Study Edition · Essay 37
Dream-Children: A Reverie
Source: London Magazine, January 1822; collected in Essays of Elia (1823). Text from The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb, ed. E. V. Lucas, vol. 2, Project Gutenberg #10343. Archaic verb forms modernized; vocabulary kept and glossed.
Lamb wrote this a few months after the death of his elder brother John. Writing as “Elia,” he tells his two small children, Alice and John, about their great-grandmother, the old house she kept and their brave uncle. The children react to every detail. Then, at the end, the scene dissolves: there are no children. Lamb never married. He is a lonely bachelor dozing in his armchair beside his sister Bridget. It is one of the most tender and heartbreaking essays in the language.
19 sentences: 3 simple, 4 moderate, 12 complex. Hover a number for its paraphrase; click it for the full note.
Key Vocabulary
- reveriea daydream; a state of being lost in pleasant thoughts
- traditionaryknown only through family stories
- grandamegrandmother (old)
- upbraidingscolding; reproaching
- tawdryshowy but cheap and tasteless
- concoursea large crowd of people
- gentrythe class of landowners just below the nobility
- Psalteryhere, the Psalter, the Book of Psalms
- desistto stop doing something
- apparitiona ghost
- orangerya glasshouse for growing orange trees
- dacea small freshwater fish
- pikea large, fierce freshwater fish
- relinquishto give up
- mettlesomespirited; lively
- impa small mischievous child
- coynesspretended shyness, especially in romance
- Lethethe river of forgetfulness in the Greek underworld
The Essay
Children love to listen to stories about their elders, when they were children; to stretch their imagination to the conception of a traditionary great-uncle, or grandame, whom they never saw.1 It was in this spirit that my little ones crept about me the other evening to hear about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk (a hundred times bigger than that in which they and papa lived) which had been the scene (so at least it was generally believed in that part of the country) of the tragic incidents which they had lately become familiar with from the ballad of the Children in the Wood.2 Certain it is that the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was to be seen fairly carved out in wood upon the chimney-piece of the great hall, the whole story down to the Robin Redbreasts, till a foolish rich person pulled it down to set up a marble one of modern invention in its stead, with no story upon it.3 Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be called upbraiding.4 Then I went on to say, how religious and how good their great-grandmother Field was, how beloved and respected by everybody, though she was not indeed the mistress of this great house, but had only the charge of it (and yet in some respects she might be said to be the mistress of it too) committed to her by the owner, who preferred living in a newer and more fashionable mansion which he had purchased somewhere in the adjoining county; but still she lived in it in a manner as if it had been her own, and kept up the dignity of the great house in a sort while she lived, which afterwards came to decay, and was nearly pulled down, and all its old ornaments stripped and carried away to the owner's other house, where they were set up, and looked as awkward as if some one were to carry away the old tombs they had seen lately at the Abbey, and stick them up in Lady C.'s tawdry gilt drawing-room.5 Here John smiled, as much as to say, that would be foolish indeed.6 And then I told how, when she came to die, her funeral was attended by a concourse of all the poor, and some of the gentry too, of the neighbourhood for many miles round, to show their respect for her memory, because she had been such a good and religious woman; so good indeed that she knew all the Psaltery by heart, ay, and a great part of the Testament besides.7 Here little Alice spread her hands.8 Then I told what a tall, upright, graceful person their great-grandmother Field once was; and how in her youth she was esteemed the best dancer (here Alice's little right foot played an involuntary movement, till, upon my looking grave, it desisted) the best dancer, I was saying, in the county, till a cruel disease, called a cancer, came, and bowed her down with pain; but it could never bend her good spirits, or make them stoop, but they were still upright, because she was so good and religious.9 Then I told how she was used to sleep by herself in a lone chamber of the great lone house; and how she believed that an apparition of two infants was to be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near where she slept, but she said, those innocents would do her no harm; and how frightened I used to be, though in those days I had my maid to sleep with me, because I was never half so good or religious as she; and yet I never saw the infants.10 Here John expanded all his eye-brows and tried to look courageous.11 Then I told how good she was to all her grand-children, having us to the great house in the holidays, where I in particular used to spend many hours by myself, in gazing upon the old busts of the Twelve Caesars, that had been Emperors of Rome, till the old marble heads would seem to live