and of the universe, too, if possible,—­but he was more interested in a profound thought, brought forth from the struggling breast of Hazlitt, than in any bill introduced into Parliament.  He was occupied with his old books, his sincere friends, his beloved sister.  He cared little for the beau monde, would rather not look upon a duke or a duchess without a grating between; but, turning from the current into an eddy, content with the many thoughtful and original persons whom he had about him, he delighted to fish for the shyest tenants of the stream and to dive for strange pearls.  He loved remote thoughts, quaint expressions, fantastic ideas.  He especially attached himself to any violent symptoms of human nature.  Being in a picture-gallery, he observed a stout sailor in towering disgust at one of the old masters, spit his tobacco-juice at it, and swear, with an expletive, that he could do better himself.  The honest opinion honestly expressed, the truth and vigor of the man, delighted Lamb, and he rushed up to him to shake hands.  Whenever the sailor, after that, wrote to his friends in London, he wished to be particularly remembered to Mr. Charles Lamb, who wouldn’t be humbugged about that old painting.

It was this strong sympathy with human character which made Elia rather a contemner of the worship of Nature.  He liked things that were as definite as the works of men, and found great difficulty in sympathizing with a landscape.  There was nothing on Fleet Street for which he did not feel a personal attachment; all the hurry and majestic order of a great city, all the little by-ways and hedges of city life, the wealth, the poverty, the splendor, the rags, the men and women, all acting under the stern discipline of an immense society, the boys, the beggars, the chimney-sweeps, the hilarious and the sorrowful, the fine ladies and noble lords, were all duly appreciated by him.  If he had been taken up to the pinnacle of a mountain, instead of entertaining one of Wordsworth’s sublime contemplations, he would have been very likely to flap his arms and crow like chanticleer.  Indeed, in middle age he was accustomed to boast that he had never seen a mountain.  Born in London, and always residing in London till the last years of his life, esteeming man the crown and purpose of the universe, he was much inclined to regard the love of Nature, which figures so largely in modern literature, as a popular delusion.  He would have sympathized with the French philosopher who, after accompanying a young lady to the Highlands of Scotland, surprised her raptures by saying to her,—­“Aimez-vous les beautes de la nature?  Pour moi, je les abhorre.”