or failed in life, have married and begot children like unto themselves, and finally have gone down white-haired to the grave! Trite enough, indeed, are these reflections; but presently they fade away, and then there arises, shadowed forth by our imagination, the form of a scholar here long ago, whom we have since learnt to love and admire. We picture him as he was when in this place which he ever regarded with love and reverence, and whose name he has engraven on the monument which he has erected to his own fame. We will make a feeble effort to paint this scholar.

It is the latter part of the last century. The boys are playing in the old court-yard, as merrily as they have done to-day. Our fathers and grandfathers trundling their hoops and whipping their tops in all glee. But our scholar is not amongst these. If you look under yonder pillars you may perchance espy him. He is walking alone. A slight figure, surmounted by a large upright head, an olive-tinted complexion, a greyish eye, and a kind genial expression: this is he. He is what the lads call a dew-beater that is, he turns out his toes too much and walks with a broad foot. He marches slowly, and is evidently half thinking and half observing the other boys. Presently he comes up to a knot of marbleplayers. They stop their sport as he approaches, and salute him variously. "Now then, look sharp across the game, will you!" shouts an oldish boy, who is one of the sea-scholars. "You take your time, Charles Lamb-he shan't bully you," cries another. "I say, Charles, what's for dinner today?" inquires a third; while a hungry-looking little fellow says, very earnestly, "If it's veal you promised me some, you know." Whereupon he is rebuked, by another of the knot, with "What a little greedy you are: you know Charles Lamb never has more than enough for himself." Meanwhile our scholar is passing hastily on, smiling and stuttering out, as quickly as he can, "That he will remember about the veal." Then he bends his steps towards the porter's lodge, and there receives the envied dinner. As the eyes of the boys are turned towards him, he blushes and looks ashamed; then presently he peeps between the plates, and sniffs, rejoicing at the fragrance of the escaping steam. Happy little hungry marble-player! It is a bread-and-cheese day, and thou shalt have half of that savoury mess, for it is veal-wished-for dish! Very pleasant is it to see the division of the spoil: the keen interested look of the little one, and the queer kind expression in the other's eye, as he stammers out an injunction to eat it while it's hot-a recommendation speedily followed. Thou enjoyest half thy scanty meal much more than thou wouldst have done the whole unshared, oh, Charles! Nay, thou even beggest pardon, when the young Epicurean, after the first three mouthfuls, ruthlessly demands gravy!

And who is this who touches thee on the shoulder, and, as thou turnest thy head, smiles upon thee with a mouth and from eyes which are full of sweetness. Hasten that dinner, Charles, and then shalt thou saunter alone with him until school-time, listening rapturously as he talks on and on of things that are and will be. Enthralling is the eloquence of this school-boy; and as thou hearest him, Charles, visions of his future greatness steal over thee, and then thou wilt feel an honest pleasure at the thought of being the friend of such an one. And the boys in the school nod their heads, and say that Coleridge, the Grecian, is very thick with young Charles Lamb.

A Saturday afternoon. Away as fast as thou canst, young stammerer. Away from all noise and turmoil, even that of school, and home to the quiet Temple. Is it not grateful to thy senses, the transition from the roaring street to those silent courts? How pleasant to hear the beat of thine own foot, hollow, melodious! Delicious too to catch a glimpse of those gardens, so green and refreshing; while the cool Thames, bearing upon its breast barges and sailing-vessels, boats and timber-rafts, glitters in the background! But what are these but mere accessories to thy pleasure, when home is the goal? Those pleasant old chambers up ever so many pair of stairs, but looking out, nevertheless, on the beautiful gardens and the Bencher's walk. There wilt thou sit and watch those steady old pacers by and by, when twilight comes on, but not now. For now, after home greetings are over, thou whisperest to thy sister; and presently you twain will go together, and while she will sit at her needle, thou in thy stuttering fashion wilt read out choice passages of old authors -fellows half forgotten by the world, but none the less juicy and nutritious for that. Very happy will they be together: the boy wrapped in the words of his author, the girl pausing ever and anon in her work to smile at Charles! Assuredly, there is much love between that brother and

sister.

