be grouped into comedies. His sketches are always (to quote his own eulogy
on Marvell) full of "a witty delicacy," and, if properly brought out and
marshalled, would do honor to the stage.

When I first became acquainted with Mr. Lamb, he lived, I think, in the
Temple; but I did not visit him then, and could scarcely, therefore, be
said to _know_ him, until he took up his residence in Russell Street,
Covent Garden. He had a first floor there, over a brazier's shop,--since
converted into a bookseller's,--wherein he frequently entertained his
friends. On certain evenings (Thursdays) one might reckon upon
encountering at his rooms from six to a dozen unaffected people, including
two or three men of letters. A game at whist and a cold supper, followed
by a cheerful glass (glasses!) and "good talk," were the standing dishes
upon those occasions. If you came late, you encountered a perfume of the
"GREAT PLANT." The pipe, hid in smoke (the violet amongst its leaves),--a
squadron of tumblers, fuming with various odors, and a score of quick
intelligent glances, saluted you. There you might see Godwin, Hazlitt,
Leigh Hunt, Coleridge (though rarely), Mr. Robinson, Serjeant Talfourd,
Mr. Ayrton, Mr. Alsager, Mr. Manning,--sometimes Miss Kelly, or Liston,--
Admiral Burney, Charles Lloyd, Mr. Alsop, and various others; and if
Wordsworth was in town, you might stumble upon him also. Our friend's
brother, John Lamb, was occasionally there; and his sister (his excellent
sister) invariably presided.

The room in which he lived was plainly and almost carelessly furnished.
Let us enter it for a moment. Its ornaments, you see, are principally
several long shelves of ancient books; (those are his "ragged veterans.")
Some of Hogarth's prints, two after Leonardo da Vinci and Titian, and a
portrait of Pope, enrich the walls. At the table sits an elderly lady (in
spectacles) reading; whilst from an old-fashioned chair by the fire