Selected Prose

by Charles Lamb

  ‘Dulce ridentem Lalagen,

  Dulce loquentem!’

  This is all extremely clever, and about as true as it is necessary for such half-imaginary sketches to be. The veteran subject of it has had his name bandied to & fro, for praise & blame, the better part of a century, and has learned to stand harder knocks than these. He will laugh, we dare say, very heartily at this Chimaera of himself from the pen of a brother-reformer. We would venture a wager that the writer of it, with all his appearance of drawing from the life, never spent a day in company with the Major. We have passed many, & can assure the Essayist, that Major C— has many things in his head, and in his mouth too, besides Parliamentary Reform. We know that he is more solicitous to evade the question, than to obtrude it, in private company; and will chuse to turn the conversation purposely to topics of philology & polite literature, of which he is no common master. He will not shun a metaphysical point even if it come in his way, though he professes not to enter into that sort of science so deeply as Mr Hazlitt; and will discuss any point ‘at sight’ from history & chronology, his favourite subjects, down to the merits of his scarcely less darling Norfolk dumpling. We suspect that Mr Hazlitt knows nothing of the veteran beyond his political speeches, which to be sure are pretty monotonous upon one subject, and has carved the rest out of his own brain. But to deduce a man’s general conversation from what falls from him in public meetings, expressly convened to discuss a particular topic, is about as good logic, as it would be in the case of another sort of Reformer, who, like Major C—, but in an humbler sphere, goes about professing to remove nuisances if we should infer, that the good man’s whole discourse, at bed & board, in the ale-house & by the roadside, was confined to two cuckoo syllables, because in the exercise of his public function we had never heard him utter anything beyond Dust O!

  The ‘Character of Cobbett’ (Sixth Essay) comes nearer the mark. It has the freedom of a sketch, and the truth of an elaborated portrait. Nothing is extenuated, nothing overdone. It is ‘without o’erflowing full’.8 It may be read with advantage by the partisans & opponents of the most extraordinary political personage that has appeared in modern times. It is too long to quote, too good for abridgment. We prefer closing our extracts with a portion of the Twelfth Essay, both for variety-sake, and because it seems no inappropriate conclusion to leave off with that which is ordinarily the latest of human actions – ‘the last infirmity of common minds’9 – the making of a Will. [Lamb quotes with omissions the passage beginning ‘Few things shew the human character … that we came into it!’]

  We cannot take leave of this agreeable and spirited volume without bearing our decided testimony to Mr Hazlitt’s general merits as a writer. He is (we have no hesitation in saying) one of the ablest prose-writers of the age. To an extraordinary power of original observation he adds an equal power of familiar and striking expression. There is a groundwork of patient and curious thinking in almost every one of these Essays, while the execution is in a high degree brilliant and animated. The train of reasoning or line of distinction on which he insists is often so fine as to escape common observation; at the same time that the quantity of picturesque and novel illustration is such as to dazzle and overpower common attention. He is however a writer perfectly free from affectation, and never rises into that tone of rapid and glowing eloquence of which he is a master, but when the occasion warrants it. Hence there is nothing more directly opposite to his usual style than what is understood by poetical prose. – If we were to hazard an analytical conjecture on this point, we should incline to think that Mr H. as a critic and an Essayist has blended two very different and opposite lines of study and pursuit, a life of internal reflection, and a life of external observation, together; or has, in other words, engrafted the Painter on the Metaphysician; and in our minds, the union, if not complete or in all respects harmonious, presents a result not less singular than delightful. If Mr H. criticises an author, he paints him. If he draws a character, he dissects it; and some of his characters ‘look a little the worse’ (as Swift says) ‘for having the skin taken off’.10 If he describes a feeling, he is not satisfied till he embodies it as a real sensation in all its individuality and with all the circumstances that give it interest. If he enters upon some distinction too subtle and recondite to be immediately understood, he relieves it by some palpable and popular illustration. In fact, he all along acts as his own interpreter, and is continually translating his thoughts out of their original metaphysical obscurity into the language of the senses and of common observation. This appears to us to constitute the excellence and to account for the defects of his writings. There is a display (to profusion) of various and striking powers; but they do not tend to the same object. The thought and the illustration do not always hang well together: the one puzzles, and the other startles. From this circumstance it is that to many people Mr Hazlitt appears an obscure and unconnected and to others a forced and extravagant writer. He may be said to paint caricatures on gauze or cobwebs; to explain the mysteries of the Cabbala by Egyptian hieroglyphics. Another fault is that he draws too entirely on his own resources. He never refers to the opinions of other authors (ancient or modern) or to the common opinions afloat on any subject, or if he does, it is to treat them with summary or elaborate contempt. Neither does he consider a subject in all its possible or most prominent bearings, but merely in those points (sometimes minute and extraneous, at other times more broad and general) in which it happens to have pressed close on his own mind or to have suggested some ingenious solution. He follows out his own view of a question, however, fearlessly and patiently; and puts the reader in possession without reserve of all he has thought upon it. There is no writer who seems to pay less attention to the common prejudices of the vulgar; or the common-places of the learned; and who has consequently given greater offence to the bigoted, the self-sufficient, and the dull. We have nothing to do with Mr Hazlitt as a controversial writer; and even as a critic, he is perhaps too much of a partisan, he is too eager and exclusive in his panegyrics or invectives; but as an Essayist, his writings can hardly fail to be read with general satisfaction and with the greatest by those who are most able to appreciate characteristic thought and felicitous expression.

