Charles Lamb: A Memoir Part 7

In the last year of Edward Irving's life (1834), he was counselled by his physician to pa.s.s the next winter in a milder climate--that "it was the only safe thing for him." Prevented from ministering in his own church, where "he had become an embarra.s.sment," he travels into the rural places, subdued and chastened by his weakness,--to the Wye and the Severn--to the fine mountains and pleasant places of Wales. Sometimes he thinks himself better. He quits London (forever) in the early part of September, and on the 23d of that month he writes to his wife that he is "surely better, for _his pulse has come to be under 100_." He pa.s.ses by Cader Idris, and Snowdon--by Bedgelert to Bangor, "a place of repose;" but gets wet whilst viewing the Menai Bridge, and had "a fevered night;" yet he is able to droop on to Liverpool. Thence (the love of his native land drawing him on) he goes northwards, instead of to the south. He reaches Glasgow, where "he thinks of organizing a church;" although Dr. Darling "decidedly says that he cannot humanly live over the winter." Yet he still goes on with his holy task; he writes "pastoral letters," and preaches, and prays, and offers kind advice. His friends, from Kirkcaldy and elsewhere, come to see him, where, "for a few weeks still, he is visible, about Glasgow. In the sunshine--in a lonely street, his gaunt, gigantic figure rises feebly against the light." At last he lies down on "the bed from which he is never to rise;" his mind wanders, and his articulation becomes indistinct; but he is occasionally understood, and is heard murmuring (in Hebrew) parts of the 23d Psalm, "The Lord is my Shepherd: He leadeth me beside the still waters." And thus gradually sinking, at the close of a gloomy Sunday night in December, he dies.

Mr. Thomas Carlyle, his friend (the friend of his youth), has written an eloquent epitaph upon him; not partial, for they differed in opinion--but eloquent, and very touching. I read it over once or twice in every year.

Edward Irving's last words, according to his statement, were, "In life and in death I am the Lord's." Carlyle then adds, "But for Irving, I had never known what the communion of man with man means. He was the freest, brotherliest, bravest human soul mine ever came in contact with; the best man I have ever (after trial enough) found in this world, or now hope to find."

So Edward Irving went to the true and brave enthusiasts who have gone before him. He died on his final Sabbath (7th December, 1834), and left the world and all its troubles behind him.

[1] The first Essays of Elia were published by Taylor and Hessey under the t.i.tle "Elia," in 1823. The second Essays were, together with the "Popular Fallacies," collected and published under the t.i.tle of "The Last Essays of Elia," by Moxon, in 1833.

CHAPTER VII.

_Specimen of Lamb's Humor.--Death of Mr. Norris.--Garrick Plays.--Letters to Barton.--Opinions on Books.--Breakfast with Mr. N. P. Willis.--Moves to Enfield.--Caricature of Lamb.--Alb.u.ms and Acrostics.--Pains of Leisure.-- The Barton Correspondence.--Death of Hazlitt.--Munden's Acting and Quitting the Stage.--Lamb becomes a Boarder.--Moves to Edmonton.-- Metropolitan Attachments.--Death of Coleridge.--Lamb's Fall and Death.-- Death of Mary Lamb.--POSTSCRIPT._

With the expiration of the "London Magazine," Lamb's literary career terminated. A few trifling contributions to the "New Monthly," and other periodicals, are scarcely sufficient to qualify this statement.

It may be convenient, in this place, to specify some of those examples of humor and of jocose speech for which Charles Lamb in his lifetime was well known. These (not his best thoughts) can be separated from the rest, and may attract the notice of the reader, here and there, and relieve the tameness of a not very eventful narrative.

It is possible to define wit (which, as Mr. Coleridge says, is "impersonal"), and humor also; but it is not easy to distinguish the humor of one man from that of all other humorists, so as to bring his special quality clearly before the apprehension of the reader. Perhaps the best (if not the most scientific) way might be to produce specimens of each. In Charles Lamb's case, instances of his humor are to be found in his essays, in his sayings (already partially reported), and throughout his letters, where they are very frequent. They are often of the composite order, in which humor, and wit, and (sometimes) pathos are intermingled. Sometimes they merely exhibit the character of the man.

He once said of himself that his biography "would go into an epigram." His sayings require greater s.p.a.ce. Some of those which have been circulated are apocryphal. The following are taken chiefly from his letters, and from my own recollections.

In his exultation on being released from his thirty-four years of labor at the India House, he says, "Had I a little son, I would christen him 'Nothing to do'" (This is in the "Superannuated Man.")

Speaking of Don Quixote, he calls him "the errant Star of Knighthood, made more tender by eclipse."

On being asked by a schoolmistress for some sign indicative of her calling, he recommended "The Murder of the Innocents."

I once said something in his presence which I thought possessed smartness.

