IN THE FOOTPRINTS OF
CHARLES LAMB

IN THE FOOTPRINTS OF
CHARLES LAMB

BY
Benjamin Ellis Martin
AUTHOR OF “OLD CHELSEA,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY HERBERT RAILTON
AND JOHN FULLEYLOVE

WITH A BIBLIOGRAPHY BY E. D. NORTH

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1890


Copyright, 1890, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.

Press of J. J. Little & Co.
Astor Place, New York.

TO
L.   H.   F.
 

During the half-century since the death of Charles Lamb, an immense mass of matter has been gathered about him and about his writings. In burrowing among the treasures and the rubbish of this mound, I have been struck by the total absence of what may be called a topographical biography of the man, or of any accurate record of his rovings: with the exception of that necessarily brief one contained in Mr. Laurence Hutton’s invaluable “Literary Landmarks of London.” Such a shortcoming is the more marked, inasmuch as Lamb is so closely identified with the Town. Not one among the men of letters, whose shadows walk the London streets with us, knew them better, or loved them more, than he did. In following his footsteps, I have found still untouched many of the houses that harboured him; and I have taken delight in the task, before the restless hand of reconstruction shall have plucked them forever away, of helping to keep alive the look of all that is left of the walls within which he lived and laboured.

From this mere memento of brick-and-mortar—all my original intent—I have been led on to a study of the man himself, from our more modern and more humane point of view. The time has long gone by for that kindly compact of reticence which may have been becoming in the years directly after his death. Nothing need be hidden now about the madness of Mary, about the terrible taking-off of her mother, about the early insanity of Charles himself, or his later weaknesses. And, in telling the entire truth, I have found comfort and cheer in the belief that neither apology nor homily can ever again be deemed needful to a decorous demeanour beside these dead.

So that I have sketched him just as he lives for me—the lines and the wrinkles of his aspect, the shine and the shadow of his soul: just as he moved in the crowd, among his friends, by his sister’s side, and alone. To show exactly what he was, rather than what he did, I have used his own words wherever this was possible; altering them as to their letter alone, where it has seemed essential. In this spirit of affectionate allegiance I have followed him faithfully in all his wanderings, from his cradle close by the Thames to his grave not far from the Lea.

B. E. M.

New York, October, 1890.

List of Illustrations.

I.

UCH is the legend that catches one’s eye, plain for all men to see, on many a hoarding in London streets. Behind those boards, wide or high, on which the callous contractor shamelessly blazons his dreadful trade—“Old Houses Bought to be Pulled Down”—he is stupidly pickaxing to pieces historic bricks and mortar which ought to be preserved priceless and imperishable. Within only a few years, I have had to look on, while thus were broken to bits and carted away to chaos John Dryden’s dwelling-place in Fetter Lane, Benjamin Franklin’s and Washington Irving’s lodgings in Little Britain, Byron’s birthplace in Hollis Street, Milton’s “pretty garden-house,” in Petty France, Westminster. The spacious fireplace by which the poet sat, during his fast-darkening days—for in this house he lost his first wife and his eyesight—was knocked down, as only one among other numbered lots, to stolid builders. And the stone, “Sacred to Milton, the Prince of Poets”—placed in the wall facing the garden, by William Hazlitt, living here early in our century, beneath which Jeremy Bentham, occupant of the adjoining house, was wont to make his guests fall on their knees—this stone has gone to “patch a wall to expel the winter’s flaw.”

To this house there used to come, to call on Hazlitt, a man of noticeable and impressive presence:—small of stature, fragile of frame, clad in clothing of tightly fitting black, which was clerical as to cut and well-worn as to texture; his “almost immaterial legs,” in Tom Hood’s phrase, ending in gaiters and straps; his dark hair, not quite black, curling crisply about a noble head and brow—“a head worthy of Aristotle,” Leigh Hunt tells us; “full of dumb eloquence,” are Hazlitt’s words; “such only may be seen in the finer portraits of Titian,” John Forster puts it; “a long, melancholy face, with keen penetrating eyes,” we learn from Barry Cornwall; brown eyes, kindly, quick, observant; his dark complexion and grave expression brightened by the frequent “sweet smile, with a touch of sadness in it.”

