and Thirty Years Ago,” should be read along with an earlier one, which does not belong actually to the Elia series, “Recollections of Christ’s Hospital.”  In the later essay Lamb affected to look at the school as it might have been to a scholar less fortunately circumstanced than himself, a boy far from his family and friends, and the boy whom he selected was that one of his school companions whom he knew best and with whom in manhood he had sustained the closest friendship—­S.  T. Coleridge.  That friend he thus apostrophizes in a passage which has frequently been quoted: 

Come back into memory, like as thou wert in the day-spring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee—­the dark pillar not yet turned—­Samuel Taylor Coleridge—­Logician, Metaphysician, Bard!  How have I seen the casual passer through the Cloisters stand still, entranced with admiration (while he weighed the disproportion between the speech and the garb of the young Mirandula), to hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of Jamblichus or Plotinus (for even in those years thou waxedst not pale at such philosophic draughts), or reciting Homer in his Greek, or Pindar, while the walls of the old Grey Friars re-echoed to the accents of the inspired charity-boy!

“The Two Races of Men,” divides men into those who borrow and those who lend, the theme being followed out with great humour, and going on to those “whose treasures are rather cased in leather covers than closed in iron coffers,” and then giving pleasant bits about Coleridge—­under his nomme de guerre of Comberbatch—­and his theory that “the title to property in a book ... is in exact ratio to the claimant’s powers of understanding and appreciating the same.”  “Should he go on acting upon this theory,” adds Elia, “which of our shelves is safe?”

“New Year’s Eve” suggests a train of reflections—­not, in the platitudinous manner of looking back over the errors of the past year and making good resolutions for the coming one—­but on mortality generally, and on the passing of time and the passing of life: 

I am not content to pass away like a weaver’s shuttle!  These metaphors solace me not, nor sweeten the unpalatable draught of mortality.  I care not to be carried with the tide, that smoothly bears human life to eternity; and reluct at the inevitable course of destiny.  I am in love with this green earth; the face of town and country; the unspeakable rural solitude, and the sweet security of streets.  I would set up my tabernacle here.  I am content to stand still at the age to which I am arrived; I and my friends; to be no younger, no richer, no handsomer.  I do not want to be weaned by age; or drop like mellow fruit, as they say, into the grave.

Next comes the immortal “Mrs. Battle’s Opinions on Whist,”—­Mrs. Battle, whose wish for “a clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game” has become almost