And yet, despite all my love and admiration of Charles Lamb,—­nay, rather in consequence of it,—­I must blame him of what Mr. Barron Field was please to eulogize him for,—­writing so little.  Undoubtedly in most authors suppression in writing would be a virtue.  In Lamb it was a fault.  There are a score or two of subjects which he, “no less from temerity than felicity of his pen,” should have written upon,—­subjects on which he had thought and ruminated for years, and which he, and none but he, could do justice to.  He who loved and admired before or since, such sterling old writers as Burton, Browne, Fuller, and Walton, should have given us an article on each of those worthies and their inditing.  Chaucer and Spenser, though proud and happy in having had such an appreciating reader of there writings as Elia was, when denizen of this earth, would, methinks, have given him a warmer, heartier, gladder welcome to heaven, if he had done for them what he did for Hogarth and the old dramatists,—­pointed out to the would “with a finger of fire” the truth and beauty contained in their works.  Instead of writing only two volumes of essays, Elia should have written a dozen.  He had read, heard, thought, and seen enough to furnish matter for twice that number.  He himself confesseth, in a letter written a year or two before his death, that he felt as if he had a thousand essays swelling within him.  Oh that Elia, like Mr. Spectator, had printed himself out before he died!

But notwithstanding Lamb’s fame and popularity, notwithstanding all readers of his inimitable essays lament that one who wrote so delightfully as Elia did should have written so little, their has not yet be published a complete collection of his writings.  The standard edition of his works, edited by Talfourd, is far from being complete.  Surely the author of “Ion” was unwise in not publishing all of Lamb’s productions.  Carlyle said he wanted to know all about Margaret Fuller, even to the color of her stocking.  And the admirers of Elia wanted to possess every scrap and fragment of his inditing.  They cannot let oblivion have the lease “notelet” or “essaykin” of his.  For, however inferior to his best productions these uncollected articles may be, they must contain more or less of Lamb’s humor, sense, and observation.  Somewhat of his delightful individuality must be stamped upon them.  In brief, they cannot but contain much that would amuse and entertain all admirers of their author.  For myself, I would rather read the poorest of these uncollected essays of Elia than the best productions of some of the most popular of modern authors.  “The king’s chaff is as good as other people’s corn,” saith the old proverb.  “There is a pleasure arising from the very bagatelles of men renowned for their knowledge and genius,” says Goldsmith; “and we receive with veneration those pieces, after they are dead, which would lessen them in our estimation while living:  sensible that we shall enjoy them no more, we treasure up, as precious relics, every saying and word that has escaped them; but their writings, of every kind, we deem inestimable.”