which, so soon after Mary Lamb's determination to be the letter
writer of the family, he says, "Mary Lamb has written her last letter in
this world," adding that he has been left her _writing legatee_. He
calls geese "those pretty birds that look like snow in summer, and
cackle like ice breaking up."

Here should come a long Latin letter to Rickman, dated October 4, 1828.
Canon Ainger prints the Latin. I append an English version:--]

LETTER 461

CHARLES LAMB TO JOHN RICKMAN

(_Translation_)

[Postmark Oct. 3, 1828.]

I have been thinking of sending some kind of an answer in Latin to your
very elaborate letter, but something has arisen every day to hinder me.
To begin with our awkward friend M.B. has been with us for a while, and
every day and all day we have had such a lecture, you know how he
stutters, on legal, mind, nothing but legal notices, that I have been
afraid the Latin I want to write might prove rather barbaro-forensic
than Ciceronian. He is swallowed up, body and soul, in law; he eats,
drinks, plays (at the card table) Law, nothing but Law. He acts
Ignoramus in the play so thoroughly, that you w'd swear that in the
inmost marrow of his head (is not this the proper anatomical term?)
there have housed themselves not devils but pettifoggers, to bemuddle
with their noisy chatter his own and his friends' wits. He brought here,
'twas all his luggage, a book, Fearn on Contingent Remainders. This book
he has read so hard, and taken such infinite pains to understand, that
the reader's brain has few or no Remainders to continge. Enough,
however, of M.B. and his luggage. To come back to your claims upon me.
Your return journey, with notes, I read again and again, nor have I done
with them yet. You always make something fresh out of a hackneyed theme.
Our milestones, you say, bristle with blunders, but I must shortly
explain why I cannot comply with your directions herein.

Suppose I were to consult the local magnates about a matter of this
kind.--Ha! says one of our waywardens or parish overseers,--What
business is this of _yours_? Do you want to drop the Lodger and come out
as a Householder?--Now you must know that I took this house of mine at
Enfield, by an obvious domiciliary fiction, in my Sister's name, to
avoid the bother and trouble of parish and vestry meetings, and to
escape finding myself one day an overseer or big-wig of some sort. What
then w'd be my reply to the above question?

Leisure I ha