But years pass away: and Charles Lamb is no longer now the bluecoat boy, but a young man of letters-one who has published poems and been damned by the reviewers. Still, however, let us dwell upon his life-one so full of sadness and mirth, so mingling comedy with tragedy.

It is no common grief which this man bears upon him. It is not one which can at any time become a thing forgotten, which can ever even pass into a melancholy recollection. Our greatest griefs generally become this. Time heals over the seam and leaves but the scar. We look back, indeed, and feel sad; but, with the sadness, comes a sense of relief. It is over and done with. But this grief of Lamb's is life-long. It is a wound ever breaking-out afresh. Each day may bring a renewal. And the fate

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which thus drags him down is, alas! incarnate in her whom he best loves— in her whose goodness, and love, and care, all who know her celebrate— in Mary his sister.

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There is a glimpse of a time long ago, when his sister was not alone in Charles's affections. Alice W. flits across the scene. We see her indistinctly a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl. There was happiness for Charles then, a quiet grave kind of happiness; not so much of mirth perhaps as afterwards, but more of sober joy. He dreamed day-dreams then, doubtless. He confronted the future boldly, and hoped much. Had these dreams of his come to pass-had there been marriage and domestic happiness in store for him, should we ever have heard of Charles Lamb? Would the "Essays of Elia" have come down to us? Or would some editor of Coleridge have informed us, in a foot-note, that S. T. C. published some poems once in conjunction with two young men, a Mr. Charles Lamb and a Mr. C. Lloyd! Who knows but this might have been all our knowledge of Lamb, had his life progressed over pleasant places? Who can tell? Happiness is sometimes an incentive to genius, but we know not how often it lulls it to sleep. Would the world have been blessed with “Don Quixote," had Cervantes reaped glory and wealth by his valour instead of a prison? Where would the "Vicar of Wakefield" have been, had "poor Goldy" been a prosperous beau? or would stern old Johnson have written "Rasselas " but for his need? But why, indeed, carry on the list? Has it not been thus again and again? We are told that some birds sing sweeter when deprived of their eyes; and so, when our human songsters are in sore distress, they too clear their throats and sing the softer. Both, indeed, following their instinct, and, as their nature prompts, carolling forth their music to the delight of all who hear. Their misfortunes are our gain. And thus we come to that musty old maxim, that the good of the many is secured at the expense of the few.

And so Alice W. passed from the vision of Charles Lamb, hidden by a sad, sad, tragedy. We will not recall that matricide, by details. It is too horrid to dwell upon-the mother lying dead by the hand of the loving daughter. But who can tell the influence exercised on Lamb by it? It was, it must have been, life-long. Beside the impression produced by the event itself—immense, doubtless-it left also a duty to be performed. The unconscious criminal was to be protected; and this the younger brother undertook. To his sister, then, he sacrificed all his dreams of the fair Alice. To her he devoted himself all his life. They two were all in all to each other. Oh! ye young lovers, who vow eternity of affection and talk heedlessly of years, think upon the love of this brother! Say, could ye endure the trials which he endured for his sister? Behold him! so tender and kind, so touchingly careful lest aught should remind her of

that deed. Or hear him shower upon her loving abuse, while she laughs gently at his harmless anger. If they have written a book together, hear how emphatically he strives to impress on all that the best parts are those written by Mary. And not unrewarded is he. To the best of her ability, well does she repay his love. We fancy we can see her weep, when sad experience warns her that her baneful malady approaches; not so much for her own misfortune as because Charles will be left alone, Charles will be unhappy. We hear her mild reproofs, when Charles has been erring; which he, listening to with wry face, will presently turn into smiles. Very tender are they one to the other.

