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It is well if the good man himself does not feel his devotions a little clouded, those foggy sensuous steams mingling with and polluting the pure altar surface.

Charles Lamb

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Charles Lamb
Age: 59 †
Born: 1775
Born: February 10
Died: 1834
Died: December 27
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Writer
London
England
Little
Altar
Wells
Altars
Well
Steam
Devotions
Feel
Devotion
Foggy
Feels
Surface
Polluting
Good
Pure
Mingling
Men
Doe
Sensuous
Littles
Clouded

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Boys are capital fellows in their own way, among their mates but they are unwholesome companions for grown people.
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She unbent her mind afterwards - over a book.
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How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me all are departed All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
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To be thankful for what we grasp exceeding our proportion is to add hypocrisy to injustice.
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I know that a sweet child is the sweetest thing in nature, not even excepting the delicate creatures which bear them.
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Go where glory waits thee! But while fame elates thee, Oh, still remember me!
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In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from the binding.
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It is good to love the unknown.
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Is it a stale remark to say that I have constantly found the interest excited at a playhouse to bear an exact inverse proportion to the price paid for admission?
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While childhood, and while dreams, producing childhood, shall be left, imagination shall not have spread her holy wings totally to fly the earth.
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We are nothing less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.
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The English writer, Charles Lamb, said one day: I hate that man. But you don't know him. Of course, I don't, said Lamb. Do you think I could possibly hate a man I know?
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Were I Diogenes, I would not move out of a kilderkin into a hogshead, though the first had had nothing but small beer in it, and the second reeked claret.
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Shakespeare is one of the last books one should like to give up, perhaps the one just before the Dying Service in a large Prayer book.
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And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
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The drinking man is never less himself than during his sober intervals.
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Coleridge declares that a man cannot have a good conscience who refuses apple dumplings, and I confess that I am of the same opinion.
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Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
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