He commended me with a stammer: "Very well, my dear boy, very well; Ben (taking a pinch of snuff), Ben Jonson has said worse things than that-and b-b-better." [1]

His young chimney-sweepers, "from their little pulpits (the tops of chimneys) in the nipping air of a December morning, preach a lesson of patience to mankind."

His saying to Martin Burney has been often repeated--"O Martin, if dirt were trumps, what a hand you would hold!"

To Coleridge: "Bless you, old sophist, who next to human nature taught me all the corruption I was capable of knowing."

To Mr. Gilman, a surgeon ("query Kill-man?"), he writes, "Coleridge is very bad, but he wonderfully picks up, and his face, when he repeats his verses, hath its ancient glory--an archangel a little damaged."

To Wordsworth (who was superfluously solemn) he writes, "Some d-d people have come in, and I must finish abruptly. By d--d, I only mean deuced."

The second son of George the Second, it was said, had a very cold and ungenial manner. Lamb stammered out in his defence that "this was very natural in the Duke of Cu-c.u.m-ber-land."

To Bernard Barton, of a person of repute: "There must be something in him.

Such great names imply greatness. Which of us has seen Michael Angelo's things? yet which of us disbelieves his greatness?"

To Mrs. H., of a person eccentric: "Why does not his guardian angel look to him? He deserves one--may be he has tired him out."

"Charles," said Coleridge to Lamb, "I think you have heard me preach?" "I n--n--never heard you do anything else," replied Lamb.

One evening Coleridge had consumed the whole time in talking of some "regenerated" orthodoxy. Leigh Hunt, who was one of the listeners, on leaving the house, expressed his surprise at the prodigality and intensity of Coleridge's religious expressions. Lamb tranquillized him by "Ne-ne- never mind what Coleridge says; he's full of fun."

There were, &c., &c., "and at the top of all, Hunger (eldest, strongest of the Pa.s.sions), predominant, breaking down the stony fences of shame."

The Bank, the India House, and other rich traders look insultingly on the old deserted South Sea House, as on "their poor neighbor out of business."

To a Frenchman, setting up Voltaire's character in opposition to that of Christ, Lamb a.s.serted that "Voltaire was a very good Jesus Christ--_for the French._"

Of a Scotchman: "His understanding is always at its meridian. Between the affirmative and the negative there is no border land with him. You cannot hover with him on the confines of truth."

On a book of Coleridge's nephew he writes, "I confess he has more of the Sterne about him than the Sternhold. But he saddens into excellent sense before the conclusion."

As to a monument being erected for Clarkson, in his lifetime, he opposes it, and argues, "Goodness blows no trumpet, nor desires to have it blown.

We should be modest for a modest man."

"M. B. is on the top scale of my friendship's ladder, which an angel or two is still climbing; and some, alas! descending."

A fine sonnet of his (The Gipsy's Malison) being refused publication, he exclaimed, "Hang the age! I will write for Antiquity."

Once, whilst waiting in the Highgate stage, a woman came to the door, and inquired in a stern voice, "Are you quite full inside?" "Yes, ma'am," said Charles, in meek reply, "quite; that plateful of Mrs. Gilman's pudding has quite filled us."

Mrs. K., after expressing her love for her young children, added, tenderly, "And how do _you_ like babies, Mr. Lamb?" His answer, immediate, almost precipitate, was "Boi-boi-boiled, ma'am."

Hood, tempting Lamb to dine with him, said, "We have a hare." "And many friends?" inquired Lamb.

It being suggested that he would not sit down to a meal with the Italian witnesses at the Queen's trial, Lamb rejected the imputation, a.s.serting that he would sit with anything except a hen or a tailor.

Of a man too prodigal of lampoons and verbal jokes, Lamb said, threateningly, "I'll Lamb-pun him."

On two Prussians of the same name being accused of the same crime, it was remarked as curious that they were not in any way related to each other.

"A mistake," said he; "they are cozens german."

An old lady, fond of her dissenting minister, wearied Lamb by the length of her praises. "I speak, because I _know_ him well," said she.

"Well, I don't;" replied Lamb; "I don't; but d--n him, at a 'venture.'"

The Scotch, whom he did not like, ought, he said, to have double punishment; and to have fire without brimstone.

Southey, in 1799, showed him a dull poem on a rose. Lamb's criticism was, "Your rose is insipid: it has neither thorns nor sweetness."

A person sending an unnecessarily large sum with a lawyer's brief, Lamb said "it was 'a fee simple.'"

Mr. H. C. Robinson, just called to the bar, tells him, exultingly, that he is retained in a cause in the King's Bench. "Ah" (said Lamb), "the great first cause, least understood."

Of a pun, Lamb says it is a "n.o.ble thing _per se_. It is entire. It fills the mind; it is as perfect as a sonnet; better. It limps ashamed, in the train and retinue of humor." [2]