Lamb was not deep-thoughted; he would have lost the trail in those meditations and searchings to which Coleridge in his cooler and clearer moments invited and led the way; but there was about him an individuality, a delicacy of thought, a quaint play of airy fancies, a beguiling inconsequence, that have made his path in letters a delightful one for thousands to follow.
I cannot leave his name without calling attention to the charming little stories of Mrs. Leicester's School—written by Charles Lamb and his sister jointly. They are—or profess to be—the tales told by school children themselves of their memories—whether sorrows or joys; and are so artless in their narrative, so pathetic often, that you cannot help but follow the trend of their simple language as you would follow a story which an older sister might tell you about your own homes and your own father and mother.
Those essays of Lamb may sometimes show a liking for things we cannot like; in his dealings with the old dramatists he may pour chirrupy praises where we cannot follow with ours. We may not be won over, though we see Marston through those pitiful eyes and the lens of that always tender heart. And why should we? That criticism is not the best which serves to put us in agreeing herds, and to leash us in a bundled cohesion of opinion; but it is better worth if it stimulate us by putting beside our individuality of outlook the warming or the chafing or the contesting individuality of another mind. There is never a time when Lamb's generous, kindly, witty opinions—whether about men or books, or every-day topics—will not find a great company of delighted readers, if not of ardent sponsors. Then, for style—what is to be said, except that it is so gracious, so winning, we are delighted with its flow, its cadences, its surprises, its charming lapses—like waves on summer beaches—or like an August brook, prattling, babbling, and finding spread and pause in some pellucid, overshadowed pool—where we rest in fulness of summery content.
He was never a strong man physically, and his poor thin form vanished from the sight of men in 1834, six months after Coleridge died; and the poor sister—unaware what helplessness and loneliness had fallen on her, lingered for years in blessed ignorance; she then died; and so we turn over that page of English letters on which are scored Elia and the Tales of Shakespeare and pass to others.
Wordsworth.
A lake poet.
On the 29th day of June, just half a century ago, upon a beautiful sunny afternoon—most rare in the Lake Counties of England—I had one of the outside places upon an English coach, which was making its daily trip from Kendal, along the borders of Lake Windermere, and on by Grasmere and under the flank of Helvellyn, to Derwent-Water and Keswick. I stopped halfway at the good inn of the "Salutation" in Ambleside, with the blue of Windermere stretching before me; and in the twilight took a row upon the lake—the surface being scarce ruffled, and the shores, with their copses of wood, and their slopes of green lawn, as beautiful as a dream.
"I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
And as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
Went heaving thro' the water like a swan."
Wordsworth.