"Much," he says, "depends upon
the habits of mind we bring with us." And he continues--"It is peculiar
to the confidence of high genius alone to trust much to spectators or
readers," he might have added that in painting, this confidence is often
misplaced, especially as regards the less imaginative part of the
public. We owe him a debt, however, for a true observation with regard
to the general uses of caricatures, that "it prevents that disgust at
common life which an unrestricted passion for ideal forms and beauties
is in danger of producing."
But leaving passages in which Lamb approves of absurd jesting, and those
in which he commends humour for pointing a moral, we come to consider
the largest and most characteristic part of his writings, his pleasant
essays, in which he has neither shown himself a moralist or a
mountebank.
The following is from an Essay "On the Melancholy of Tailors."
"Observe the suspicious gravity of their gait. The peacock is not
more tender, from a consciousness of his peculiar infirmity, than a
gentleman of this profession is of being known by the same
infallible testimonies of his occupation, 'Walk that I may know
thee.'
"Whoever saw the wedding of a tailor announced in the newspapers, or
the birth of his eldest son?
"When was a tailor known to give a dance, or to be himself a good
dancer, or to perform exquisitely upon the tight rope, or to shine
in any such light or airy pastimes? To sing, or play on the violin?
Do they much care for public rejoicings, lightings up, ringing of
bells, firing of cannons, &c.
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