This visitor, of such peculiar and piquant personality—externally “a rare composition of the Jew, the gentleman, and the angel,” to use his own words of the singer Braham—is Charles Lamb, a clerk in the East India House, living with his sister Mary in chambers in the Inner Temple. Let us walk with him as he returns to those peaceful precincts, still of signal interest, despite the ruin wrought by recent improvements. Here, as in the day of Spenser, “studious lawyers have their bowers,” and “have thriven;” here, on every hand, we see the shades of Evelyn, Congreve, Cowper, the younger Colman, Fielding, Goldsmith, Johnson, Boswell; here, above all, the atmosphere is still redolent with sweet memories of the “best beloved of English writers,” as Algernon Swinburne well calls Charles Lamb. Closer and more compact than elsewhere are his footprints in these Temple grounds; for he was born within their gates, his youthful world was bounded by their walls, his happiest years, as boy and as man, were passed in their buildings.

And out beyond these borders we shall track his steps mainly through adjacent streets, almost always along the City’s streets, of which he was as fond as Samuel Johnson or Charles Dickens. He loved, all through life, “enchanting London, whose dirtiest, drab-frequented alley, and her lowest-bowing tradesman, I would not exchange for Skiddaw, Helvellyn.... O! her lamps of a night! her rich goldsmiths, print-shops, toy-shops, mercers, hardware men, pastry-cooks, St. Paul’s Churchyard, the Strand, Exeter ’Change, Charing Cross, with the man upon a black horse! These are thy gods, O London!” He couldn’t care, he said, for the beauties of nature, as they have been confinedly called; and used to persist, with his pleasing perversity, that when he climbed Skiddaw he was thinking of the ham-and-beef shop in St. Martin’s Lane! “Have I not enough without your mountains?” he wrote to Wordsworth. “I do not envy you. I should pity you, did I not know that the mind will make friends with anything”—even with scenery! It was a serious step which Lamb took in later life, out from his beloved streets into the country; a step which certainly saddened, and doubtless shortened, the last stage of his earthly journey.

By a happy chance—for they have an unhallowed habit in London town of destroying just those buildings which I should select to save, leaving unmolested those that would not be missed, for all they ever have to say to us—nearly every one of Lamb’s successive homes has been rescued from ruin, and kept inviolate for our reverent regard. “Cheerful Crown Office Row (place of my kindly engendure)”—to use his own words—has been only partly rebuilt; and that end of the block wherein lived his parents stands almost in the same state as when it was erected in 1737; this date told to us to-day by the old-fashioned figures cut on its easterly end. It was then named “The New Building, opposite the Garden-Wall,” and under that division of the Chamber-Book of the Inner Temple I have hunted up its numerous occupants. By this archive, and by the Books of Accounts for the eighteenth century, I have thus been enabled to trace Samuel Salt from his first residence within the Temple in 1746, in Ram Alley Building—now gone—through successive removals, until he settled down in his last chambers, wherein he died in February, 1793. The record reads—a “parliament” meaning one of the fixed meetings in each term of the Benchers of the Temple, for the purpose of transacting business, and of calling students to the bar—“13th May, 1768. At this Parliament: It is ordered that Samuel Salt, Esquire, a Barrister of this Society, aged about Fifty, be and is hereby admitted, for his own life, to the benefit of an Assignment in and to All that Ground Chamber, No. 2, opposite the Garden Walk in Crown Office Row: He, the said Samuel Salt having paid for the Purchase thereof into the Treasury of this Society, the sum of One Hundred and Fifty pounds.”

So that it was in No. 2—the numbers having remained always unchanged—of Crown Office Row, in one of the rear rooms of the ground floor, which then looked out on Inner Temple Lane, some of which rooms have been swept away since, and others have been slightly altered, that Charles Lamb was born, on the 10th February, 1775.

