The Superannuated Man by Charles Lamb. Sera tamen respexit Libertas — Virgil. A Clerk I was in London gay. —O'Keefe. If peradventure, Reader, it has. PDF | The term Essay comes from the French word essai which means 'attempt'. Pope's Moral Essays being an exception, it is a composition. The Superannuated Man No book-stalls deliciously to idle over — No busy faces to recreate the idle man who contemplates them ever passing by — the very.
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A Critical Analysis of THE SUPERANNUATED MAN by CHARLES LAMB The Feeling of Charles Lamb Before and After His Retirement “It is now six and thirty. A SUPERANNUATED MAN Xn. PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMEN XIII. Charles Lamb has described his father, the lawyer's clerk, under the name of Lovel. Charles Lamb made in h is prose writings were in the way of THE SUPERANNUATED MAN. PT . Lamb drew largely on his own history fo r the material of.
Then Lamb retired from service.
The sudden change from slavery to complete freedom threw his mind completely out of balance. He felt very uneasy. He did not know how to adjust himself to this new situation.
He compares his condition to that of a prisoner of Bastille, who has suddenly obtained his freedom after forty years of prison life. He felt that he had suddenly passed from kingdom of time to the Kingdom of Eternity. The fact that all time was left to him and he could enjoy it at his own sweet will produce the impression that he was dwelling in the world of Eternity.
Download file. I was a poor Carthusian, from strict cellular discipline suddenly by some revolution returned upon the world. I am now as if I had never been other than my own master.
It is natural to me to go where I please, to do what I please. I digress into Soho, to explore a book-stall. Methinks I have been thirty years a collector. There is nothing strange nor new in it. I find myself before a fine picture in a morning. Was it ever otherwise? What is become of Fish-street Hill? Where is Fenchurch-street?
Stones of old Mincing-lane, which I have worn with my daily pilgrimage for six and thirty years, to the footsteps of what toil-worn clerk are your everlasting flints now vocal? I indent the gayer flags of Pall Mall. It is Change time, and I am strangely among the Elgin marbles. It was no hyperbole when I ventured to compare the change in my condition to a passing into another world.
Time stands still in a manner to me.
I have lost all distinction of season. I do not know the day of the week, or of the month.
Each day used to be individually felt by me in its reference to the foreign post days; in its distance from, or propinquity to, the next Sunday. The phantom of the next day, with the dreary five to follow, sate as a load upon my poor Sabbath recreations.
What charm has washed that Ethiop white? What is gone of Black Monday? All days are the same. Sunday itself — that unfortunate failure of a holyday as it too often proved, what with my sense of its fugitiveness, and over-care to get the greatest quantity of pleasure out of it — is melted down into a week day. I can spare to go to church now, without grudging the huge cantle which it used to seem to cut out of the holyday.
I have Time for everything. I can visit a sick friend. I can interrupt the man of much occupation when he is busiest. It is Lucretian pleasure to behold the poor drudges, whom I have left behind in the world, carking and caring; like horses in a mill, drudging on in the same eternal round — and what is it all for? A man can never have too much Time to himself, nor too little to do. Man, I verily believe, is out of his element as long as he is operative.
I am altogether for the life contemplative. Will no kindly earthquake come and swallow up those accursed cotton mills? Take me that lumber of a desk there, and bowl it down As low as to the fiends. I am Retired Leisure. I am to be met with in trim gardens. I am already come to be known by my vacant face and careless gesture, perambulating at no fixed pace, nor with any settled purpose.
I walk about; not to and from. They tell me, a certain cum dignitate air, that has been buried so long with my other good parts, has begun to shoot forth in my person.
I grow into gentility perceptibly. When I take up a newspaper, it is to read the state of the opera. Opus operatum est.
I have done all that I came into this world to do. The children vanish. Poor Elia finds himself sitting beside his cousin Bridget. He seems to be talking about an apparently commonplace subject but gradually turns his discussion to something highly pertinent and relevant to life.
In the essay Old China, Lamb indulges in lofty praise of the antique things of China in a somewhat lengthy discourse. As we read through straining our intellectual abilities to comprehend fully what he is sharing with us, he points out that one has to be affluent to afford such artistic and beautiful things.
It is then that he goes on contrasting his own earlier days of poverty with the present phase of riches and luxury. In fact, Charles Lamb, as we know was never rich - it is only his fertile imagination. In the days of poverty, it was extremely difficult to have even the simple things he and his sister needed or aspired to have. Be it possessing a book which they wanted to read or watching a play they admired madly, theyhadtopassthroughexcruciatingdifficulty,cutdownheavilyon their other needs and requirements and then only they were able to satisfy such humble desires.
At last, when they happened to acquire them, they derived the fullest enjoyment out of them. But now when they can get things for the asking, they awfully miss the enjoyment.
A child is fed with milk and praise. He is restricted and controlled by the rules and regulations of the organization he works for. As he has always to stick to the routine and schedule of his office, he cannot avail himself of leisure or pleasure as and when he pleases. He has to keep his ego suppressed if he has to keep his bosses in good humour.
But a man who has retired from service is an absolutely free man. He can spend any amount of time to his heart — felt satisfaction and visit any place of his choice. For him, there is no assigned work to do. If he wants to read a book, he can do so at his sweet will and pace.
No one and nothing can stop him from doing what he likes. But a superannuated man is devoid of his income in terms of salary.
He may have to live on his meagre pension. Now that he has retired, he is treated as an old and out - dated person.
He grows old and his talents decline.