into the recondite meaning of things in a moment. His own sentences were
compressed and full of meaning; his opinions independent and decisive; no
qualifying or doubting. His descriptions were not highly colored; but, as
it were, sharply cut, like a piece of marble, rather than like a picture.
He liked and encouraged friendly discussion; but he hated contentious
argument, which leads to quarrel rather than to truth.

There was an utter want of parade in everything he said and did, in
everything about him and his home. The only ornaments on his walls were a
few engravings in black frames: one after Leonardo da Vinci; one after
Titian; and four, I think, by Hogarth, about whom he has written so well.
Images of quaint beauty, and all gentle, simple things (things without
pretension) pleased him to the fullest extent; perhaps a little beyond
their strict merit. I have heard him express admiration for Leonardo da
Vinci that he did not accord to Raffaelle. Raffaelle was too ostentatious
of meaning; his merits were too obvious,--too much thrust upon the
understanding; not retired nor involved, so as to need discovery or
solution. He preferred even Titian (whose meaning is generally obvious
enough) to Raffaelle; but Leonardo was above both. Without doubt, Lamb's
taste on several matters was peculiar; for instance, there were a few
obsolete words, such as _arride, agnize, burgeon_, &c., which he fancied,
and chose to rescue from oblivion. Then he did not care for music. I never
heard a song in his house, nor any conversation on the subject of melody
or harmony, "I have no ear," he says; yet the sentiment, apart from the
science of music, gave him great pleasure. He reverenced the fine organ
playing of Mr. Novello, and admired the soaring singing of his daughter,--
"the tuneful daughter of a tuneful sire;" but he resented the
misapplication of the theatres to sacred music. He thought this a
profanation of the good old original secular purposes of a playhouse.