For Samuel Salt, Esquire—one of “The Old Benchers of the Inner Temple,” whose pensive gentility is portrayed in Elia’s essay of that title—had in his employ, as “his clerk, his good servant, his dresser, his friend, his ‘flapper,’ his guide, stop-watch, auditor, treasurer,” one John Lamb; who formed, with his wife and children, the greater part of the household. Of him, too, under the well-chosen name of Lovel, we have the portrait, vivid and rounded, in his son’s paper. “He was a man of an incorrigible and losing honesty. A good fellow withal and ‘would strike.’ In the cause of the oppressed he never considered inequalities, or calculated the number of his opponents.... Lovel was the liveliest little fellow breathing, had a face as gay as Garrick’s, whom he was said greatly to resemble (I have a portrait of him which confirms it), possessed a fine turn for humorous poetry—next to Swift and Prior—moulded heads in clay or plaster of Paris to admiration, by the dint of natural genius merely; turned cribbage-boards and such small cabinet toys, to perfection; took a hand at quadrille or bowls with equal facility; made punch better than any man of his degree in England; had the merriest quips and conceits, and was altogether as brimful of rogueries and inventions as you could desire. He was a brother of the angle, moreover, and just such a free, hearty, honest companion as Mr. Izaak Walton would have chosen to go a-fishing with.” In truth,

This John Lamb was devoted to the welfare of his master, Samuel Salt; who, in turn, did nothing without consulting him, or failed in anything without expecting and fearing his admonishing. “He put himself almost too much in his hands, had they not been the purest in the world.” To him and to his children Salt was a life-long benefactor, and never, until death had made an end to the good man’s good deeds, did there fall on the family any shadow of change or trouble or penury.

It was in Salt’s chambers that Charles and his sister Mary, in their youthful years, “tumbled into a spacious closet of good old English reading, and browsed at will on that fair and wholesome pasturage:” thus already so early drawn together by kindred tastes and studies, even as they were already at one in their joint heritage of the father’s latent mental malady. They had learned their letters, and picked up crumbs of rudimentary knowledge, at a small school in Fetter Lane, hard by the Temple; the boys being taught in the mornings, the girls in the afternoons. It stood on the edge of “a discoloured, dingy garden in the passage leading into Fetter Lane from Bartlett’s buildings. This was near to Holborn.” Bartlett’s name is still kept alive in Bartlett’s Passage, right there; but no stone of his building now stands; and the only growth of any garden in that turbulent thoroughfare to-day is pavement and mud and obscene urchins.

The inscription painted over their school-door asserted that it was kept by “Mr. William Bird, Teacher of Mathematics and Languages.” “Heaven knows what languages were taught in it, then! I am sure that neither my sister nor myself brought any out of it, but a little of our native English”—so Charles wrote nearly fifty years after to William Hone, the editor of the Every Day Book. In its pages had just appeared a woful narrative of the poverty and desolation of one Starkey, who had been “a gentle usher” in that school. In the letter written by Lamb as a pendant to that paper, he gossips characteristically about the memories of those school-days thus awakened in him and in his sister. He vividly portrays that down-trodden and downcast usher, who “was not always the abject thing he came to;” and who actually had bold and figurative words for the big girls, when they talked together, or teased him during his recitations. “Oh, how I remember our legs wedged into those uncomfortable sloping desks, where we sat elbowing each other; and the injunctions to attain a free hand, unattainable in that position!”

