"M., I believe, was the only person who suffered acutely from the failure; for G. thenceforward, with a serenity unattainable but by the true philosophy, abandoning a precarious popularity, retired into his fast hold of speculation,—the drama in which the world was to be his tiring-room, and remote posterity his applauding spectators, at once, and actors."
"The least shavings of gold are valuable, men say," says Archbishop Leighton, in his masterly Commentary on Peter; and the veriest trifle from the pen of such a writer as Charles Lamb should be highly prized by all readers that are readers. Therefore I think it would be unwise in me not to print Elia's Postscript to his "Chapter on Ears," and his Answers to Correspondents. Indeed, I do not know but that they contain some of the most racy sentences Lamb ever wrote. At any rate, they do contain some delightful banter and "most ingenious nonsense." In their pleasantry, archness, and good-natured raillery, these two little articles of Elia's remind me of some of Addison's happiest papers in the "Spectator."
Better than anything in Southey's "Doctor" concerning the authorship of that queer, quaint, delightful book are Elia's affected anger and indignation against the author of the "Indicator" for attributing the essays of Elia to their right author. Leigh Hunt must have "laughed consumedly," as he read the P.S. to the "Chapter on Ears." And in his Answers to Correspondents how many delightful changes Elia rings upon the name of the unlucky Peter Bell! How cavalierly he answers "Indagator," and the others, who are so importunate about the true locality of his birth,—"as if, forsooth, Elia were presently about to be passed to his parish "!
P.S. TO THE "CHAPTER ON EARS."
"A writer, whose real name, it seems, is Boldero, but who has been entertaining the town for the last twelve months with some very pleasant lucubrations under the assumed signature of Leigh Hunt,[2] in his 'Indicator' of the 31st January last has thought fit to insinuate that I, Elia, do not write the little sketches which bear my signature, in this Magazine, but that the true author of them is a Mr. L——b. Observe the critical period at which he has chosen to impute the calumny!—on the very eve of the publication of our last number,—affording no scope for explanation for a full month,—during which time I must needs lie writhing and tossing under the cruel imputation of nonentity.—Good heavens! that a plain man must not be allowed to be!
"They call this an age of personality: but surely this spirit of anti-personality (if I may so express it) is something worse.
"Take away my moral reputation,—I may live to discredit that calumny. Injure my literary fame,—I may write that up again. But when a gentleman is robbed of his identity, where is he?
"Other murderers stab but at our existence, a frail and perishing trifle at the best. But here is an assassin who aims at our very essence,—who not only forbids us to be any longer, but to have been at all. Let our ancestors look to it.