apple in the dumpling, "how
the devil it got there." His value as a critic is grounded in this
capacity of _naive_ enjoyment (not of pig, but of literature), of
discerning beauty and making _us_ discern it,--thus adding to the known
treasures and pleasures of mankind.

Suggestions not unprofitable for these later days lurk in these traits
of Elia the student and critic. How worthy the imitation, for instance,
of those disciples who band together to treat a fine poem (of Browning,
say, or Shelley) as they might a chapter in the Revelation,--speculating
sagely upon the import of the seven seals and the horns of the great
beast, instead of enjoying the obvious beauties of their author. To the
schoolmaster--whose motto would seem too often to be the counsel of the
irate old lady in Dickens, "Give him a meal of chaff!"--Charles Lamb's
critical methods are rich in suggestion. How many ingenuous boys, lads
in the very flush and hey-day of appreciativeness of the epic virtues,
have been parsed, declined, and conjugated into an utter detestation of
the melodious names of Homer and Virgil! Better far for such victims had
they, instead of aspiring to the vanities of a "classical education,"
sat, like Keats, unlearnedly at the feet of quaint Chapman, or Dryden,
or even of Mr. Pope.

Perhaps, by way of preparative to the reading of Charles Lamb's letters,
it will be well to run over once more the leading facts of his life.
First let us glance at his outward appearance. Fortunately there are a
number of capital pieces of verbal portraiture of Elia.

Referring to the year 1817, "Barry Cornwall" wrote:

"Persons who had been in the habit of traversing Covent
Garden at that time of night, by extending their walk a few
yards into Russell Street have noticed a small, spare man
clothed in black, who went out every morning, and returned
every afternoon as the hands of the clock moved toward
certain hours. You could not mistake him. He was somewhat
stiff in his manner, and almost clerical in dress, which
indicated much wear. He had a long, melancholy face, with
keen, penetrating eyes; and he walked with a short, resolute
step citywards. He looked no one in the face for more than
a moment, yet contrived to see everything as he went on.
No one who ever studied the human features could pass him
by without recollecting his countenance; it was full of
sensibility, and it came upon you like new thought, which you