They had, also, an aged school-dame here, who was proud to prattle to her pupils about her aforetime friend, Oliver Goldsmith; telling them how the good-natured man, then too poor to present her with a copy of his “Deserted Village,” had lent it to her to read. He had become famous now, and so affluent—by the success of “The Good Natur’d Man,” indeed!—that he had bought chambers on the second floor of No. 2 Brick Court, Middle Temple. This was but a biscuit toss from Crown Office Row, and perchance little Mary Lamb sometimes met, within the grounds, the short, stout, plain, pock-marked Irish doctor. He died in those chambers, only ten months before the birth of Charles; and was buried somewhere in the burying-ground of the Temple church. Within it, the Benchers put up a tablet to his memory. It is now in their vestry, wherein you shall also find the baptismal records of nearly all the Lamb children. The inscription on the tablet may have been first spelled out by Mary to her small and eager brother. Doubtless the two children knew the exact spot of his grave—known exactly to none of us to-day—even as they knew every corner and cranny of the Temple grounds and buildings. They played in its gardens, and looked down on them from these same upper windows of No. 2 Crown Office Row, which have been selected by Mr. Fulleylove for his point of view. Then these gardens were as Shakespeare saw them, when he, by a blameless anachronism, caused to be enacted in them the famous scene of the Roses; really rehearsed there, years before, when Warwick assigned the rose to Plantagenet. Now, the grounds have been extended riverwards by the construction of the Embankment; and the ancient historic blocks of buildings about them have been vulgarized into something new and fine.

Mary and Charles were always together during these early days. Of the seven children born into the family, only three escaped death in infancy: our two, and their brother John, elder by two years than Mary. Their mother loved them all, but most of all did she love “dear, little, selfish, craving John;” who, as was well written by Charles in later life, was

not worthy of one-tenth of that affection which Mary had a right to claim. But the mother, like the father, was fond of fun, and found her favourite in her handsome, sportive, noisy boy; showing scant sympathy with and no insight into the “moythered brains”—her own phrase—of her sensitive, brooding daughter, who already gave unheeded evidence of the congenital gloom by which her mind was to become so clouded. Another member of the small household was the father’s queer old-maiden sister, Aunt Hetty, who passed her days sitting silently or mumbling mysteriously as she peered over her spectacles at the two children, huddled together in their youthful fear of her.

So it came to pass that Mary took charge of the “weakly but very pretty babe”—as she recalled him, long years after, when he lay dead at Edmonton, and she, in the next room, was rambling disjointedly on about all their past. With a childish wisdom, born, surely, not of her years, but rather of her loneliness and her unrequited caresses and her craving for companionship, she became at once his big sister, his little mother, his guardian angel. She cared for him in his helpless babyhood, she gave strength to his feeble frame, she nurtured his growing brain, she taught him to talk and to walk. We seem to see the tripping of his feet, that

trying to keep pace with her steps then; even as they always all through life tried to do, wheresoever she walked, until they stopped at the edge of his grave. The story of these two lives of double singleness, from these childish footprints to that grave, is simply the story of their love. He, like his own Child-Angel, was to know weakness and reliance and the shadow of human imbecility; and he was to go with a lame gait; but, in his goings, he “exceeded all mortal children in grace and swiftness.” And so pity springs up in us, as in angelic bosoms; and yearnings touch us, too, at the memory of this “immortal lame one.”

The boy’s next school, to which he obtained a presentation through the influence of Mr. Salt, is known officially as Christ’s Hospital, and is commonly called the Blue-Coat School. It still stands, a stately monument of the munificence of “that godly and royal child, King Edward VI., the flower of the Tudor name—the young flower that was untimely cropped, as it began to fill our land with its early odours—the boy-patron of boys—the serious and holy child, who walked with Cranmer and Ridley.” To-day, as we stay our steps in Newgate Street, and peer through the iron railings at the dingy red brick and stone facings of the ancient walls; or, as we pause under the tiny statue of the boy-king—founder, only ten days before his death, of this noble hospital for poor fatherless children and foundlings—we may look at the out-of-school games going on in the great quadrangle: the foolish flapping skirts of the striplings tucked into their red leathern waistbands to give fair and free play to their lanky yellow legs, their uncapped heads taking sun or shower with equal unconcern.

