sister's insanity, can now only be conjectured. In this constant and
uncomplaining endurance, and in his steady adherence to a great principle
of conduct, his life was heroic.

We read of men giving up all their days to a single object--to religion,
to vengeance, to some overpowering selfish wish; of daring acts done to
avert death or disgrace, or some oppressing misfortune. We read mythical
tales of friendship; but we do not recollect any instance in which a great
object has been so unremittingly carried out throughout a whole life, in
defiance of a thousand difficulties, and of numberless temptations,
straining the good resolution to its utmost, except in the case of our
poor clerk of the India House.

This was, substantially, his life. His actions, thoughts, and sufferings
were all concentred on this one important end. It was what he had to do;
it was in his reach; and he did it, therefore, manfully, religiously. He
did not waste his mind on too many things; for whatever too much expands
the mind weakens it; nor on vague or multitudinous thoughts and
speculations; nor on dreams or things distant or unattainable. However
interesting, they did not absorb him, body and soul, like the safety and
welfare of his sister.

Subject to this primary unflinching purpose, the tendency of Lamb's mind
pointed strongly towards literature. He did not seek literature, however;
and he gained from it nothing except his fame. He worked laboriously at
the India House from boyhood to manhood; for many years without repining;
although he must have been conscious of an intellect qualified to shine in
other ways than in entering up a trader's books. None of those coveted
offices, which bring money and comfort in their train, ever reached
Charles Lamb. He was never under that bounteous shower which government