again, or I to be turned into marble with them; how I never could be tired with roaming about that huge mansion, with its vast empty rooms, with their worn-out hangings, fluttering tapestry, and carved oaken panels, with the gilding almost rubbed out; sometimes in the spacious old-fashioned gardens, which I had almost to myself, unless when now and then a solitary gardening man would cross me; and how the nectarines and peaches hung upon the walls, without my ever offering to pluck them, because they were forbidden fruit, unless now and then, and because I had more pleasure in strolling about among the old melancholy-looking yew trees, or the firs, and picking up the red berries, and the fir apples, which were good for nothing but to look at; or in lying about upon the fresh grass, with all the fine garden smells around me; or basking in the orangery, till I could almost fancy myself ripening too along with the oranges and the limes in that grateful warmth; or in watching the dace that darted to and fro in the fish-pond, at the bottom of the garden, with here and there a great sulky pike hanging midway down the water in silent state, as if it mocked at their impertinent friskings; I had more pleasure in these busy-idle diversions than in all the sweet flavours of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such like common baits of children.12 Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had meditated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant.13 Then in somewhat a more heightened tone, I told how, though their great-grandmother Field loved all her grand-children, yet in an especial manner she might be said to love their uncle, John L——, because he was so handsome and spirited a youth, and a king to the rest of us; and, instead of moping about in solitary corners, like some of us, he would mount the most mettlesome horse he could get, when but an imp no bigger than themselves, and make it carry him half over the county in a morning, and join the hunters when there were any out; and yet he loved the old great house and gardens too, but had too much spirit to be always pent up within their boundaries; and how their uncle grew up to man's estate as brave as he was handsome, to the admiration of everybody, but of their great-grandmother Field most especially; and how he used to carry me upon his back when I was a lame-footed boy (for he was a good bit older than me) many a mile when I could not walk for pain; and how in after life he became lame-footed too, and I did not always (I fear) make allowances enough for him when he was impatient, and in pain, nor remember sufficiently how considerate he had been to me when I was lame-footed; and how when he died, though he had not been dead an hour, it seemed as if he had died a great while ago, such a distance there is betwixt life and death; and how I bore his death as I thought pretty well at first, but afterwards it haunted and haunted me; and though I did not cry or take it to heart as some do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, yet I missed him all day long, and knew not till then how much I had loved him.14 I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarrelling with him (for we quarrelled sometimes), rather than not have him again, and was as uneasy without him, as he their poor uncle must have been when the doctor took off his limb.15 Here the children fell a-crying, and asked if their little mourning which they had on was not for uncle John, and they looked up, and prayed me not to go on about their uncle, but to tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother.16 Then I told how for seven long years, in hope sometimes, sometimes in despair, yet persisting ever, I courted the fair Alice W——n; and, as much as children could understand, I explained to them what coyness, and difficulty, and denial meant in maidens; when suddenly, turning to Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out at her eyes with such a reality of re-presentment, that I became in doubt which of them stood there before me, or whose that bright hair was; and while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my view, receding, and still receding till nothing at last but two mournful features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech:17 We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice called Bartrum father. 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.18 And immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor arm-chair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side; but John L. (or James Elia) was gone for ever.19
Sentence Notes
In plain English: Children love hearing stories about the grown-ups in their family from when those grown-ups were children themselves, stretching their imagination to picture a great-uncle or grandmother they have only heard about and never met.
Why this phrase is worth keeping: A simple, true observation that sets up the whole essay.
In plain English: So the other evening my little ones crept up to me to hear about their great-grandmother Field, who lived in a great house in Norfolk, a hundred times bigger than their own, which local people believed was where the sad events in the ballad of the Children in the Wood had happened, a ballad they had recently learned.
