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.
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