talkers, as he confesses, "hated him;" and assuredly he hated long
talkers.

In his countenance you might sometimes read--what may be occasionally read
on almost all foreheads--the letters and lines of old, unforgotten
calamity. Yet there was at the bottom of his nature a buoyant self-
sustaining strength; for although he encountered frequent seasons of
mental distress, his heart recovered itself in the interval, and rose and
sounded, like music played to a happy tune. Upon fit occasion, his lips
could shut in a firm fashion; but the gentle smile that played about his
face showed that he was always ready to relent. His quick eye never had
any sullenness: his mouth, tender and tremulous, showed that there would
be nothing cruel or inflexible in his nature.

On referring to his letters, it must be confessed that in literature
Lamb's taste, like that of all others, was at first imperfect. For taste
is a portion of our judgment, and must depend a good deal on our
experience, and on our opportunities of comparing the claims of different
pretenders. Lamb's affections swayed him at all times. He sympathized
deeply with Cowper and his melancholy history, and at first estimated his
verse, perhaps, beyond its strict value. He was intimate with Southey, and
anticipated that he would rival Milton. Then his taste was at all times
peculiar. He seldom worshipped the Idol which the multitude had set up. I
was never able to prevail on him to admit that "Paradise Lost" was greater
than "Paradise Regained;" I believe, indeed, he liked the last the best.
He would not discuss the Poetry of Lord Byron or Shelley, with a view of
being convinced of their beauties. Apart from a few points like these, his
opinions must be allowed to be sound; almost always; if not as to the
style of the author, then as to the quality of his book or passage which
he chose to select. And his own style was always good, from the beginning,