would he describe his favorite authors, Donne or Sir Philip Sidney, and
call their most crabbed passages _delicious_! He tried them on his palate,
as epicures taste olives, and his observations had a smack in them, like a
roughness on the tongue. With what discrimination he hinted a defect in
what he admired most,--as in saying the display of the sumptuous banquet,
in "Paradise Regained," was not in true keeping, as the simplest fare was
all that was necessary to tempt the extremity of hunger; and stating that
Adam and Eve in "Paradise Lost" were too much like married people. He has
furnished many a text for Coleridge to preach upon. There was no fuss or
cant about him; nor were his sweets or sours ever diluted with one
particle of affectation.--_"On the Conversation of Authors."_

[_From "Autobiography of Leigh Hunt,"_ pp. 250-253.]

Let me take this opportunity of recording my recollections in general of
my friend Lamb; of all the world's friend, particularly of his oldest
friends, Coleridge and Southey; for I think he never modified or withheld
any opinion (in private or bookwards) except in consideration of what he
thought they might not like.

Charles Lamb had a head worthy of Aristotle, with as fine a heart as ever
beat in human bosom, and limbs very fragile to sustain it. There was a
caricature of him sold in the shops, which pretended to be a likeness.
Procter went into the shop in a passion, and asked the man what he meant
by putting forth such a libel. The man apologized, and said that the
artist meant no offence. There never was a true portrait of Lamb. His
features were strongly yet delicately cut; he had a fine eye as well as
forehead; and no face carried in it greater marks of thought and feeling.
It resembled that of Bacon, with less worldly vigor and more sensibility.