ere
else can we find a record of such deep devotion, such heroic endurance,
such uncomplaining suffering, such geniality and cheerfulness under
almost unbearable burdens. The world admires many of its men of
letters,--it loves Charles Lamb. Save Carlyle's, no voice among all his
literary brethren has ever said a bitter or an unkind word of the gentle
humorist. And when we compare the lives of the two men, how brightly
glows the page whereon is written the record of Lamb's untiring and
unselfish love, exacting nothing for himself, but giving all with lavish
prodigality, compared with the pages given to the account of the selfish
and exacting life which Carlyle lived with the woman who was his wife,
and whom he really loved, but over whom he tyrannized in so petty a
manner! Carlyle's characterization of Lamb is really the most damaging
thing to himself of the many bitter and biting sarcasms which he has
left in regard to the men and women of his day. That he did not know
Lamb--had not the slightest appreciation of the man--is evident at a
glance. And perhaps this is not to be so much wondered at, for there was
very little in common between the two; but it does seem that some hint
of the heroism of Lamb's apparently commonplace and perhaps vulgar life
might have penetrated even to the heart of the crusty Scotchman, for he
could not have been ignorant of the tragic life-story of gentle Elia.

They were very humble people, the Lambs,--poor and obscure, and
unfortunate to a degree. No pretensions to gentility had ever been in
the family, but an acceptance of their commonplace lot, with little
striving for higher things. There was something more, too, than poverty
and obscurity and vulgarity in their antecedents; a fearful curse was in
the family, the heritage of almost every generation,--the curse of
madness. What the contemplation of this frightful inheritance must have
been to a youth like Charles Lamb, gifted with the fatal sensibility of
genius, and endowed with that imagination which can conceive of a horror
before it falls, we can form some sort of conception, but probably a
very vague and inadequate one indeed.

The family were very poor, living in humble lodgings. The father was in
his dotage, the mother was a paralytic, and Charles with his pen, and
his sister Mary with her needle, worked to support the family. They both
overworked themselves fearfully, and lived in apprehension of the doom
which hung over them. The