The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 2 - Elia and The Last Essays of Elia by Mary Lamb;Charles Lamb
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desk Tipp was quite another sort of creature. Thence all ideas, that
were purely ornamental, were banished. You could not speak of any thing romantic without rebuke. Politics were excluded. A newspaper was thought too refined and abstracted. The whole duty of man consisted in writing off dividend warrants. The striking of the annual balance in the company's books (which, perhaps, differed from the balance of last year in the sum of 25_l._ 1_s._ 6_d._) occupied his days and nights for a month previous. Not that Tipp was blind to the deadness of _things_ (as they call them in the city) in his beloved house, or did not sigh for a return of the old stirring days when South Sea hopes were young--(he was indeed equal to the wielding of any the most intricate accounts of the most flourishing company in these or those days):--but to a genuine accountant the difference of proceeds is as nothing. The fractional farthing is as dear to his heart as the thousands which stand before it. He is the true actor, who, whether his part be a prince or a peasant, must act it with like intensity. With Tipp form was every thing. His life was formal. His actions seemed ruled with a ruler. His pen was not less erring than his heart. He made the best executor in the world: he was plagued with incessant executorships accordingly, which excited his spleen and soothed his vanity in equal ratios. He would swear (for Tipp swore) at the little orphans, whose rights he would guard with a tenacity like the grasp of the dying hand, that commended their interests to his protection. With all this there was about him a sort of timidity--(his few enemies used to give it a worse name)--a something which, in reverence to the dead, we will place, if you please, a little on this side of the heroic. Nature certainly had been pleased to endow John Tipp with a sufficient measure of the principle of self-preservation. There is a cowardice which we do not despise, because it has nothing base or treacherous in its elements; it betrays itself, not you: it is mere temperament; the |
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