Let it be any autumn or winter month, when the fire is blazing steadily, and the clean-swept hearth and whist-tables speak of the spirit of Mrs. Battle.... The furniture is old-fashioned and worn; the ceiling low, and not wholly unstained by traces of “the great plant”; but the Hogarths, in narrow black frames, abounding in infinite thought, humor, and pathos, enrich the walls; and all things wear an air of comfort and hearty English welcome. Lamb himself, yet unrelaxed by the glass, is sitting with a sort of Quaker primness at the whist-table, the gentleness of his melancholy smile half lost in his intentness on the game; his partner, the author of ‘Political Justice,’ is regarding his hand with a philosophic but not a careless eye; Captain Burney, only not venerable because so young in spirit, sits between them; and H. C. R., who alone now and then breaks the proper silence to welcome some in-coming guest, is his happy partner--true winner in the game of life, whose leisure, achieved early, is devoted to his friends!... In one corner of the room, you may see the pale, earnest countenance of Charles Lloyd, who is discoursing “of fate, free-will, fore-knowledge absolute,” with Leigh Hunt.... Soon the room fills; in slouches Hazlitt from the theatre, where his stubborn anger for Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo has been softened by Miss Stephens’ angelic notes.... Now and then an actor glances in on us from “the rich Cathay” of the world behind the scenes.... Meanwhile, Becky lays the cloth on the side-table, under the direction of the most quiet, sensible, and kind of women--who soon compels the younger and more hungry of the guests to partake largely of the cold roast lamb, or boiled beef, the heaps of smoking roasted potatoes, and the vast jug of porter. Perfect freedom prevails. As the hot water and its accompaniments appear, and the severities of whist relax, the light of conversation thickens: Hazlitt, catching the influence of the spirit from which he has lately begun to abstain, utters some fine criticism with struggling emphasis; Lamb stammers out puns suggestive of wisdom; the various driblets of talk combine into a stream, while Miss Lamb moves gently about to see that each modest stranger is duly served; turning, now and then, an anxious loving eye on Charles, which is softened into a half-humorous expression of resignation to inevitable fate, as he mixes his second tumbler! TALFOURD: ‘Final Recollections.’ * * * * * [Sidenote: “I must die first.”] She had a way of repeating her brother’s words assentingly when he spoke to her. He once said (with his peculiar mode of tenderness, beneath blunt, abrupt speech), “You must die first, Mary.” She nodded with her little, quiet nod and sweet smile, “Yes, I must die first, Charles.” CHARLES AND MARY COWDEN CLARKE: ‘Recollections of Writers.’ * * * * * [Sidenote: A melancholy visit.]