American Scott we are to look for a series of romances illustrative of our history, is yet a subject of speculation; but no man, of ordinary perception, we presume, can for a moment question that "The Melancholy of Tailors,"" the Character of an Undertaker,"-"the Praise of Chimney-sweepers,"--the "Inconveniences of being Hanged," and sundry kindred subjects, were reserved for the pen of Elia.

That writer is wise who avails himself of a somewhat familiar idea, in presenting his mental creations to the public. There is need of as much consideration in bestowing a name upon an essay or a poem, which we wish should be read, as in naming a child whom we would dedicate to fame. The same reasons for circumspection obtain in both cases. The more original the appellation, provided it is not utterly foreign to all general associations, the better. But it is essential that there should be something which will create an interest at a glance. Our essayist has been happy in his choice of subjects; his wit failed him not here. Though no one has previously written the "Praise of Chimney-sweepers," yet every one sees the dusky urchins daily, and would fain know what can be said in their behalf. Most people have noticed the "Melancholy of Tailors," and are glad to find that some one has undertaken philosophically to explain it. The headings of all Elia's papers are exactly such as would beguile us into reading when we desire to enter the region of quiet thought, and forget our cares in some literary pastime. There is one element of genius, the influence of which we have never seen acknowledged, that ever impresses our minds in reflecting on the themes to which gifted men apply themselves. We allude to a certain daring which induces them to grapple with topics, and give expression to thoughts, which many have mused upon without thinking of giving them utterance. There is much of Byron's poetry which seems almost like a literal transcript of our past or occasional emotions; the more powerful and acknowledged a genius, the more fervently do we declare the coincidence of our feelings with his delineations. Many odd speculations have occurred to us in reference to the strange subjects to which Lamb is partial; we respond to most of his portraitures, and sympathise in the feelings he avows. His humour and pathos, therefore, are true, singularly, beautifully true, to human nature; in this consists their superiority. Many have aimed at the same results in a similar way; but the genius of Lamb, in this department, has achieved no ordinary triumph.

The drama was a rich source of pleasure and reflection to Lamb. During a life passed almost wholly in the metropolis, the theatre afforded him constant recreation, and the species of excitement his peculiar genius required. It was to him an

important element in the imaginative being he cherished. By means of it, he continually renewed and brightened the rich vein of sentiment inherent in his nature. To him it addressed language rife with the meaning which characterised its ancient voice,-full of suggestive and impressive eloquence. Deeply versed in the whole range of dramatic literature, master of the philosophy of Shakspeare, and overflowing with a highly cultivated taste for the dramatic art, the drama was ranked by Elia among the redeeming things of life. He did not coldly recognise, but deeply felt, its importance to modern society. Surrounded by the bustle, the worldliness and the material agencies of a populous capital, he daily saw man struggling on beneath the indurating pressure of necessity, or presenting only artificial aspects, and to the strong and true representation of human nature, on the stage and in the works of the dramatist, he looked as a noble means of renovation. It gratified his humane spirit, that the poor mechanic should lose, for an hour, the memory of his toilsome lot, in sympathy with some vivid personation of that love which once sent a glow to his now hollow temples; that the creature of fashion and pride should, occasionally, be led back to the primal fountains of existence by the hand of Thespis; that an unwonted tear should sometimes be drawn, like a pearl from the deep, to the eye of some fair worldling, at the mighty appeal of nature, in the voice of an affecting portrayer of her truth. Elia had faith in the legitimate drama, as the native offspring of the human mind, significant of its successive eras, and as fitted to supply one of its truest and deepest wants; and well he might have had,-for its history was as familiar to him as a household tale; he had explored its chronicles with the assiduity of an enthusiast, and the acumen of a virtuoso; he had garnered up its gems as the true jewels of his country's literature; he honoured its worthy votaries as ministrants at the altar of humanity; and, above all, in his own experience, he had learned what human taste, judgment, and feeling, may derive from the wise appropriation of dramatic influences. He knew, as well as his readers, how much he was indebted to an intelligent devotion to them, for the vividness of his pencilings, the fertility of his associations, and the beauty of his imagery. Not in vain did he seek, in Hamlet's musings, "grounds more relative" than popular reading could afford, or turn from the inconsistencies of modern gallantry, which he so admirably delineated, to bestow his fond attentions upon the "bright angel" of Verona, and "the gentle lady wedded to the Moor." Lamb's interest in the drama was too well founded to be periodical, as is generally the case. He shared, indeed, the common destiny, in beholding his youthful visions of theatrical

