To those who did not know him, or, knowing, did not or could not appreciate him, Lamb often passed for something between an imbecile, a brute, and a buffoon; and the first impression he made on ordinary people was always unfavourable—­sometimes to a violent and repulsive degree.

Page 174, line 3. Some of his writings.  In the London Magazine the essay did not end here.  It continued:—­

“He left property behind him.  Of course, the little that is left (chiefly in India bonds) devolves upon his cousin Bridget.  A few critical dissertations were found in his escritoire, which have been handed over to the Editor of this Magazine, in which it is to be hoped they will shortly appear, retaining his accustomed signature.

“He has himself not obscurely hinted that his employment lay in a public office.  The gentlemen in the Export department of the East India House will forgive me, if I acknowledge the readiness with which they assisted me in the retrieval of his few manuscripts.  They pointed out in a most obliging manner the desk at which he had been planted for forty years; showed me ponderous tomes of figures, in his own remarkably neat hand, which, more properly than his few printed tracts, might be called his ‘Works.’  They seemed affectionate to his memory, and universally commended his expertness in book-keeping.  It seems he was the inventor of some ledger, which should combine the precision and certainty of the Italian double entry (I think they called it) with the brevity and facility of some newer German system—­but I am not able to appreciate the worth of the discovery.  I have often heard him express a warm regard for his associates in office, and how fortunate he considered himself in having his lot thrown in amongst them.  There is more sense, more discourse, more shrewdness, and even talent, among these clerks (he would say) than in twice the number of authors by profession that I have conversed with.  He would brighten up sometimes upon the ’old days of the India House,’ when he consorted with Woodroffe, and Wissett, and Peter Corbet (a descendant and worthy representative, bating the point of sanctity, of old facetious Bishop Corbet), and Hoole who translated Tasso, and Bartlemy Brown whose father (God assoil him therefore) modernised Walton—­and sly warm-hearted old Jack Cole (King Cole they called him in those days), and Campe, and Fombelle—­and a world of choice spirits, more than I can remember to name, who associated in those days with Jack Burrell (the bon vivant of the South Sea House), and little Eyton (said to be a facsimile of Pope—­he was a miniature of a gentleman) that was cashier under him, and Dan Voight of the Custom House that left the famous library.

“Well, Elia is gone—­for aught I know, to be reunited with them—­and these poor traces of his pen are all we have to show for it.  How little survives of the wordiest