  28. Letter of Elia to Robert Southey, Esquire

  Sir, – You have done me an unfriendly office,1 without perhaps much considering what you were doing. You have given an ill name to my poor Lucubrations. In a recent Paper on Infidelity, you usher in a conditional commendation of them with an exception; which, preceding the encomium,2 and taking up nearly the same space with it, must impress your readers with the notion, that the objectional parts in them are at least equal in quantity to the pardonable. The censure is in fact the criticism; the praise – a concession merely. Exceptions usually follow, to qualify praise or blame. But there stands your reproof, in the very front of your notice, in ugly characters, like some bugbear, to frighten all good Christians from purchasing. Through you I become an object of suspicion to preceptors of youth, and fathers of families. ‘A book which wants only a sounder religious feeling to be as delightful as it is original.’ With no further explanation, what must your readers conjecture, but that my little volume is some vehicle for heresy or infidelity? The quotation which you honour me by subjoining, oddly enough, is of a character which bespeaks a temperament in the writer the very reverse of that your reproof goes to insinuate. Had you been taxing me with superstition, the passage would have been pertinent to the censure. Was it worth your while to go so far out of your way to affront the feelings of an old friend, and commit yourself by an irrelevant quotation, for the pleasure of reflecting upon a poor child, an exile at Genoa?3

  I am at a loss what particular Essay you had in view (if my poor ramblings amount to that appellation) when you were in such a hurry to thrust in your objection, like bad news, foremost. – Perhaps the paper on ‘Saying Graces’ was the obnoxious feature. I have endeavoured there to rescue a voluntary duty – good in place, but never
, as I remember, literally commanded – from the charge of an undecent formality. Rightly taken, Sir, that Paper was not against Graces, but Want of Grace; not against the ceremony, but the carelessness and slovenliness so often observed in the performance of it.

  Or was it that on the ‘New Year’ – in which I have described the feelings of the merely natural man, on a consideration of the amazing change, which is supposable to take place on our removal from this fleshly scene? – If men would honestly confess their misgivings (which few men will) there are times when the strongest Christian of us, I believe, has reeled under questions of such staggering obscurity. I do not accuse you of this weakness. There are some who tremblingly reach out shaking hands to the guidance of Faith – others who stoutly venture into the dark (their Human Confidence their leader, whom they mistake for Faith); and, investing themselves beforehand with Cherubic wings, as they fancy, find their new robes as familiar, and fitting to the supposed growth and stature in godliness, as the coat they left off yesterday – Some whose hope totters upon crutches – Others who stalk into futurity upon stilts.

  The contemplation of a Spiritual World, – which, without the addition of a misgiving conscience, is enough to shake some natures to their foundation – is smoothly got over by others, who shall float over the black billows, in their little boat of No-Distrust, as unconcernedly as over a summer sea. The difference is chiefly constitutional.

  One man shall love his friends and his friends’ faces; and, under the uncertainty of conversing with them again, in the same manner and familiar circumstances of sight, speech, &c. as upon earth – in a moment of no irreverent weakness – for a dream-while – no more – would be almost content, for a reward of a life of virtue (if he could ascribe such acceptance to his lame performances), to take up his portion with those he loved, and was made to love, in this good world, which he knows – which was created so lovely, beyond his deservings. Another, embracing a more exalted vision – so that he might receive indefinite additaments of power, knowledge, beauty, glory, &c. – is ready to forgo the recognition of humbler individualities of earth, and the old familiar faces. The shapings of our heavens are the modifications of our constitutions; and Mr Feeble Mind, or Mr Great Heart, is born in every one of us.

  Some (and such have been accounted the safest divines) have shrunk from pronouncing upon the final state of any man; nor dare they pronounce the case of Judas to be desperate. Others (with stronger optics), as plainly as with the eye of flesh, shall behold a given king in bliss,4 and a given chamberlain in torment; even to the eternising of a cast of the eye in the latter, his own self-mocked and good-humouredly-borne deformity on earth, but supposed to aggravate the uncouth and hideous expression of his pangs in the other place. That one man can presume so far, and that another would with shuddering disclaim confidences, is, I believe, an effect of the nerves purely.