Nor indeed was their love for themselves only. They had enough too for their friends. We venture to say that no one had more, no one sincerer friends, than the Lambs. All who knew them loved them; all whom they knew they loved. Lamb, indeed, clung closely to his old acquaintance he liked to be surrounded by those whom he had known for years, his own familiars; but his heart was too catholic to be exclusive. He disliked strangers, before he had seen or spoken to them; but when once the threshold was overstepped, all dislike vanished: the feeling ever after became impossible to him. He seemed intuitively to seize upon the best traits of a man's character; and it was by those he delighted to judge him. Perfectly unselfish himself, and as simple and straightforward as a child, he could scarcely understand meaner natures; and was thus liable to be imposed upon-as he was by Wainwright-by an assumed frankness. Throughout life he was never happier than when seeing his friends happy around him. He delighted in assembling them in his own rooms, and his sister delighted in whatever gave him pleasure.

And what assemblages were those in the dear familiar Temple! First, and most welcome of all, came the old schoolfellow-the friend from his youth up-Coleridge. Many were the reminiscences of the twain of pleasant evenings spent together long ago-of that "nice smoky little room at the Salutation,"" where, in his prime, S. T. C. breathed forth high aspirations, never, alas, to be fulfilled. For this friend Lamb ever retained a species of veneration. Sometimes, indeed, he used to jest at his vast schemes, which no one, better than he, knew would share the fate of many a predecessor; but yet, for Coleridge he entertained a deeper feeling of affection than for his more recently acquired intimates. There too came Wordsworth and Southey, there too the fierce Hazlitt and the severe Godwin. There too Talfourd, whose loss we now deplore, gained sweet applause for his maiden efforts. There too how many came whose names are written in our literature, All were welcome; all were made happy. With his kindly smile and genial humour, there was none there so happy as Charles himself. Then was he triumphant-puns and witticisms,

good, bad, or indifferent, quick as they sprang into his brain, did he pour forth. All was bright to him then-the hum of familiar voices, the sight of well-known faces, the laugh, the jest, the kindly glass-and Charles Lamb was happy.

Some stern moralist exclaims, perhaps, "happy! do you call this happiness?" and elevates his immaculate nose. But, all spotless censor, think awhile! It is not everyone who possesses that sereneness of soul and strength of mind which thou dost. Thou art inflexible in thy morals we know. Thou derivest thy happiness from thy counting-house, thy bank, from where not; but, oh, strong man, is there no weak spot in that broad chest, not one little speck beneath that velvet waistcoat? Look up and say no, if thou canst! Remember that cutting parable of the mote and the beam, and be charitable to thy neighbour. What if Charles Lamb did delight in social pleasures, was but too pleased to forget awhile the anxieties which surrounded him! To you, perhaps, the morrow may bring profit or pleasure; but to him the morrow was the rather to be dreaded. No man knows what the next day may bring forth, but we all rather look forward to than fear it; for the evils, which may arise, are unknown to us, nor indeed do we pre-suppose any. But with Lamb the case was different. There was always a dark spot hovering over him, and which he knew would descend some time or other. It might not come to-day nor to-morrow, but come it most certainly would. Thus the present was the only time he could call his own. His future was always limited, always beclouded. What wonder then that the present should have been so dear to him? What wonder that he should have sought extraneous enjoyment, when all contemplation must have been bitter? In his gayest moods there was ever a moment of deep feeling. In his most sparkling writings there was an under-current of solemn thought. To say that he was a trifler because he entered gaily into social pleasures, would show an utter ignorance of his character. He was superficial, to the superficial only.

No! Charles Lamb was one on whom we ought to look with admiration rather: for such men as he come not often. Men of greater intellect, of more varied talent, of more painstaking industry-these we frequently see; but men of greater charity, of kindlier spirit, with a larger heart, come but seldom. Let us then cherish the memory of this stammering hero. Paying him all honour as a writer, but even more as a man.

But we have lingered long enough in front of Christ's Hospital. A small crowd, of aboriginal youth, are admiring our contemplative aspect. It is certainly time to move on. Vale!