"
Charles Lamb had much respect for some of the modern authors. In
particular, he admired (to the full extent of his capacity for liking)
Coleridge, and Wordsworth, and Burns. But with these exceptions his
affections rested mainly on writers who had lived before him; on _some_ of
them; for there were "things in books' clothing" from which he turned away
loathing. He was not a worshipper of the customs and manners of old times,
so much as of the tangible objects that old times have bequeathed to us;
the volumes tinged with decay, the buildings (the Temple, Christ's
Hospital, &c.) colored and enriched by the hand of age. Apart from these,
he clung to the time present; for if he hated anything in the extreme
degree, he hated change.
He clung to life, although life had bestowed upon him no magnificent
gifts; none, indeed, beyond books, and friends (a "ragged regiment"), and
an affectionate, contented mind. He had, he confesses, "an intolerable
disinclination to dying;" which beset him especially in the winter months.
"I am not content to pass away like a weaver's shuttle. Any alteration in
this earth of mine discomposes me. My household gods plant a terrible
fixed foot, and are not rooted up without blood.
Pages:
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30