  If in either of these Papers, or elsewhere, I have been betrayed into some levities – not affronting the sanctuary, but glancing perhaps at some of the outskirts and extreme edges, the debateable land between the holy and profane regions – (for the admixture of man’s inventions, twisting themselves with the name of religion itself, has artfully made it difficult to touch even the alloy, without, in some men’s estimation, soiling the fine gold) – if I have sported within the purlieus of serious matter – it was, I dare say, a humour – be not startled, sir, – which I have unwittingly derived from yourself. You have all your life been making a jest of the Devil. Not of the scriptural meaning of that dark essence – personal or allegorical; for the nature is no where plainly delivered. I acquit you of intentional irreverence. But indeed you have made wonderfully free with, and been mighty pleasant upon, the popular idea and attributes of him. A noble Lord,5 your brother Visionary, has scarcely taken greater liberties with the material keys, and merely Catholic notion of St Peter. You have flattered him in prose: you have chanted him in goodly odes. You have been his Jester; Volunteer Laureat, and self-elected Court Poet to Beëlzebub.

  You have never ridiculed, I believe, what you thought to be religion, but you are always girding at what some pious, but perhaps mistaken folks, think to be so. For this reason I am sorry to hear that you are engaged upon a life of George Fox. I know you will fall into the error of intermixing some comic stuff with your seriousness. The Quakers tremble at the subject in your hands. The Methodists are as shy of you, upon account of their founder.6 But, above all, our Popish brethren are most in your debt. The errors of that church have proved a fruitful source to your scoffing vein. Their Legend has been a Golden one to you. And here, your friends, Sir, have noticed a notable inconsistency. To the imposing rites, the solemn penances, devout austerities of that communion; the affecting though erring piety of their hermits; the silence and solitude of the Chartreux – their crossings, their holy waters – their Virgin, and their saints – to these, they say, you have been indebted for the best feelings, and the richest imagery, of your Epic poetry. You have drawn copious drafts upon Loretto. We thought at one time you were going post to Rome – but that in the facetious commentaries, which it is your custom to append so plentifully, and (some say) injudiciously, to your loftiest performances in this kind, you spurn the uplifted toe, which you but just now seemed to court; leave his holiness in the lurch; and show him a fair pair of Protestant heels under your Romish vestment. When we think you already at the wicket, suddenly a violent cross wind blows you transverse –

  Ten thousand leagues awry

  Then might we see

  Cowls, hoods, and habits, with their wearers, tost

  And flutter’d into rags; then reliques, beads,

  Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls,

  The sport of winds.

  You pick up pence by showing the hallowed bones, shrine, and crucifix; and you take money a second time by exposing the trick of them afterwards. You carry your verse to Castle Angelo7 for sale in a morning; and, swifter than a pedlar can transmute his pack, you are at Canterbury with your prose ware before night.

  Sir, is it that I dislike you in this merry vein? The very reverse. No countenance becomes an intelligent jest better than your own. It is your grave aspect, when you look awful upon your poor friends, which I would deprecate.

  In more than one place, if I mistake not, you have been pleased to compliment me at the expense of my companions. I cannot accept your compliment at such a price. The upbraiding a man’s poverty naturally makes him look about him, to see whether he be so poor indeed as he is presumed to be. You have put me upon counting my riches. Really, Sir, I did not know I was so wealthy in the article of friendships.8 There is —, and —, whom you never heard of, but exemplary characters both, and excellent churchgoers; and N., mine and my father’s friend for nearly half a century; and the enthusiast for Wordsworth’s poetry, T. N. T., a little tainted with Socinianism, it is to be feared, but constant in his attachments, and a capital critic; and —, a sturdy old Athanasian, so that sets all to rights again; and W., the light, and warm-as-light-hearted, Janus of the London; and the translator of Dante, still a curate, modest and amiable C.; and Allan C., the large-hearted Scot; and P—r, candid and affectionate as his own poetry; and A—p, Coleridge’s friend; and C—n, his more than friend; and Coleridge himself, the same to me still, as in those old evenings, when we used to sit and speculate (do you remember them, Sir?) at our old Salutation tavern, upon Pantisocracy9 and golden days to come on earth; and W—th (why, Sir, I might drop my rent-roll here, such goodly farms and manors have I reckoned up already. In what possession has not this last name alone estated me? – but I will go on) – and M., the noble-minded kinsman, by wedlock, of W—th; and H. C. R., unwearied in the offices of a friend; and Clarkson, almost above the narrowness of that relation, yet condescending not seldom heretofore from the labours of his world-embracing charity to bless my humble roof; and the gall-less and single-minded Dyer; and the high-minded associate of Cook, the veteran Colonel, with his lusty heart still sending car
tels of defiance to old Time; and, not least, W. A., the last and steadiest left to me of that little knot of whist-players, that used to assemble weekly, for so many years, at the Queen’s Gate (you remember then, Sir?) and called Admiral Burney friend.