Among them, unseen of them, seem to move the forms of those other boys, Charles Lamb, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Leigh Hunt—all students here about this time. Our boy was then a little past seven, a gentle, affectionate lad, “terribly shy,” as he said of himself later, and made all the more sensitive by his slight stammer, which lapsed to a stutter when his nerves were wrought upon and startled. Yet he was no more left alone and isolated now than he was in after life; his schoolfellows indulged him, the masters were fond of him, and he was given special privileges not known to the others. His little complaints were listened to; he had tea and a hot roll o’ mornings; his ancient aunt used to toddle there to bring him good things, when he, schoolboy-like, only despised her for it, and, as he confessed when older, used to be ashamed to see her come and sit herself down on the old coal-hole steps near where they went into the grammar-school, and open her apron, and bring out her basin, with some nice thing she had caused to be saved for him. And he was allowed to go home to the Temple for short visits, from time to time, so passing his young days between “cloister and cloister.”

As he walks down the Old Bailey, or through Fleet Market—then in the full foul odour of

its wickedness and nastiness—and so up Fleet Street on his way home, we may be sure that his eager eye alights on all that is worth its while, and that the young alchemist is already putting into practice that process by which he transmuted the mud of street and pavement into pure gold, and so found all that was always precious to him in their stones. After treading them for many years, as boy and as man, he asks: “Is any night-walk comparable to a walk from St. Paul’s to Charing Cross for lighting and paving, for crowds going and coming without respite, the rattle of coaches, and the cheerfulness of shops?”

Among his schoolfellows, Charles formed special friendships with a few select spirits; and in Coleridge—“the inspired charity-boy,” who entered the school at the same time, though three years older—he found a life-long companion. He looked up to the elder lad—dreamy, dejected, lonely—with an affection and a reverence which never failed all through life, though in after years subject to the strain of Coleridge’s alienation, absence, and silence. “Bless you, old sophist,” he wrote once to Coleridge, “who, next to human nature taught me all the corruption I was capable of knowing.”

The two lads—along with Middleton, then a Grecian in the school, afterward Bishop of Calcutta—figure together in the fine group in silver which passes from ward to ward each year, according to merit in studies and in conduct. There is a Charles Lamb prize, too, given every year, as fittingly should be, to the best English essayist among the Blue-Coat boys, consisting of a silver medal: on one side a laurel wreath enwrapped about the hospital’s arms; on the reverse, Lamb’s profile, his hair something too curly, his aspect somewhat smug. It would be a solace to his kindly spirit could he know that his memory is thus kept green in the school which he left with sorrow, and to which he always looked back fondly. When a man, he used to go to see the boys; and Leigh Hunt—who entered a little later—has left us a pleasant picture of one of these visits. Charles had been a good student in the musty classical course of the school; not fonder of his hexameters than of his hockey, however; and when he left, in November, 1789, aged nearly fifteen, he had become a deputy Grecian, he was a capital Latin scholar, he probably had a firm conviction that there was a language called Greek, and he had read widely and well in the English classics. Doubtless he was, even then, already familiar with the Elizabethan dramatists, his life-long “midnight darlings;” above all, he had nurtured himself upon the plays of Shakespeare, which were “the strongest and sweetest food of his mind from infancy.”

The somewhat sombre surroundings of his summer holidays, too, helped to form him into an “old-fashioned child.” The earliest thing he could remember, he once wrote, was Mackery End; or Mackarel End, as it is spelled, perhaps more properly, in some old maps of Hertfordshire. He could just recall his visit there, under the care of “Bridget Elia”—as he named his sister in his essays. This youthful visit had been made to a farmer, one Gladman, who had married their grandmother’s sister; and his farm-house was delightfully situated within a gentle walk from Wheathampstead. Charles describes his return thither with Mary, more than forty years after; and how, spite of their trepidation as to the greeting they might get, they were joyfully received by a radiant woman-cousin, “who might have sat to a sculptor for the image of Welcome.”

Mainly, however, were the boy’s holidays passed with his grandmother Field, the old and trusted housekeeper of the Plumer family at Blakesware, in Hertfordshire: an ancient mansion, topped by many turrets, gables, carved chimneys, guarded all about by a solid red-brick wall and heavy iron gates. He was not allowed to go outside the grounds, and was content to wander over their trimly-kept terraces and about the tranquil park, wherein aged trees bent themselves in grotesque shapes. Beyond, he fancied that a dark lake stretched silently, striking terror to the lad’s imagination.