glory fade; the time came to him, as it comes to all, when the mysterious curtain was reduced to its actual quality, and became bona fide green baize, and when the polished pilasters lost their likeness to "glorified sugar candy;" but the histrionic art retained its interest, and the literature of the drama yielded a continued pastime. From the rainy afternoon which the "child Elia" spent in such hope and fear, lest the wayward elements should deprive him of his "first play"-to the night when the sleep of the man Elia was disturbed with visions of old Munden-he sought and found, in the drama, food for his reflective humour and pleasurable occupancy in his weary moods-if such e'er came to him-which may be doubted, since he has not so informed us. Notwithstanding his partiality for theatrical representations, few play-goers entertained a more just idea of their frequent and necessary inadequateness. He recognised the limits of the dramatic art. He realised, beyond the generality of Shakspeare's admirers, the impossibility of presenting, by the most successful performance, our deepest conception of his characters. He knew that the wand of that enchanter dealt with things too deep, not only for speech, but for expression. He was impatient at the common interpretation of Shakspeare's mind. In the stillness of his retired study, the creations of the bard appeared to him, as in an exalted dream. In the attentive perusal of his plays,-the delicate touches, the finer shades, the under current of philosophy, were revealed to the mind of Lamb with an impressiveness, of which personification is unsusceptible; and few of his essays are more worthy of his genius than that which embodies his views on this subject. It should be attentively read by all who habitually honour the minstrel of Avon, without being perfectly aware why the honour is due. It will lead such to new investigations into the mysteries of that wonderful tragic lore, upon which the most gifted men have been proud to offer one useful comment, or advance a single illustrative hint. To the acted and written drama, Lamb assigned an appropriate office; he believed each had its purpose, and that he who would derive the greatest benefit from either, should study them relatively and in conjunction. Such was his own method, and to the steadiness and success with which he pursued it, his writings bear the most interesting testimony. The goût with which he dwells upon his dramatic reminiscences, the delight he takes in living over scenes of this kind,--in recalling, after an interval of years, the enjoyment of a single evening of Liston's or Bensley's acting, indicate the intelligence and warmth of his love of theatrical performances; while his successful efforts in reviving the nearly forgotten dramatic literature of the English stage, and his admirable essays, directly or indirectly devoted

to the general subject, evince his application and attachment to it. His talents as a dramatic critic are every where visible. There is one feature of our author's devotion to the drama, which is too characteristic of the man, and too intrinsically pleasing, to be unnoticed. He never forgot those who had contributed to his pleasure in this manner. They were not to him the indifferent, unestimated beings they are to the majority of those who are amused and instructed by their labours. Charles Lamb respected the genius of a splendid tragedian on the same ground that that of a fine sculptor won his admiration. He believed one as heaven-bestowed as the other. He recognised his intellectual or moral obligations to an affecting actor as readily as to a favourite author. He sincerely respected the ideality of the profession, sympathised in the life of toil and comparative isolation it imposes, and felt for the deserving and ambitious who had, by assiduous culture and native energy, risen to its summit only to look forward from that long sought elevation, to a brief continuance of success, followed by an unhonoured decline, an age of neglect, and the world's oblivion.

One of Lamb's most winning traits is his sincerity. The attractiveness of this beautiful virtue, even in literature, is worthy of observation. It seems to be an ordination of the intellectual world, and a blessed one it is to those who cherish faith in a spiritual philosophy-that truth of expression shall alone prove powerfully and permanently effective. It is happy that we are so constituted as to be moved chiefly, if not solely, by voices attuned and awakened by genuine emotion; it is well when foreign aids and the most insinuating of conventional appliances fail to deceive us into admiration of an artificial literary aspirant; it is a glorious distinction of our common nature, that soul-prompted language is the only universally acknowledged eloquence. The mission of individual genius is to exhibit itself. The advocacy of popular opinions, the illustration of prevailing theories-the literary party-work of the day, may be undertaken by such as are unconscious of any more special and personal calling. But let there be a selfpreaching priesthood in the field of letters and of art, to teach the great lesson of human individuality. Let some gifted votaries of literature and philosophy breathe original symphonies, instead of merging their rich tones in the general chorus. Unfortunate is the era when such men are not; and thrice illustrious that in which they abound. The history of the world proves this; and in proportion as an author is sincere, in whatever age, he deserves our respect. We spontaneously honour minds of this order, in whatever form they are encountered. The complacent smile with which douce Davie Deans," VOL. XIX.-No. 37.

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in Scott's most beautiful tale, hears himself denominated a Deanite, recommends him to our esteem. And when a poet or an essayist is as habitually and earnestly candid as is Elia, we' feel and acknowledge his worth, whatever may be the calibre of his genius.

Many and singular are the advantages attendant upon this characteristic. The most obvious is that it brings out the true power-the proprium ingenium-of the individual. Look at the history of Milton and Dante. They surveyed their immediate social circumstances for a reflection of themselves in vain; and then in calm confidence they turned to the mirror fountain within themselves, and thence evolved thoughtsunappreciated, indeed, by their cotemporaries-yet in the view of posterity none the less oracular. And such intellectual labourers-however confined and comparatively unimportant the sphere of effort-being absolved from any undue allegiance to merely temporary influences, their productions possess a free and personal stamp. Truth is to literature, what, in the view of the alchymists, the philosopher's stone was to the base metals; it converts all it touches into gold. And, although our author had to do mainly with topics which a superficial reasoner would term trifling, yet his lovely sincerity gives them a character, and sheds upon them a warm and soothing light more pleasing than weightier themes, less ingenuously treated, can often boast. Being sincere, of course Elia wrote only from the inspiration of his overflowing spirit; he seems to have penned every line, to have thrown off every essay, con amore. He did not require the expedient of the Greek painter, who covered the face of one of his great figures with a mantle, not daring to attempt a portraiture of the intense grief which he represented him as suffering. Lamb endeavoured not to express what he did not feel; he wrote not from necessity or policy, but from enthusiasm, from his own gentle, sweet, yet deep enthusiasm. He had a feeling for the art of writing, and therefore he would not make it the hackneyed conventional agent it too often is; but ever regarded it as a crystalline mould wherein he could faithfully present the form, hues, and very spirit of his sentiments and speculations.

A striking and delightful consequence of this literary sincerity is, that it preserves and developes the proper humanity of the author. Literati of this class are utterly devoid of pedantry. In society, and the common business of life, they are as other men, except that a finer sensibility, and more elevated general taste, distinguishes thein. In becoming writers, they cease not to be men. Literature is then, indeed, what the English poet would have it," an honourable augmentation" to our arms; it is not exclusively pursued as if it