The Sun.
London, England, 1867-02-15 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

The Essays of Elia. By Charles Lamb. A New
Edition. With a Dedication and Preface
Hitherto Unpublished. One volume. Pp. 436.
Moxon and Co.
The exquisitest edition of an exquisite book is this,
the cheapest yet published, of our dear delightful
Elia. In itself—in these 436 pages—what a world
of wit, and grace, and humour, of quaint conceits,
of overflowing tenderness, of charming newborn
thoughts, of whimsical old-world recollections !
There is hardly any book in the language that
we know more thoroughly by heart than Elia—
having known it thus, too, by heart for more years
than we care to number up. And yet, knowing it
thus by heart though we do, there is hardly any book
that can be named iu (so-called) profane litt:rature
that we can at any time take up more eagerly for
re-perusal—to dip into once more hap-hazard,
wherever the leaves may chance to open—than this
one from the hand of our Peerless Essayist.
Yes, we hesitate not for a single instant
so to designate Charles Lamb—our Peerless
Essayist. Not—one of the best of them, but—
the Best. And this, moreover, bearing perfectly
well in mind, how rich beyond all other litera-
tures is the literature of England in Essayists.
Remembering vividly and gratefully, as we ought,
the labours of love in that department adorning
our bookshelves, from such master-hands among
others as Addison, Steele, Johnson, Hunt, Hazlitt,
Lytton, and Macaulay. Who that knows Elia, and
who that has once quaffed from the flavorous and
sparkling current of these delectable effusions of
his genius, has resisted the inevitable inclination
thereupon acquired to drink from them to their
very heart's content, and by consequence to know
their writer intimately in all the turns, and chinks,
and angles, and crevices of his most quaint and most
original idiosyncracy. Who that knows Elia at
all, who especially that knows Elia as we do and
have done for years past—as just now acknow-
ledged by heart (enshrineing him in it)—will deem it
any derogation whatever to even the most gifted
among the brother Essayists of Charles Lamb-=our
according thus. the pas to ELIA, when hinting, in
regard to them all, at anything like a definable
order of precedence ? Without any disparagement
whatever, without any suspicion of depreciation of
all the rare distinguishing excellencies discernable
in such books as the Spectator, the Rambler, the
Indicator, and Caxtoniana, we set apart, -as a some-
thing perfectly sui generis, as a thing unique, as a
lusus literaruni, as astillrarerpearl of price than them
all, as a peculiarly exceptional phenomenon in
literature, the Elia of Charles Lamb. The mere
manner of it—what a charm it has ! The
very diction he employs—what a flavour, what an
aroma there is about it It is antiquity talking
to us afresh, reborn, rejuvenescent---and yet for all
that, still, to the last, ingrained, ineradicably
antiquity ! Not "bald antiquity," as one might say,
but antiquity flowingly hirsute as it were—with a
bloom upon it the while, and yet venerable withal.
Employed by any other writer than Lamb, the
obsolete words used by him habitually, the fantastic
turns of expression, the discarded or forgotten idioms,
would have degenerated by necessity into a mass
of affectation. Here, however, in Elia, there is not
one particle of affectation anywhere discoverable.
Writing thus, he was thus—it might be said, and
said with perfect truth—to the manner born. Could
he, we will even go so far as to say, have dropped
upon any rare occasion the distinctive style in
which he spoke as well as wrote habitually—then,
not otherwise, there would, if you will, have been
risk of his degenerating into affectation. No—the
manner with him was not assumed, as a raiment,
so to speak, with which he clothed his thoughts —it
was no mere mask, or husk, or superficies—it was,
as we have said, ingrained, it was as the very substance
of him, it was part and parcel of himself, a some-
thing inherent, integral, ineradicable. It is no
more reasonably to be taken exception to in his
instance, than it would be reasonable to charge a
man with guilt, or affectation, or responsibility, be-
cause of the natural colo,urof his hair, the contour of
his features, or the shade of his complexion. In order
to recognise how literally true all this is, which we
are here insisting upon, in regard to the utter ab-
sence of anything at all verging even towards the
merest tendency to a liking for affectation of any kind
at all, either in style ore diction, in Charles Lamb's
mode of putting his thoughts into written lan-
guage—it is only necessary to examine any-
thing and everything his pen is known to
have ever put upon paper—even at his most careless

