Children love to listen to stories about their elders, when they were children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, whom they never saw. It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their greatgrandmother Field, who lived in a 10 great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of "The Children in the Wood.” Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was 20 to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts, till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be called upbraiding.

Then I went on to say how religious 30 and how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had only the charge of it—and yet in some respects she might be said to be the mistress of it, too-committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had 40 purchased somewhere in the adjoin

8. great-grandmother, Mary Lamb, Lamb's grandmother, who was for fifty years housekeeper at the mansion of Blakesware in Hertfordshire.

ing county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived, which afterwards came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner's other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if someone were to carry away the old 50 tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.'s tawdry gilt drawing-room. Here John smiled, as much as to say, "That would be foolish, indeed."

And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of the neighborhood for many miles round, to show their 60 respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart, aye, and a great part of the Testament besides. Here little Alice spread her hands.

Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful person their great-grandmother Field once was; and how in her youth she was esteemed the best 70 dancer-here little Alice's little right foot played an involuntary movement, till upon my looking grave, it desisted -the best dancer, I was saying, in the country, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain; but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so good and religious.

52. Abbey, Westminster Abbey. See note on line 26, page 399. 64. Psaltery, the Psalms in the Book of Common Prayer.

80

Then I told how she used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house; and how she believed that an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but she said those innocents would do her no harm; and how frightened I used to be, though in those 10 days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious as she-and yet I never saw the infants. Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous.

Then I told how good she was to all her grandchildren, having us to the great house in the holidays, where I in particular used to spend many 20 hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of the twelve Cæsars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how I could never be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved, oaken panels, 30 with the gilding almost rubbed outsometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then-and because I had 40 more pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew-trees, or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir-apples, which were good for nothing but to look at—or in lying about upon the fresh grass, with all the fine garden smells around me— or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening,

43. fir-apples, the cones of the år tree.

too, along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth-or in 50 watching the dace that darted to and fro in the fishpond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great, sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings, -I had more pleasure in these busyidle diversions than in all the sweet flavors of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such-like common baits of chil- 60 dren. Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant.

,

Then in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though their greatgrandmother Field loved all her grandchildren, yet in an especial manner she 70 might be said to love their uncle, John L because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters 80 when there were any out-and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries and how their uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was 90 a lame-footed boy-for he was a good bit older than me-many a mile when I could not walk for pain; and how in after-life, he became lame-footed too,

and I did not always, I fear, make allowance enough for him when he was impatient, and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when he died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and 10 death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him. I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be 20 alive again, to be quarreling with him

--for we quarreled sometimes—rather than not have him again, and was as uneasy without him, as he, their poor uncle, must have been when the doctor took off his limb. Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about 30 their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother.

dead

Then I told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted

the fair Alice W-n; and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens

when suddenly, turning to Alice, 40 the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of representment that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or whose that bright hair was, and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, 50 which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech: "We are not of Alice nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call Bartrum father. We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence and a 60 name”—and immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor arm-chair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side-but John L. (or James Elia)-was gone forever.

EXPLANATORY NOTES

1. Charles Lamb was an intimate friend of Coleridge, the poet. Coleridge, in his early youth, used to fill various Unitarian pulpits. "Charles, did you ever hear me preach?" he once asked Lamb. "I never heard you do anything else," replied Lamb. Preaching or talking pompously is something Lamb was never guilty of. On one occasion he was reproved for coming to the office late of a morning. He excused himself by saying that he made up for it by going away early in the afternoons.

Moralizing and reforming were quite foreign to him. In this respect he is the antithesis of Addison and Steele. He knew London as well as they did, but he never thought of ridiculing its customs or improving its manners. He was happy in its crowds. He thought of the beggar as his brother, and could write on the chimneysweep with tenderness., He liked to shock people by an unusual manner of dressing. He was delighted if he ruffled a sober-faced critic with some unorthodox theory.

2. In some ways Lamb represented a change

that had taken place in England in the hundred years since Addison and Steele wrote. They observed keenly in order to reform; they were intent on politics and manners. While Lamb cared nothing for politics and crowds, he delighted in human beings. He watched keenly all that went on about him, but not to criticize. He recorded, with a vividness that few have approached, the trivial events of daily life. Yet the common things of life he relates in such a way that we come to know and love the author. We not only love the sweetness of his disposition; we see more deeply into the human heart; we understand life better. In short, Lamb leads us to look at life about us to some purpose.

3. The present essay seems to be almost exclusively about himself. It is indeed unmatched as a revelation of the author. But it also shows how much of the human heart we cannot read. It reveals the sad memories and unexpressed desires of the man who to his friends was a creature of whim, always making witty retorts or playing a hoax upon the unsuspecting.

QUESTIONS AND TOPICS

1. Some pupil should report on Lamb's essay, "Blakesmoor in H-shire." What details does it give of his childhood? How does its picture of the mansion differ from the one in this essay?

2. Someone should relate the story of "The Babes of the Wood." It is actually associated with Norfolk. This fact may have led Lamb to select Norfolk in place of the real locality. What other reason could he have had?

3. Why was it remarkable that the gentry came to Mary Field's funeral? How does this prove that she was a good woman? Do we look for that kind of proof today?