Reference & context: Lamb's real grandmother, Mary Field, was housekeeper at Blakesware, a mansion in Hertfordshire; Lamb moves it to Norfolk, the traditional setting of “The Babes in the Wood,” an old ballad in which a wicked uncle has his orphaned niece and nephew taken into a wood to die.
In plain English: Certainly the whole story of the children and their cruel uncle was carved in wood above the fireplace in the great hall, right down to the robins, until some foolish rich man pulled it down and put up a modern marble one instead, with no story on it.
Reference & context: In the ballad, robins cover the dead children with leaves.
In plain English: At this, Alice gave me one of her dear mother's looks, too gentle to be called a reproach.
Reference & context: The first of many small reactions from the children, which make them feel real.
In plain English: Then I told them how devout and good their great-grandmother Field was, and how loved and respected by everyone. She wasn't actually the owner of the great house, only its caretaker (though in some ways she was its mistress too), because the owner preferred to live in a newer, more fashionable mansion he'd bought in the next county. Still, she lived there as if it were her own and kept up its dignity while she lived. Afterwards it fell into ruin and was almost demolished, and all its old decorations were stripped out and taken to the owner's other house, where they looked as out of place as the old tombs the children had recently seen at Westminster Abbey would look if someone stuck them up in Lady C.'s cheap gilded drawing room.
Why this phrase is worth keeping: A comic comparison that also mourns the loss of the old house's character.
In plain English: John smiled, as if to say, “That would be really silly.”
In plain English: Then I told them that when she died, crowds of poor people, and some gentlefolk too, came from miles around to her funeral to honour her, because she had been so good and devout; so good, in fact, that she knew all the Psalms by heart, yes, and much of the New Testament as well.
In plain English: Little Alice spread her hands in wonder.
In plain English: Then I told them how tall, straight and graceful she had been, and how as a young woman she was thought the best dancer (here Alice's little right foot started moving by itself, until I looked serious and it stopped), the best dancer in the county, I was saying, until a cruel disease, cancer, bent her with pain. But it could never bend her spirits or make them stoop; they stayed upright, because she was so good and devout.
Why this phrase is worth keeping: Lamb turns her bodily posture into a picture of her courage: the illness bent her body but not her spirit.
In plain English: Then I told them how she used to sleep alone in a lonely room of that big lonely house, and believed that the ghosts of two babies could be seen at midnight gliding up and down the great staircase near her room; but she said those innocent ones would never hurt her. And I told them how scared I used to be, even though my nursemaid slept with me, because I was never half as good or devout as she was; and yet I never saw the babies.
Reference & context: The ghostly infants link back to the Children in the Wood, and quietly foreshadow the essay's ending.
In plain English: John raised his eyebrows as high as they would go and tried to look brave.
In plain English: Then I told them how kind she was to all her grandchildren, inviting us to the great house in the holidays. I especially spent hours alone staring at the old marble busts of the Twelve Caesars, the Roman emperors, until the heads seemed to come alive or I seemed to turn to marble with them. I never tired of wandering through that huge house with its vast empty rooms, worn hangings, fluttering tapestries and carved oak panels with the gilt rubbed off; or the big old-fashioned gardens, which I had nearly to myself except for the occasional lone gardener. The nectarines and peaches hung on the walls and I never tried to pick them, because they were forbidden (well, only now and then), and because I preferred wandering among the gloomy old yews and firs picking up red berries and fir cones, good only for looking at; or lying on the fresh grass among the garden scents; or warming myself in the orangery until I almost felt I was ripening too, like the oranges and limes; or watching the little dace dart about the fishpond while a big sulky pike hung motionless in the water as if scorning their cheeky wriggling. I enjoyed these busy-idle pastimes more than all the sweet peaches, nectarines and oranges that usually tempt children.
Why this phrase is worth keeping: The image of the boy “ripening” with the oranges in the warm glasshouse is one of Lamb's most delightful.
Reference & context: Lamb's long, rambling sentence imitates a child's dreamy wandering through house and garden. The “forbidden fruit” recalls the Garden of Eden (Genesis 2–3).
