liking for unpretending men, who would come and gossip with him in a
friendly, companionable way, or who liked to talk about old authors or old
books. In his love of books he was very catholic. "Shaftesbury is not too
genteel, nor Jonathan Wild too low. But for books which are no books,"
such as "scientific treatises, and the histories of Hume, Smollett, and
Gibbon," &c., he confesses that he becomes splenetic when he sees them
perched up on shelves, "like false saints, who have usurped the true
shrines" of the legitimate occupants. He loved old books and authors,
indeed, beyond most other things. He used to say (with Shakespeare), "The
Heavens themselves are old." He would rather have acquired an ancient
forgotten volume than a modern one, at an equal price; the very
circumstance of its having been neglected and cast disdainfully into the
refuse basket of a bookstall gave it value in his eyes. He bought it, and
rejoiced in being able thus to remedy the injustice of fortune.

He liked best those who had not thriven with posterity: his reverence for
Margaret, Duchess of Newcastle, can only be explained in this way. It must
not be forgotten that his pity or generosity towards neglected authors
extended also to all whom the goddess of Good Fortune had slighted. In
this list were included all who had suffered in purse or in repute. He was
ready to defend man or beast, whenever unjustly attacked. I remember that,
at one of the monthly magazine dinners, when John Wilkes was too roughly
handled, Lamb quoted the story (not generally known) of his replying, when
the blackbirds were reported to have stolen all his cherries, "Poor birds,
they are welcome." He said that those impulsive words showed the inner
nature of the man more truly than all his political speeches.

Lamb's charity extended to all things. I never heard him speak spitefully
of any author. He thought that every one should have a clear stage,
unobstructed. His heart, young at all times, never grew hard or callous