4. Compare this mansion as well as you can with Coverley Hall. Which was the finer? Which had the finer grounds?

5. Compare this account of his brother, John Lamb, with the fuller picture as "cousin James Elia" in the essay "My Relations." In the two essays does Lamb admire his brother for the same reasons? Cite particular passages. In which is the brother the more interesting to you? If you want to learn all that is known of John Lamb, read Lucas's Life, Volume 1, Chapter VII.

6. Some member should report on Lamb's

sister Mary, here called Bridget. He should read "Mackery End, in Hertfordshire." How do you think Mackery End differed from the "great house in Norfolk" that Lamb describes in the present essay?

7. Note each point where the children are brought in. Do you think Lamb makes remarks on purpose to make them put back the grapes, and so on?

8. What is your chief feeling about Lamb when you finish the essay? What gives you this feeling?

9. One way to enjoy this essay is to try to write a short one something like it. You might try: My Grandmother, An Ancestral Mansion, My Uncle, An Old Garden, My Brother, A Death in the Family, A Visit, or any similar subject that interests you. When you have finished it, compare it with Lamb's. Do you like his better or less as a result? The best imitations should be read in class.

10. This fine piece of prose reveals much about Lamb's character. What traits do you find in it? Do you like or dislike Lamb from the glimpse you get of him here? Other members of the class should report on "A Complaint of the Decay of Beggars," "The Praise of Chimney-sweepers," "Modern Gallantry." Almost any essay will reveal something of his humor and sweetness of disposition. Those who report should ask each other for further illustrations of this trait and that.

11. A very fine view of Lamb's life can be gained from his various essays. The class should organize a program to bring out the main events in his career. Each student should report on a separate essay. Here is a list: Childhood: "The Old Benchers of the Inner Temple." Schooldays: "Christ's Hospital Five-and-thirty Years Ago," "New Year's Eve," and "Witches and Other Night Fears." Work in East India House: "The South Sea House," "The Superannuated Man." Many other delightful essays are to be found in the Essays of Elia. Lamb's inimitable whimsical humor will greet you from nearly every page.

12. Those who wish to go farther afield in Lamb's life may read one of the standard biographies: Charles Lamb, by Alfred Ainger, and The Life of Charles Lamb, by E. V. Lucas. The latter of these, in two volumes, will be too long for most readers. Chapters VI-VII of Volume I give an account of Alice W. Chapter xxi introduces Hazlitt. In Volume II, Chapter IV tells of the "Elia" essays.

One of the pleasantest things in the world is going a journey; but I like to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a room; but out-of-doors, Nature is company enough for me. I am then never less alone than when alone.

The fields his study, Nature was his book.

I cannot see the wit of walking and talking at the same time. When I 10 am in the country, I wish to vegetate like the country. I am not for criticizing hedgerows and black cattle. I go out of town in order to forget the town and all that is in it. There are those who for this purpose go to watering-places, and carry the metropolis with them. I like more elbowroom, and fewer incumbrances. I like solitude, when I give myself up to 20 it, for the sake of solitude; nor do I ask for

a friend in my retreat, Whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet. The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do just as one pleases. We go a journey chiefly to be free of all impediments and of all inconveniences; to leave ourselves behind, much more to get rid of others. 30 It is because I want a little breathingspace to muse on indifferent matters, where Contemplation

May plume her feathers and let grow her
wings,

That in the various bustle of resort
Were all too ruffled, and sometimes im-
paired,

that I absent myself from the town

7. The fields, quoted from Bloomfield's "The Farmer's Boy, Spring." 22. a friend, from Cowper's poem Retirement, lines 742-743. 33. May plume, etc., from Milton's Comus, lines 378-380. 34. resort, cities.

for a while, without feeling at a loss the moment I am left by myself. Instead of a friend in a post-chaise or in a Tilbury, to exchange good things 40 with and vary the same stale topics over again, for once let me have a truce with impertinence. Give me the clear blue sky over my head, and the green turf beneath my feet, a winding road before me, and a three hours' march to dinner-and then to thinking! It is hard if I cannot start some game on these lone heaths. I laugh, I run, I leap, I sing for joy. 50 From the point of yonder rolling cloud, I plunge into my past being, and revel there, as the sunburnt Indian plunges headlong into the wave that wafts him to his native shore. Then long-forgotten things, like "sunken wreck and sumless treasuries," burst upon my eager sight, and I begin to feel, think, and be myself again. Instead of an awkward silence, broken by attempts 60 at wit or dull commonplaces, mine is that undisturbed silence of the heart

which alone is perfect eloquence. No one likes puns, alliterations, antitheses, argument, and analysis better than I do; but I sometimes had rather be without them. "Leave, oh, leave me to my repose!" I have just now other business in hand, which would seem idle to you, but is with me "very stuff 70 o' the conscience." Is not this wild rose sweet without a comment? Does not this daisy leap to my heart set in its coat of emerald? Yet if I were to explain to you the circumstance that

40. Tilbury, a two-wheeled carriage without a top. named for the inventor. 56. sunken wreck i.e., in the ocean; quoted from Shakespeare's Henry V, I, ïì. 67. Leave, oh, leave, from Gray's translation of the Norse poem "The Descent of Odin." 70. very stuff, etc. from Othello, I, ii.