moments—the merest scrap of a note, let us say,
jotted down with careless ease upon the spur of the
moment in scribbling to a friend ! Examining which
—his correspondence that is—not Elia, but his
familiar Letters to his intimates—Charles Lamb is
still Charles Lamb throughout : in other words, he
is still Elia—and, when most careless, he is often,
often, at his very best. To see this, one need only
turn to Mr. Fitzgerald's pleasant little volume
about " Lamb and his Books and his Friends,"
in which there is given at length (would only that
it might have been ever so much longer, for fun
like that is just simply priceless) Charles
Lamb's gossipping helter-skelter, rattling mis-
sive to one of these his intimates, a letter brimmed
full of side-shaking, irresistible, frolicsome drollery !
And yet all through it, in the manner of it, in the
diction, in the old world idioms, as quaint,
odd, whimsical, antiquated, fiavorous of Elia, as
anything among the very choicest among these
inimitable and incomparable Essays. Among
even, we have said, the choicest of them all—and
what choice ones there are among the number!
Beginning with Elia's Recollections of the cloistral
solitudes of the " South Sea House," and of his
schoolboy experiences obtained five-and-thirty years
(ono whole generation) before the penning of the
essay about the haunts, and purlieus, and pre-
cincts of " Christ's Hospital !" Among his brother
clerks at the South Sea House—Evans chirp-
ing and expanding over his muffin—Plumer
rattling, rattle-headed, and obstreperous—Henry
Man, terse, fresh, epigrammatic—John Tipp, the
accountant, so formal in his life that his actions
seemed ruled with a ruler—Thomas Tame, conde-
scending in the aristocratic bend of his figure by
reason of the remembrance of his high lineage,
a remembrance sweetening and ennobling his
poverty, in spite of his being endowed merely
with an intellect of the shallowest order, so that " a
sucking babe might have posed him," his mind,
as Lamb characteristically puts it (in his bookish
way), being " in its original state of white paper."
Among Lamb's brother blue coat boys, again, who
does not remember the ghoulish gag-eater who
turns out to be (instead of either ghoul or gag-
eater) a young human stork nurturing his parents
by stealth, getting obloquy first of all for doing so,
and silver medal afterwards ? Who, again, that
has once read about them—in that delightful Essay
about " Christ's Hospital"—can have lost all re-
collection of the Rev. Matthew Field, the easy-
going Lower Master, or of the Rev. James Boyer,
the grim and inexorable Upper Master, of whom when
he was dying, ono of his quondam pupils, in still
tender remembrance of his switching birch, ejacu-
lated—" May all his faults be forgiven, and may
he bo wafted to bliss by little cherub boys, all
head and wings, with no bottoms to reproach his
sublunary infirmities !" Conspicuous among the
wearers of the yellow tunic, and the yellow stock-
ings, and the blue gaberdine, and the red leather
bolt—Le Grice, and Leigh Hunt, and " the in-
spired charity-boy" —Logician, Metaphysician,
Bard—Samuel Taylor Coleridge! Advancing, how
over, beyond the mere threshold, or outer courtyard,
or inner vestibule of this Fairy Palace for Medita-
tion, built up by Elia in his one-and-fifty immortal
Essays, supplemented by his sixteen expositions of
what he serio-comically declares to be so many
" Popular Fallacies"—and penetrating deeper and
deeper into the tortuous labyrinth, and yet, with
all the windings of which (tortuous though the
labyrinth be) we are and have been for years upon
years so perfectly familiar—what delectable friends

of old do we not come upon? Among them
Ho-ti, the Chinese swine-herd, and 80-bo, his
lubberly boy—licking their fingers, burnt by the

crackling of the first pig that (so happily for all after
gourmets) wasroaated to death accidentally ! Mrs.

