, 1881-03-04
Charles Lamb.
"REMINISCENCES BY GRENvILLE MURRAY

| only hall succeeded. llItall IllaI Ac iiu
not succeed at all. He was very shy,
and children do not understand shyness,
mistaking it for pride or coneelt or
fright.
But knew some of Elias intimateS,
and could well understand from them IN
later wears what sort of man he was, that
grave, shy person in perpetual black. He
would laughingly apologize, by the way,
for this same suit of unvarying duskl-
ness. I'm like the raven-lye no
other" And, poor fellow, lie had not too
much money to spend on clothes.
clerk at the old India House, with at first
father and sister and afterward Il sister
to support, he had small pecuniary scope
for extravaganza.
If YOU met Ella at those delightful sup
per parties of his you wOGld think him
simply Jolly dog in low life with al un-
accountable amount of information,
and a wit which, according to
Britannia ideas, seemed altogether
out of harmony with the very
humble surroundings of the apartment.
The feast usually consisted of cold beef
and pickles, with porter superadded.
| BY and by some jugs of hot water and
black bottle would make their appear
ance; nor would n basin of sugar or
|
! give comical expression OF resigned
| despair as Charles peoceeded to help
! himself to second tumbler. Not that
he was often drunk-thOugh lie was
sometimes-but he would say silly things
after the second glass of grog. friend
once advised him to try teetotalism, and
he did, his sister helping him. Miss
Lamb. as Charles said, took to water like
q duck; in fact, set woman's usual exam
pie of self-danial. Charles followed rue
fully. But it was too much for him.
His sister dearly loved him, and she
| had good reason. All the world knows
how he sacrificed his life to her, giving
up all prospect of marriage and living
in single straightness in order that his
sister might always have a home. Pos
sibly he felt too that the most sacred and
innocent of relations was not for him;
the awful taint being hereditary. When
his sister felt that the access was ap-
preaching, she would tell her brother, and
the two would wend their way to the
asylum together. An acquaintance once
met them on this sad journey; both We're
weeping bitterly. But once Mary Lamb
had to take Charles. Mary, by the way,
was much loved at the asylum; and not
confounded with ordinary lunaties- ''She
woman who had killed her mother with
a carving knife.
Persons deeply imbued with catholic
modes of thought have blamed Miss
Lamb b for living so freely in the world
and partaking of its pleasures after so
appalling tragedy as the murder of her
mother Assuredly our fathers and
mothers of the middle ages would have
| decided there could be but one coEclu-
sion to the incident for q Christian an-the
veil. And the enlightened sense of our
generation would half-unwittingly, half
unsympathetically echo the sentiment.
But Miss Lamb lived in an age in
tellectually more remote from ours than
the fifteenth century. Separation from
the world for her was impossible, and so
she elected to make the best of the
world. And though she went occasion
ally to the play, and enjoyed an outing,
or rather made q pretence to enjoy one,
she lived as true and pure and devoted a
life as ever did woman of the cloister.
She loved no one but her brother.
1t is a melancholy fact, but the
dreariest period of Charles's existence
was while his father lived. He shaved
all day at his desk, and, by way of rec
reation, had to play chess with his sire
in the evening. The old gentleman,
moreover, was extremely dull and short
tempered. One day Charles had played
six or eight games with his father and
proposed to leave off. ''If yeu won't
play" quoth this delightful person, ''I
don't see why you should stay in at all. I"
At last Fate-that much-abused but very
kindly divinity-removed Mr.. Lamb
senior-for which at least two persons
must have felt thankful, though too pi-
ous to say so.
The happiest years of his life were the
last nine. In 1925 he was pensioned off.
In that charming paper (but Ill that he
wrote was delightful) entitled ''The
Superannuated Man." Ella tells us of the
intense pleasure his newly y-aequired lib
erty gave him.
The most human side of Lambs
characterize make use of our cant mod
ern epithets-was affectionateness. His
love for Coleridge was something touch
ing to behold. Few men can have loved
that brilliant selfish genius so well; not
his own kindred. "Lamb," writes an
acquaintance, ''never fairly recovered
from the death of Coleridge He thought
of little e1se-his sister was but another
portion of himself-until his own great
spirit joined his friend. Some
weeks ago, and remarked the constant
turning and reference of his mind. He
interrupted himself and them almost
every instant with some play of affected
wonder, or establishment, or humorous
melancholy, on the words, 'Coleridge is
dead Nothing could divert him from
that, for the thought of it never left
him." Lamb died within six months of
| Coleridge.
'And pray, Mr.. Lamb, how do you
like children?" asked good, foolish
body. who had been singing the praise of
babies.
''B-b-boiled, ma am, ," suffered Lamb.
The lady looked astonished and of
Tended This is decidedly one of his
best--which is saying much. Nothing
of him survives but his bright and spark
ling, or quaint, or touching Swiss
Times.