ted into others' property. You think it
impossible that you could ever commit so heinous an offence; but so
thought Fauntleroy once; so have thought many besides him, who at last
have expiated as he hath done. You are as yet upright; but you are a
banker, or, at least, the next thing to it. I feel the delicacy of the
subject; but cash must pass through your hands, sometimes to a great
amount. If, in an unguarded hour----But I will hope better. Consider the
scandal it will bring upon those of your persuasion. Thousands would go
to see a Quaker hanged that would be indifferent to the fate of a
Presbyterian or an Anabaptist. Think of the effect it would have on the
sale of your poems alone, not to mention higher considerations! I
tremble, I am sure, at myself, when I think that so many poor victims of
the law, at one time of their life, made as sure of never being hanged
as I, in my own presumption, am ready, too ready, to do myself. What are
we better than they? Do we come into the world with different necks? Is
there any distinctive mark under our left ears? Are we unstrangulable, I
ask you? Think on these things. I am shocked sometimes at the shape of
my own fingers,--not for their resemblance to the ape tribe, (which is
something,) but for the exquisite adaptation of them to the purposes of
picking, fingering, etc."

And a few months after writing the above letter, Lamb contributed to
"The London Magazine,"--then in its decadence, but among whose "creaking
rafters" Elia fondly lingered, "like the last rat,"--to this (his
favorite periodical) he contributed a brief, but beautiful paper,
suggested by Fauntleroy's sad story. The article is entitled "The Last
Peach," and purports to be written by a bank-officer (possibly the
author had Barton in his mind while writing it) who fears he may become
a second Fauntleroy. The piece contains one or two delightful passages,
and is, in fact, full of happy touches and felicitous bits of
description. Very charming (to me, at least) is the account of the
plucking of the last peach, and very touching is the allusion to the
babe Fauntleroy. But good wine (or a good peach) needs no bush; and
therefore, without further comment or commendation, I present "The Last
Peach" to the appreciative reader. He will find it to be, unless I am a
very poor judge of the article, a peach of excellent quality and of a
peculiarly fine flavor.

The garden in which grew the tree on which "lingered the one