Battle, again—." old Sarah Battle (now with God),

I who next to her devotions loved a game of whist"
—Mrs. Battle with her celebrated wish, " a
clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of
the game !" And—among others of Charles
Lamb's especial favourites—the Quakers and
the Quakeresses : the Quakeress a lily—the
Quaker, whose very raiments seem incapable
of receiving a soil—cleanliness in them
being something more than its contrary !
And—cheek by jowl (oddly enough) with that band
of Shining Ones—the Chimney Sweepers, especially
the little ones with their early notes like the " peep,
peep" of the young sparrows—not grown sweepers,
mind you—but tender novices blooming through
their first nigritude—those young Africans of our
own growth, those almost clergy imps, dim specks,
poor blots, innocent blacknesses. Then, too, be-
sides all these—who can ever forget " The Chapter on
Ears," beginning, "I have no ear—Mistake me not,
reader, nor imagine that I am, by nature, destitute
of those exterior twin appendages, hanging orna-
ments, and (architecturally speaking) handsome
volutes to the human capital." Who that has once
luxuriated in the reading of them, bears not still
cherished -in delightful recollection, the reverie on
"Dream Children"—the dissertation on " Grace be-

fore Meat" the complaint in regard to " The
Decay of Beggars in the Metropolis " the
reminiscences of " Some Old Actors" the
definition of " Imperfect Sympathies"--the celebra-
tion, one while of " Valentine's Day," another of
" Day"—the whimsically contrasted deli-
niation of " The Two Races of Men" (the Borrowers
and the Lenders)—the comparison of " The Old
and the New Schoolmaster "—Elia's sketch now of
his " Poor Relations," now of his " Distant Cor-
respondents "—his dream •f " The Child Angel "
—his exquisite limning of "Barbara S"—his gossip
about " Old China," about " The Margate Hoy,"
about "Books and Reading," about "The tombs
in the Abbey," down at Westminster ! What pen-
cillings, too, are those—and with whatsubtle touches
in them—here of " The Superannuated Man "—here
of " The Convalescent I" - What dramatic tid-
bits, too, are—" My First Play"—and " Stage
Illusion"—and " Ellistoniana !" Could anything
be better, either, as Essays, than those setting forth
the " Sanity of True Genius," and " The Genteel
Style in Writing ?" Saunter with Elia, again,
among the " Old Benchers of the Inner Temple,"
or travel with him down to " Mackery End in Hert-
fordshire"—and learn how well his antique prattle
befits alike the old city haunts and the green coun-
tryside. Whoever comes to the perusal of these "Es-
says of Elia," by the way, for the first time, or, in
other words, distinctly as a novice, would do well, as it
seems to us, to open the charming volume as nearly as
possible in the middle of it, at page 230, and
there, reading merely three pages of the little
book—pp. 130-132—obtain their first taste
for the Elian humour from that one brief
essay "On the Acting of Munden." We
warrant them it will give them a relish for Elia for
life Ex. gr.--The suggestion of a Munden Gal-
lery (to rival Hogarth) the declaration that
Almaden has to face that you can properly
pin down and call his—the comment upon his
inexhaustible battery of looks, his unaccountable
warfare with your gravity, his suddenly sprouting
out an entirely new set of features like Hydra—his
being not one, but legion—not so much a comedian
as a company— the grave assertion that if his name
could be multiplied, like his countenance, it might
fill a playbill—the statement that he alone literally
makes faces, dipping for faces as Suett did for wigs
—the defiant inquiry as to whether any man can
wonder like him ? can see ghosts like him ? can
fight with his own shadow? can, like him, throw a
preternatural interest over the commonest daily-life
objects ?—a table or joint-stool, in his conception,
rising into a dignity equivalent to Cassiopeia's chair,
being invested with constellatory importance,
so that you could not speak of it with
more deference if it was mounted into the firma-
ment Munden's gusto, according to Elia, anti-
quating and ennobling what it touches ! His pots
and ladles being as grand and primal as the seething
pots and hooks seen in old prophetic vision. " A
tub of butter contemplated by him," exclaims Lamb
at last, " amounts to a Platonic idea I lie
understands a leg of mutton in its quiddity.

