeks, carrots,
cabbages, to delight the heart of old Alcinous. You enter without
passage into a cheerful dining-room, all studded over and rough with
old Books, and above is a lightsome Drawing-room 3 windows, full of
choice prints. I feel like