“So strange a passion for the place possessed me in those years, that, though there lay—I shame to say how few roods distant from the mansion—half hid by trees, what I judged some romantic lake, such was the spell which bound me to the house, and such my carefulness not to pass its strict and proper precincts, that the idle waters lay unexplored for me; and not till late in life, curiosity prevailing over elder devotion, I found, to my astonishment, a pretty brawling brook had been the Lacus Incognitus of my infancy.” It was the placid tiny Ashe, which, curving about through this valley, here brawls over one of the wears that have given the place its name, and his lake proved to be only one of its little inlets.

Within doors he would wander through the wainscoted halls and the tapestried bedrooms—“tapestry so much better than painting, not adorning merely, but peopling the wainscots ... all Ovid on the walls, in colours vivider than his descriptions. Actæon in mid sprout, with the unappeasable prudery of Diana; and the still more provoking, and almost culinary, coolness of Dan Phœbus, eel-fashion, deliberately divesting of Marsyas.” He would gaze long in wonder on the busts of the Twelve Cæsars ranged around the marble hall, and would study the prints of Hogarth’s Progress of the Rake and of the Harlot hung on the walls. “Why, every plank and panel of that house for me had magic in it,” he says in the essay on “Blakesmoor in H——shire;” under which name he disguises the place. That is a delightful paper, ending with this most musical passage: “Mine too—whose else?—thy costly fruit-garden, with its sun-baked southern wall; the ampler pleasure-garden, rising backwards from the house in triple terraces, with flower-pots now of palest lead, save that a speck here and there, saved from the elements, bespake their pristine state to have been gilt and glittering; the verdant quarters backwarder still; and, stretching still beyond, in old formality, thy firry wilderness, the haunt of the squirrel, and the day-long murmuring wood-pidgeon, with that antique image in the centre, God or Goddess I wist not; but child of Athens or old Rome paid never a sincerer worship to Pan or to Sylvanus in their native groves, than I to that fragmental mystery.”

Lamb went back in 1822 to revisit these boyhood scenes, only to find that ruin had been done with a swift hand, and that brick-and-mortar knaves had plucked every panel and spared no plank. The ancient mansion entirely disappeared during that year, and a new Blakesware House soon after rose on its site: “worthy in picturesque architecture and fair proportions of its old namesake,” in the words of Canon Ainger.

The boy used to go to church of a Sunday with his grandmother, to Widford; nearer to their place than their own parish church at Ware. On a stone under the noble elms many a transatlantic visitor has read the simple inscription, “Mary Field, August 5th, 1792.” Beneath it lies the grandmother.

II.

Until lately, in the year 1889, when the frenzy for Improvement and the rage for Rent wiped it out, I could have shown you a queer bit of cobble wall, set in and thus saved from ruin by the new wall of the Metal Exchange. These few square feet of stone were the sole remaining relic of the chapel of the old manor-house of Leadenhall—so named from its roofing of lead, rare in those days—which house had been presented to the City of London by the munificent Richard Whittington in 1408, to be used as a granary and market. It escaped the Great Fire, and its chapel was not torn down until June, 1812. This piece of its wall, having been preserved then, was built in with, and so formed part of, the old East India House. That famous structure stretched its stately and severe façade along Leadenhall Street just beyond Gracechurch Street, and so around the corner into Lime Street. It was, withal, a gloomy

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pile, with its many-columned Ionic portico. Its pediment contained a stone sovereign of Great Britain, holding an absurd umbrella-shaped shield over the sculptured figures of eastern commerce; its front was dominated by Britannia comfortably seated, at her right Europe, on a horse, and at her left Asia, on a camel.

Within its massive walls—holding memories of Warren Hastings and of Cornwallis, of Mill, gathering material for his history of India, and of Hoole, translating Tasso in leisure hours—were spacious halls and lofty rooms, statues and pictures, a museum of countless curiosities from the East. Beneath were vaults stored with a goodly share of the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, and dungeons wherein were found—on the downfall of John Company, in 1860, and the destruction of his fortress a little later—chains and fetters, and a narrow passage leading to a concealed postern: these last for the benefit of the victims of John’s press-gang, entrapped, drugged, shipped secretly down the river, and so sent across water to serve Clive and Coote as food for powder.