Ile stands wondering amidst the common-
place materials of life, like prinneval man,
with the sun and stars about him." After
which—enough, and more than enough, has
surely here been said by us in the way of any
commentary upon this Peerless Edition of our
Peerless Elia—of all editions of Elia that we have
ever chanced to see, the completest, the corn-
pactest, the most beautifully got up, both inter-
nally and externally, iu the binding of it, that is, and
in the printing—an edition worthy of setting forth
anew for the delight of the world of his admirers,
those choice and exquisite Essays of Charles Lamb,
which are not only his own masterpiece, but among
the masterpieces of English literature.

Emanuel Swedenborg; his Life and Writings. By
William White. Two Vols. Simpkin, Marshall,
and Co.
The author of this very interesting work, seeing
that the name of Swedenborg has grown familiar
in English literature, with but few definite ideas
attached to it, has set about remedying the evil by
providing for all who may care to inquire into the
subject a full andll comprehensive account of
Emanuel Swedenborg, his history and his writings.
This work, which occupies two large quarto volumes,
has been accomplished in the most complete and
satisfactory manner compatible with the peculiar
nature of the theme. The first volume opens with
an account of the father of Swedenborg, Jesper
Svedberg, Bishop of Upsala, and many readers will
feel a personal interest in this earnest, pious, God-
fearing man, so bold and fearless in the presence
of Princes. When he was chaplain to the royal
regiment Svedberg was a great favourite with King
Charles XI. of Sweden, and he availed himself of
this privilege with a singular conscientiousness.
Shortly before hia death the Sovereign observed to
this confidential friend, "I have ruled Sweden
twenty-three years. When I first became King I
trusted everybody, now I trust nobody." To which
Svedberg replied " That is not right ; to trust
everybody is foolish, for there are many wicked
and silly people." " The world is full of them,"
interposed Charles. " But to trust nobody," con-
tinued Svedberg, " is very bad, for there are many
good, honest, and wise men." " Ah, it is now too
late," said the dying King. Another scene which
forms an 'interesting contrast to this interview be-
tween Charles XI. and Jesper Svedberg records in
interview between their far more celebrated sons,
Emanuel Swedenborg (so called when later ad-
mitted to the council of nobles) and Charles XII.
When Swedenborg had been appointed assessor in
the College of Mines, he, in company with M.
Polhem, the engineer, was presented to the young
King, who, conversing on mathematics and mecha-
nics, asked several questions, in order, as his
hearers supposed, to acquire some easy information.
The learned men soon discovered, however, that the
King was a better mathematician than themselves,
for while they had recourse to figures and symbols,
in order to arrive at results, the King says Sweden-
borg "did not require them, but after a few minutes'
reflection, he told us without any other aid than his
own superior genius in what way our examples might
be solved, which we always found to agree perfectly
with our calculations." Among Swedenborg's works
notwithstanding his flights of imagination, practical
studies, such as mechanics and chemistry, occupy a
prominent place. In alluding to his theory of
chemistry, his biographer (who endeavours in every
possible- way to render his work attractive), intro-
duces the following happy anecdote :—A school-
master was once asked, " Why are cream and sugar
put into tea ?" and he answered, " To render the
acute angles of the tea more obtuse." This
reply (says the narrator) reveals and illus-
trates Swedenborg's theory of chemistry. llis
doctrine was that " the invisible atoms with which
the chemist deals are geometrical forms, and that
chemical phenomena are to be explained by geo-
metrical laws." We do not here propose to con-
sider the works of Swedenborg, all of which are
set forth at length, and their contents are briefly
but thoroughly analysed and explained. After the
" Philosophical and Mineralogical Works," which

