The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb, Volume 2 | Page 2

upon the New Year's Coming of Age 266 436 The Wedding 271 436 The Child Angel: a Dream 276 437 A Death-Bed 279 437 Old China 281 438 Popular Fallacies-- I. That a Bully is always a Coward 286 440 II. That Ill-gotten Gain never Prospers 287 440 III. That a Man must not Laugh at his own Jest 287 440 IV. That such a One shows his Breeding.--That it is Easy to Perceive he is no Gentleman 288 440 V. That the Poor Copy the Vices of the Rich 288 440 VI. That Enough is as Good as a Feast 290 440 VII. Of Two Disputants, the Warmest is Generally in the Wrong 291 440 VIII. That Verbal Allusions are not Wit, because they will not Bear a Translation 292 440 IX. That the Worst Puns are the Best 292 440 X. That Handsome is that Handsome does 294 441 XI. That We must not look a Gift-horse in the Mouth 296 441 XII. That Home is Home though it is never so Homely 298 442 XIII. That You must Love Me, and Love my Dog 302 442 XIV. That We should Rise with the Lark 305 443 XV. That We should Lie Down with the Lamb 308 443 XVI. That a Sulky Temper is a Misfortune 309 443
APPENDIX TEXT NOTE PAGE PAGE
On Some of the Old Actors (London Magazine, Feb., 1822) 315 444 The Old Actors (London Magazine, April, 1822) 322 444 The Old Actors (London Magazine, October, 1822) 331 444
NOTES 337 INDEX 447
FRONTISPIECE
ELIA
From a Drawing by Daniel Maclise, now preserved in the Victoria and Albert Museum.

ELIA
(_From the 1st Edition, 1823_)
THE SOUTH-SEA HOUSE
Reader, in thy passage from the Bank--where thou hast been receiving thy half-yearly dividends (supposing thou art a lean annuitant like myself)--to the Flower Pot, to secure a place for Dalston, or Shacklewell, or some other thy suburban retreat northerly,--didst thou never observe a melancholy looking, handsome, brick and stone edifice, to the left--where Threadneedle-street abuts upon Bishopsgate? I dare say thou hast often admired its magnificent portals ever gaping wide, and disclosing to view a grave court, with cloisters and pillars, with few or no traces of goers-in or comers-out--a desolation something like Balclutha's.[1]
This was once a house of trade,--a centre of busy interests. The throng of merchants was here--the quick pulse of gain--and here some forms of business are still kept up, though the soul be long since fled. Here are still to be seen stately porticos; imposing staircases; offices roomy as the state apartments in palaces--deserted, or thinly peopled with a few straggling clerks; the still more sacred interiors of court and committee rooms, with venerable faces of beadles, door-keepers--directors seated in form on solemn days (to proclaim a dead dividend,) at long worm-eaten tables, that have been mahogany, with tarnished gilt-leather coverings, supporting massy silver inkstands long since dry;--the oaken wainscots hung with pictures of deceased governors and sub-governors, of queen Anne, and the two first monarchs of the Brunswick dynasty;--huge charts, which subsequent discoveries have antiquated;--dusty maps of Mexico, dim as dreams,--and soundings of the Bay of Panama!--The long passages hung with buckets, appended, in idle row, to walls, whose substance might defy any, short of the last, conflagration;--with vast ranges of cellarage under all, where dollars and pieces of eight once lay, an "unsunned heap," for Mammon to have solaced his solitary heart withal,--long since dissipated, or scattered into air at the blast of the breaking of that famous BUBBLE.--
Such is the SOUTH-SEA HOUSE. At least, such it was forty years ago, when I knew it,--a magnificent relic! What alterations may have been made in it since, I have had no opportunities of verifying. Time, I take for granted, has not freshened it. No wind has resuscitated the face of the sleeping waters. A thicker crust by this time stagnates upon it. The moths, that were then battening upon its obsolete ledgers and day-books, have rested from their depredations, but other light generations have succeeded, making fine fretwork among their single and double entries. Layers of dust have accumulated (a superfoetation of dirt!) upon the old layers, that seldom used to be disturbed, save by some curious finger, now and then, inquisitive to explore the mode of book-keeping in Queen Anne's reign; or, with less hallowed curiosity, seeking to unveil some of the mysteries of that tremendous HOAX, whose extent the petty peculators of our day look back upon with the same expression of incredulous admiration, and hopeless ambition of rivalry, as would become the puny face of modern conspiracy contemplating the Titan size of Vaux's superhuman plot.
Peace to the manes of the BUBBLE! Silence and destitution are upon thy walls, proud house, for a memorial!
Situated as thou art, in the very heart of stirring and living commerce,--amid the fret