Upstairs, at a desk, sat Charles Lamb, keeping accounts in big books during “thirty-three years of slavery,” as he phrased it: of unfailing and untiring—albeit not untired—devotion to his duties, as his employers well knew. It was in April, 1792, just as he became seventeen, that he was first chained to this hard desk; and it came about in this way.

John Lamb, the father, had got nearly to his dotage and quite to uselessness, and was pensioned off by his master about this period. The elder brother, dear little selfish, craving John, had grown into a broad, burly, jovial bachelor, wedded to his own ways; living an easy life apart from them all; “marching in quite an opposite direction,” as his brother kindly puts it—speaking, as was his wont, not without tenderness for him. He contributed nothing to the support of the family, and Mary added but little, beyond her own meagre maintenance by dress-making on a small scale—a trade she had taught herself. In her article on needlework, written in 1814, for the British Lady’s Magazine, she says: “In early life I passed eleven years in the exercise of my needle for a livelihood.” And so it seemed needful that the boy, not yet fifteen years old on leaving Christ’s, should get to work to eke out the family’s scanty income.

John Lamb had a comfortable position in the South Sea House. It stood where now stands the Oriental Bank, at the end of Threadneedle Street, as you turn up into Bishopsgate Within: “its magnificent portals ever gaping wide, and disclosing to view a grave court, with cloisters and pillars.” In his essay entitled “The South Sea House,” Lamb has drawn the picture of the place within: its “stately porticos, imposing staircases, offices roomy as the state apartments in palaces; ... the oaken wainscots hung with pictures of deceased governors; ... huge charts, which subsequent discoveries have antiquated; dusty maps of Mexico, dim as dreams; and soundings of the Bay of Panama!” All “long since dissipated or scattered into air at the blast of the breaking of that famous Bubble.”

Here Charles was given a desk, and here he worked, but at what work and with what wage we do not know. It was not for many months, however, for he soon received his appointment in the East India House through the kindness of Samuel Salt—the final kindness that came to the family from their aged well-doer; for he died during that year, 1792. The young accountant had but little taste for, and still less knowledge of, the mercantile mysteries over which he was set to toil. He knew less geography than a schoolboy of six weeks’ standing, he said in mature manhood; and a map of old Ortelius was as authentic as Arrowsmith to him. Of history and chronology he possessed some vague points, such as he could not help picking up in the course of his miscellaneous reading; but he never deliberately sat down to study any chronicle of any country! His friend Manning once, with great painstaking, got him to think that he understood the first proposition in Euclid, but gave him over in despair at the second. And, toil as toughly as he might over his accounts, he had to own, after years of adding, that “I think I lose £100 a year at the India House, owing solely to my want of neatness in making up my accounts.”

And yet, just the more uncongenial as was his labour, by just so much more did it tend in all ways to his good. Wordsworth said truly, with admirable acumen, that Lamb’s submission to this mechanical employment placed him in fine contrast with other men of genius—his contemporaries—who, in sacrificing personal independence, made a wreck of their morality and honour. No such wreck did Charles Lamb make, and his peculiar pride prevented his sacrificing ever one iota of his independence. He could be no man’s debtor nor dependant, and was content to cut his coat to suit his cloth, all his life long. His sole hatred, curiously enough, was for bankrupts; and he has portrayed with delicious irony, in his essay, “The Two Races of Men”—the men who borrow and the men who lend—the contempt of the former for money, “accounting it (yours and mine especially) no better than dross!”

The new clerk began with an annual salary of £70, to be increased by a small sum each year. Many huge account-books were filled with his figures—who knows what has become of them?—and these he used to call his real works, filling some hundred folios on the shelves in Leadenhall Street. His printed books, he claimed, were the solace and the recreations of his out-of-office hours at home.