He conquered
himself at last; but I fear that his health was impaired by his few mad
outbursts. Charles Lamb, who is dear to us all, reduced himself to a
pitiable state by giving way to outbreaks of alcoholic craving. When
Carlyle saw him, the unhappy essayist was semi-imbecile from the effects
of drink; and the savage Scotsman wrote some cruel words which will
unfortunately cleave to Lamb's cherished memory for long. Lamb fought
against his failing; he suffered agonies of remorse; he bitterly blamed
himself for "buying days of misery by nights of madness;" but the sweet
soul was enchained, and no struggles availed to work a blessed
transformation. Read his "Confessions of a Drunkard." It is the most
awful chapter in English literature, for it is written out of the agony
of a pure and well-meaning mind, and its tortured phrases seem to cry
out from the page that holds their misery. We are placed face to face
with a dread aspect of life, and the remorseless artist paints his own
pitiable case as though he longed to save his fellow-creatures even at
the expense of his own self-abasement. All these afflicted creatures
sought the wrong remedy for the exhaustion and the nameless craving that
beset them when they were spent with toil.
Pages:
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74