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
springs up a little spare man in black, with a countenance pregnant with
expression, deep lines in his forehead, quick, luminous, restless eyes,
and a smile as sweet as ever threw sunshine upon the human face.
Pages:
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236