Dream Children by Charles Lamb | Dream Children: A Reverie | Charles Lamb | Summary | Key Points | Word Meaning | Questions Answers | Critical Appreciation | Free PDF Download – Easy Literary Lesson

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. 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. 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. Here Alice put out one of her dear mother’s looks, too tender to be called upbraiding. 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 afterward 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 someone 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. Here John smiled, as much as to say, “that would be foolish indeed.” 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, aye, and a great part of the Testament besides. Here little Alice spread her hands. 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. 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. Here John expanded all his eyebrows and tried to look courageous. 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 Cæsars, 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 flavors of peaches, nectarines, oranges, and such like common baits of children. Here John slyly deposited back upon the plate a bunch of grapes, which, not unobserved by Alice, he had mediated dividing with her, and both seemed willing to relinquish them for the present as irrelevant. 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 lamefooted; 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 afterward 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. I missed his kindness, and I missed his crossness, and wished him to be alive again, to be quarreling with him (for we quarreled 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. 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. Then I told them 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: “We are not of Alice, nor of thee, nor are we children at all. The children of Alice call 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”—and immediately awaking, I found myself quietly seated in my bachelor armchair, where I had fallen asleep, with the faithful Bridget unchanged by my side—but John L. (or James Elia) was gone forever.

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Summary

On a quiet evening, I, Charles Lamb, sat comfortably in my armchair, reminiscing about the past. My children, Alice and John, gathered around me, eager to hear stories about their great-grandmother, Mrs. Field. Alice, seven years old, was sweet and serious, with a curious mind that loved to delve into the mysteries of the past. John, ten years old, was lively and mischievous, always ready with a witty remark or a playful gesture.

“Tell us about Great-Grandmother Field,” they requested, their eyes wide with anticipation.

I began with a smile, “Your great-grandmother Field was an extraordinary woman. She lived in a very large house in Norfolk, much bigger than our home. This house was famous for a tragic story about two children and their cruel uncle beautifully carved in wood on the chimney-piece of the great hall. Sadly, the owner of the house replaced this wooden chimney with a marble one that had no story at all. This change made many people sad because the old chimney-piece was like a historical treasure, full of meaning and memories.”

Alice’s eyes sparkled with wonder as she imagined the grand old house and its intriguing story. She loved tales with a touch of mystery and sadness, and this one seemed to capture her imagination completely.

“Great-grandmother Field was a very religious and kind woman,” I continued. “She wasn’t the owner of the house but took care of it with great devotion, almost as if it were her own. The actual owner of the house preferred living in a more modern mansion in the neighboring county. Despite the house being haunted by the spirits of two infants, she wasn’t scared at all because of her strong faith. She believed that these spirits would not harm her. She even slept alone in a room of the great house, which was very brave. I, on the other hand, was not as religious or courageous as she was, so I always needed my maid to sleep in my room at night.”

John tried to look brave, raising his eyebrows in an attempt to mimic great-grandmother Field’s courage. It was clear he admired her bravery and wanted to show that he, too, could be fearless.

“When your great-grandmother Field was young, she was tall, upright, and very graceful,” I said. “She was known as the best dancer in the county. People admired her dancing skills and her elegance. But later in life, she got a painful disease called cancer, which made her suffer a lot. Despite the pain, her spirit remained strong. When she passed away, many people from the neighborhood came to her funeral to show their respect. She was so good and religious that everyone loved her. She even knew all the Psalms and a large part of the New Testament by heart.”

Little Alice’s eyes widened in amazement, and she unconsciously moved her feet, imagining herself dancing gracefully like her great-grandmother.

“The old house where she lived had beautiful gardens full of various fruits like nectarines, peaches, and oranges,” I said. “When I was a child, I used to spend hours in that garden, but I never picked the fruits because they were forbidden. Instead, I enjoyed just looking at them. I found more pleasure in roaming around the garden, lying on the fresh grass, and basking in the warm sunshine of the orangery. Watching the fish in the pond, especially the big, lazy pike, was another favorite pastime. These simple joys were more delightful to me than eating the fruits.”

John, trying to imitate my respect for the forbidden fruits, placed a bunch of grapes back on a plate instead of eating them. His gesture made me smile, knowing he was learning to appreciate the beauty of nature and the importance of respecting rules.

“Great-grandmother Field had many grandchildren, but she especially loved your uncle, John L___,” I said. “He was handsome, spirited, and full of energy. He loved riding horses and joining the hunters. He wasn’t the type to sit quietly in a corner. When I was a lame-footed boy and couldn’t walk much, he would often carry me on his back for miles. He took me on many adventures, showing great kindness and care.”

“As he grew up, he remained brave and handsome, and great-grandmother Field was very proud of him. Unfortunately, later in life, he became lame-footed too, and I regret that I wasn’t as considerate to him as he had been to me. When he died, it felt like he had been gone for a long time, creating a vast distance between life and death. Initially, I thought I handled his death well, but it haunted me. I missed him every day, realizing how much I had loved him, even his occasional crossness. I wished he were alive again, even if it meant quarrelling with him.”

The children’s eyes filled with tears at this sad part of the story. They asked me not to continue the story of Uncle John, but to tell them about their mother instead.

I began to tell them about their mother, Alice W_n, and how I courted her for seven long years. “Your mother was a beautiful and kind woman,” I said. “I loved her deeply and pursued her for many years, facing both hope and despair. She was sometimes coy, making it difficult for me, but I never gave up. I wanted you to understand what it means to face difficulties and rejections when you love someone truly.”

As Lamb spoke about his experiences with his wife, he suddenly had the unsettling realization that the old Alice seemed to be communicating with him through the eyes of little Alice who sat before him. As he continued to gaze, his imaginary children, John and Alice, began to fade away. Eventually, the two figures dissipated completely, leaving behind only the impression that they were not truly his children or Alice’s. They were merely figments of his imagination. The children, referred to in his dream as “Bartram’s children,” were nothing more than dreams. Startled, Lamb awoke to find himself in his bachelor armchair, with his loyal Bridget by his side. The dream had ended, leaving me with a mix of emotions and reflections on the nature of family, memory, and imagination.

Conclusion

Charles Lamb awakens from his dream to find himself alone in his bachelor armchair, with his loyal Bridget by his side. The imagined children and his late brother John have vanished. This dream leaves Lamb with a profound reflection on memory, family, and the passage of time. Through this blend of reality and fantasy, he explores the joys and sorrows of life, offering a moving meditation on the connections between the past and the present.

Publication History

“Dream-Children: A Reverie” was originally published in January 1822 in the “London Magazine” under the pseudonym Elia, a persona that Lamb adopted for his essays. It was later included in “Essays of Elia” in 1823, a collection that brought together many of Lamb’s most celebrated essays. The collection was well-received for its introspective and lyrical prose, establishing Lamb as a master essayist whose works resonated deeply with readers.

“Essays of Elia” was followed by “Last Essays of Elia in 1833”, which further solidified Lamb’s reputation as a literary figure known for his keen observations of human nature, poignant reflections on life, and distinctive narrative voice. Both collections have been reprinted in various editions over the years, maintaining their relevance and appeal to readers interested in the personal essay as a genre.