LAMB, CHARLES, an original and delightful English essayist and humourist, was born in London on the 10th of February 1775. His parents were poor, but stamped with nature's nobility. His father filled the situation of servant and humble companion to one of the benchers of the Inner Temple, and he obtained for his son Charles, the youngest of three children, a presentation to Christ's Hospital, or the Blue-Coat School. At this ancient and munificent endowment, which maintains, in the heart of the metropolis, 1000 boys, clad in the old costume of its founder, Edward VI., Lamb remained from his seventh to his fifteenth year. He had the good fortune to have for a schoolfellow the celebrated Samuel Taylor Coleridge; and the influence of Coleridge on his younger and more timid associate was great and lasting. A close and tender friendship was formed between them, literary enthusiasm was communicated, and an object or example of successful study and lofty ambition was constantly present to Lamb's imagination. On quitting school, Charles was condemned to the labours of the desk. From 1792 to 1825 he officiated as one of the clerks in the accountant's office of the East India Company. His appointment was small at first, but gradually increased in value and importance, and he finally retired with a pension equal to two-thirds of his salary, or with the liberal allowance of £450 per annum. During his thirty-three years of uncongenial toil and confinement Lamb never forgot literature. His evenings were devoted to a few favourite authors—the old dramatists, and other quaint or grave sources of "English undefiled,"—to an occasional visit to the theatres, when tragedy was represented by a Kemble, Siddons, or Keane, and the comic muse found joyous expression in Banister, Munden, or Liston; to correspondence with Coleridge; and to efforts, for many years slow and hesitating, at original composition. A sad calamity seemed to blight all his prospects in the very morning of life. There was insanity in his family, and, on the 22d of September 1796, his sister Mary Lamb, "worn down to a state of extreme nervous misery by attention to needlework by day, and to her mother by night," broke out into frenzy, and with a knife pierced her mother to the heart. Charles was at hand to snatch the knife from her grasp, and the unhappy and unconscious author of the fatal deed was placed in an asylum. Reason was gradually restored; and in a few months after the death of their aged father, Charles engaged to take care of his sister for life, and she took up her abode with him. His income at this time did not exceed £100 a-year; he had to abandon all hopes of marriage, though then only twenty-two years of age; and there was the fearful and constant apprehension of the recurrence of his sister's malady. In fact, the malady did frequently recur throughout her after life. Mary Lamb knew, on each occasion, when the attack was approaching; and Charles, obtaining leave of absence from the office, as if for a day's pleasure, might be seen escorting his sister, both in tears, to the accustomed asylum in the neighbourhood of London. No more melancholy incident, and no nobler sacrifice, is recorded in literary history. To us it is more deeply affecting than the madness of Tasso, or the wild delirium of Scott.
Lamb's first appearance as an author was made in 1797, when he contributed some pieces to a small volume, consisting chiefly of poems, by Coleridge and Lloyd. Next year he published a prose tale, Rosamund Gray; and in 1799 he was associated with Coleridge and Southey in the publication of a volume of fugitive poetry, entitled The Annual Anthology, which was ridiculed by Canning in the Anti-Jacobin Magazine—
"And ye five other wandering bards, that move
In sweet accord of harmony and love,
Coleridge and Southey, Lloyd, and Lamb, & Co.,
Tune all your mystic harps to praise LEPANX!"
Of the French democrat Lepaux, Lamb had not even heard the name before, and he was the least mystic of writers, either in prose or verse. But he was associated with Coleridge and Southey; and the youthful Canning, in his witty malice and anti-Jacobin zeal, was not disposed to make nice distinctions. Lamb's next literary venture fared no better, though the assault was this time made by a Whig critic. In 1801 appeared his John Woodvil, a slight dramatic piece, written in the style of the elder Elizabethan dramatists, and containing some genuine poetry and happy delineation of the gentler passions, but deficient alike in vigour, in plot, and character. The play was seized upon by Jeffrey in the Edinburgh Review, and held up, in a strain of ridicule, as a specimen of the rudest condition of the drama, the work of "a man of the age of Thespis." The dramatic spirit, however, was not quenched in Lamb. His next effort was a farce, named Mr H., the point of which consisted in the hero's anxiety to conceal his name, "Hogs-flesh,"—a plot so trivial, and so disappointing to the audience, who had yawned through the first act, imagining some great or witty disclosure was to follow, that the piece was sealed with instant and irrevocable condemnation. Lamb made no farther attempt in the difficult walk of the drama, in which many greater spirits have failed, but he bore the disaster with rare equanimity and good humour. He laughed it off among his friends, corresponded largely with a few choice early associates, instituted Wednesday evening suppers, at which shone many bright and subtle intellects, and at length struck into new and successful fields of literary exertion. In 1807 appeared Tales founded on the Plays of Shakespeare, written by Charles and Mary Lamb; and in 1808 two volumes of Specimens of the Dramatic Poets, with short but felicitous notes. Mary Lamb, in 1809, published a little tale, Mrs Leicester's School, and Poetry for Children. The establishment of the London Magazine, in 1820, formed a great era in the history of Charles Lamb. Many of his friends were connected with the new periodical, and he was stimulated to the production of a series of essays, signed Elia, which rose into instant popularity, and may be said to form the chief corner-stone in the small but classic temple of his fame. His curious reading and research—the shrewd observation, fancies, and conceptions of his whole life—were poured into these monthly essays, with many scenes drawn from his past career—its mirthful and mournful experiences. The style is quaintly elaborated, cut into short sentences, the grotesque mingling with the pathetic, and much practical wisdom with a dash of antic folly. In some of the essays, topics of humble and domestic life are set off with lively illustrations, fine satire, or graceful description; others are devoted to criticism, and remarks are thrown out at once original and profound. Perhaps nothing so suggestive or striking in this department of literature had appeared since the days of Steele and Addison. Lamb wrought on a limited canvas, but his combinations and colouring were unique and exquisite. In adding, from time to time, to the number of these essays, gratifying his friends occasionally with a fragment of prose, a letter, or a copy of album verses, Lamb's future days were spent. He was easy—nay, opulent—in his circumstances, and his reputation was daily extending. The unfortunate malady of his sister, however, broke in painfully on his lettered ease and comfort. It continued to increase, with shorter intervals of relief, and Lamb removed to the quiet of the country, residing successively at Islington, Enfield, and Edmonton. He had little enjoyment at any time in such suburban retreats; he would have preferred London to all the charms of Arcadia and the golden age; and he frequently stole in to the Great Babel, to listen to its welcome roar, and pass a festive evening with his friends; this only, however, when Mary was well, and she often accompanied him.
They lived on at Edmonton until Lamb was overtaken by an attack of erysipelas, induced by an accidental fall while walking on the London road, and in a few days the disease proved fatal. He died on the 27th of December 1834. His sister survived till 1847. The sudden death of one so widely known, admired, and beloved as Charles Lamb, fell on the public, as well as on his own attached circle, with all the poignancy of a personal calamity and private grief. His memory wanted no tribute that affection could bestow, and Wordsworth commemorated, in simple and solemn verse, the virtues and genius, and the fraternal devotion, "passing the love of woman," of his early friend. His letters were collected, and his life written, by one of his executors, Sir Thomas Noon Talpford, and another friend. Mr Edward Moxon, the publisher, has given to the world several complete editions of his works. (n. c.—s.)