occupied three folios, and the Economy of the' Ani-
mal Kingdom," and the "Spiritual Diary," and the
" Arcana Cmlestia," comes what his biographer
describes as Swedenborg's " most readable book,"
" Heaven, the World of Spirits, and Hell Defined."
The second volume of this elaborate work is fully
occupied with further particulars of Swedenborg's
spiritual revelations and theological compositions.
Carried away by the interest of his subject, by what
Macaulay happily calls the lues Boswelliana, the
biographer attaches more importance to these out-
pourings of his hero than they are likely to meet
with at the hands of the reader. Attacked by apo-
plexy on Christmas-eve, 1771, the Swedish Philo-
sopher (?) expired on the 29th March, 1772, in ob-
scure lodgings iu Coldbath-fields, London, aged 84.
On the title-page of the second volume the author
appropriately quotes from Andrew Fenwick, 44 He
is not without foibles, but is wise exceedingly,
versed in much strange knowledge, and fami-
liar with the intricacies of the human heart ;
you'll live long and go far ero you find such
another." In the truth of this latter assertion,
the reader of this biography will very heartily con-
cur, but a mere glimpse at the amazing extrava-
gances of Sweienborgianism will induce him to re-
gard the isolation of such an example as no cause
for lamentation.

Nina Balatka : 2be Story of a Maiden of Prague.

Two Vols. Blackwood and Sons.

Those who have not already perused this story in
the pages of Blackwood's Magazine will be in-
terested in the brief history of " Nina Balatka,"
and even those already familiar with the tale
will be glad to welcome it in its present
portable and attractive form—two little volumes
of large type and dainty appearance, with the per-
sons of the story enumerated in a preliminary page,
as is customary with a drama, and the secret of
Nina's history revealed in the first lines of the first
volume. "Nina Balatka was a maiden of Prague,
born of Christian parents, and herself a Christian
—but she loved a Jew; and this is her story." The
Christian maidens who turn over these pages will
very naturally wonder at Nina's taste, or want of
taste, for Anton Trendellsohn is not only a
Jew, but a singularly repulsive 'Jew, selfish
and suspicious, suspicious even of his beloved.
Love being proverbially blind, these matters may
be easy of explanation ; but what still more amazes
the Christian reader is Nina's singular indifference
as to the slight obstacle of her lover's faith, and the
absence of any attempt on her part to effect his
conversion. We could sympathise with the Jewish
Rebecca who loved the Christian Ivanhoe, but we
cannot say that we appreciate the tenderness of the
Christian Nina for the Jewish Anton Trendellsohn.
Be that as it may, the story is interesting and well
written (for did it not appear in Blackwood's Maga-
zine?), and its appearance in its:present form is ele-
gant and attractive.

MO XON'S STANDARD PENNY READINGS surpasses,
not only in the general getting of it up—in the
typography espezially, which is large and beauti-
ful—but in the choiceness of the selection made, the
best among its predecessors. And we can say this,
in no way inviduously—that is, without implying
the slightest depreciation of the efforts made in a
similar direction by other publishing houses. Some
of these efforts we have ourselves commended as
they deserved to be commended. But the best
among them must now give the wall to these
Standard Penny Readings from Dover-street,
Piccadilly. They consist of twenty of the
choicest morceaux, from writers as gifted and
as varied as Robert Browning, Tom Hood,
Charles Lamb, Robert Southey, Alfred
Tennyson, Praed, Shelley, Coleridge, and
Wordsworth. Such famous " pieces "—prose and
verse—being among the number, as " How they
brought the good news from Ghent to Aix," all
through which Mr. Browning carries us away with
him on his Pegasus at the stride of full gallop—as
the eirie, eltritch, murderous, midnight ballad of
" Mary, the Maid of the Inn"—as Coleridge's in-
comparable celebration of " Love" in the wooing
and the winning of Genevieve—as the Laureate's
Lady Clare," and his predecessor's " Phantom of
Delight." For fun and frolic—as irresistible pro-
vocations to laughter—commend us to the pick here
made from Hood's Own—as " Our Village (By a
Villagery—as "Mary's Ghost," as "111isappro-
hension," or as " Moro Hulla-Balloo." If Read-
ings like these won't do, we don't know what
will.

s
trart fax • • •

HER MAJESTY, Occ.

OSBORNE, Feb. 14.
Her Majesty walked and drove this morning/
accompanied by Princess Christian.
Princess Louise and Princess Beatrice also Went
out.

Viscount Halifax and General the Hon. Ala
ander and Mrs. Gordon had the honour of dining
with the Queen and royal family yesterday.
Lord Halifax left to-day for London.