evening, when his friends generally went to visit him, without any special
invitation. He invited you suddenly, not pressingly; but with such
heartiness that you at once agreed to come. There was usually a game at
whist on these evenings, in which the stakes were very moderate, indeed
almost nominal.

When my thoughts turn backward, as they sometimes do, to these past days,
I see my dear old friend again,--"in my mind's eye, Horatio,"--with his
outstretched hand, and his grave, sweet smile of welcome. It was always in
a room of moderate size, comfortably but plainly furnished, that he lived.
An old mahogany table was opened out in the middle of the room, round
which, and near the walls, were old, high-backed chairs (such as our
grandfathers used), and a long, plain bookcase completely filled with old
books. These were his "ragged veterans." In one of his letters he says,
"My rooms are luxurious, one for prints, and one for books; a summer and
winter parlor." They, however, were not otherwise decorated. I do not
remember ever to have seen a flower or an image in them. He had not been
educated into expensive tastes. His extravagances were confined to books.
These were all chosen by himself, all old, and all in "admired disorder;"
yet he could lay his hand on any volume in a moment, "You never saw," he
writes, "a bookcase in more true harmony with the contents than what I
have nailed up in my room. Though new, it has more aptitude for growing
old than you shall often see; as one sometimes gets a friend in the middle
of life who becomes an old friend in a short time."

Here Charles Lamb sate, when at home, always near the table. At the
opposite side was his sister, engaged in some domestic work, knitting or
sewing, or poring over a modern novel. "Bridget in some things is behind
her years." In fact, although she was ten years older than her brother,
she had more sympathy with modern books and with youthful fancies than he