In plain English: At this, John quietly put back on the plate a bunch of grapes he'd been planning to share with Alice (she had noticed), and both seemed happy to give them up for now as beside the point.
Reference & context: The children instinctively copy the story's lesson about preferring dreams to fruit, a touching and funny detail.
In plain English: Then, a little more emotionally, I told them that although their great-grandmother loved all her grandchildren, she especially loved their Uncle John, because he was such a handsome, lively boy, a king among us. Instead of moping in corners like some of us, he would ride the wildest horse he could find when he was no bigger than they are, gallop half across the county in a morning, and join the hunt. Yet he loved the old house and gardens too, though he was too lively to stay shut up there. He grew up as brave as he was handsome, admired by everyone and above all by their great-grandmother. He used to carry me on his back for miles when I was a lame boy who couldn't walk for pain, since he was quite a bit older. Later in life he became lame too, and I'm afraid I didn't always make enough allowance for his impatience and pain, or remember how kind he had been to me. When he died, though he had been dead less than an hour, it felt as if he had died long ago; that is how wide the gap between life and death is. At first I thought I took his death quite well, but afterwards it haunted me again and again. I didn't cry or take it hard as some people do, and as I think he would have done if I had died, but I missed him all day long, and only then realised how much I had loved him.
Why this phrase is worth keeping: A profound line about how death instantly makes the recent past feel remote.
Reference & context: Lamb's brother John Lamb died in October 1821, three months before this essay was published. He had in fact been a rather selfish elder brother; Lamb's portrait is generous. In 1796 Lamb's sister Mary killed their mother in a fit of madness, and Charles, not John, took on her lifelong care.
In plain English: I missed his kindness and I missed his bad temper, and wished he were alive again so I could argue with him (we did argue sometimes) rather than not have him at all. I felt as uncomfortable without him as their poor uncle must have felt when the doctor amputated his leg.
Why this phrase is worth keeping: “I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness”: grief that misses even the faults is true grief.
In plain English: Then the children started crying and asked whether the little black mourning clothes they were wearing were for Uncle John. They looked up and begged me to stop talking about their uncle and tell them stories about their pretty dead mother instead.
In plain English: So I told them how for seven long years, sometimes hopeful, sometimes despairing, but never giving up, I courted the lovely Alice W——n; and, as far as children could understand, I explained what shyness, hesitation and refusal meant in young women. Then suddenly, as I turned to my daughter Alice, the soul of the first Alice looked out of her eyes so vividly that I wasn't sure which of them stood before me, or whose bright hair that was. As I stared, both children slowly grew fainter, drawing back and back until there was nothing but two sad faces far away, which without speaking seemed to say to me:
Reference & context: “Alice W——n” is Ann Simmons, a girl Lamb loved in his youth in Hertfordshire. She married a pawnbroker named Bartrum. Lamb never married; he devoted his life to caring for his sister Mary.
In plain English: “We are not Alice's children, nor yours; we are not children at all. Alice's children call Bartrum their father. We are nothing, less than nothing; we are dreams. We are only what might have been, and we must wait on the dreary banks of the river of forgetfulness for millions of years before we exist and have a name.”
Why this phrase is worth keeping: The devastating reveal: the listeners were never real. “What might have been” has become a famous phrase for lost possibilities.
Reference & context: In Greek myth (and Virgil, Aeneid Book VI), souls waiting to be born gather by the river Lethe and drink its water to forget their past.
In plain English: And waking at once, I found myself sitting quietly in my bachelor's armchair, where I had dozed off, with faithful Bridget beside me as always. But John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.
Why this phrase is worth keeping: The quiet last line returns from the dream to the real loss behind it.
Reference & context: “Bridget Elia” is Lamb's name for his sister Mary in the Essays of Elia; “James Elia” is the name he gives his brother.
Fun Fact
Charles and Mary Lamb lived together all their lives. Mary suffered episodes of mental illness, and when she felt one coming on, the two would walk together, weeping, to the asylum, carrying her straitjacket. Despite this, they wrote together the much-loved Tales from Shakespeare (1807), which introduced generations of children to the plays.