s compelled to give up
his clerkship, and thereafter he lived most of his time at Edmonton. The
British government gave him an annual pension of L441, which sufficed
for the simple wants of himself and his sister.

The immediate cause of his death was a slight accident that befell him a
few months after the burial of Coleridge. Unconsciousness came before he
had been long ill and before any of his intimate friends could reach
him, yet it was their names that were last on his lips. They buried him
in the churchyard at Edmonton, as he wished, where on his tombstone may
be read:

"Farewell, dear friend--that smile, that harmless mirth,
No more shall gladden our domestic hearth;
That rising tear, with pain forbid to flow--
Better than words--no more assuage our woe.
That hand outstretch'd from small but well-earned store
Yield succor to the destitute no more.
Yet art thou not all lost. Through many an age,
With sterling sense and humour, shall thy page
Win many an English bosom, pleased to see
That old and happier vein revived in thee.
This for our earth: and if with friends we share
Our joys in heaven we hope to meet thee there."

Besides the _Tales from Shakespeare_, Charles Lamb wrote many beautiful
sketches which are known as the _Essays of Elia_. _Elia_ was the name of
one of the clerks in the South Sea House, where Lamb worked at one time.

A reader can easily form some idea of a writer's character from his
work, but Lamb was always so wholly himself, and he threw himself so
freely into his essays, that you can tell just what manner of man he
was as you read. A large part of the pleasure of reading him comes from
this trait. We seem to be sitting with a charming friend whenever we
hold one of his books, and to feel that the friend is pouring out his
whole heart for our delight and inspiration. Naturally a person must
keep alert when he is reading from Charles Lamb, for no one can predict
what course the brilliant mind will take. When once a reader has learned
to understand his oddities, delicate sentiment, bright wit and loving
faithfulness, every word becomes a living thing, and every reading a new
delight, a higher inspiration. In none of his essays is he seen to
greater advantage than in _Dream Children_, which follows this brief
sketch. The only people young or old who do not love this beautiful
essay are those who have not read it or who have read it without r