lustrate, as fine ladies do, from their own familiar objects,
and snakes and shutting up of wombs are in their way. I don't know that
this last charge has been before brought against 'em, nor either the
sour milk or the mandrake babe; but I affirm these be things a witch
would do if she could.

My tragedy [2] will be a medley (as I intend it to be a medley) of
laughter and tears, prose and verse, and in some places rhyme, songs,
wit, pathos, humor, and if possible, sublimity,--at least, it is not a
fault in my intention if it does not comprehend most of these discordant
colors. Heaven send they dance not the "Dance of Death!" I hear that the
Two Noble Englishmen [3] have parted no sooner than they set foot on
German earth; but I have not heard the reason,--possibly to give
novelists a handle to exclaim, "Ah me, what things are perfect!" I think
I shall adopt your emendation in the "Dying Lover," though I do not
myself feel the objection against "Silent Prayer."

My tailor has brought me home a new coat lapelled, with a velvet collar.
He assures me everybody wears velvet collars now. Some are born
fashionable, some achieve fashion, and others, like your humble servant,
have fashion thrust upon them. The rogue has been making inroads
hitherto by modest degrees, foisting upon me an additional button,
recommending gaiters; but to come upon me thus in a full tide of luxury,
neither becomes him as a tailor or the ninth of a man. My meek gentleman
was robbed the other day, coming with his wife and family in a one-horse
shay from Hampstead; the villains rifled him of four guineas, some
shillings and halfpence, and a bundle of customers' measures, which they
swore were bank-notes. They did not shoot him, and when they rode off he
addressed them with profound gratitude, making a congee: "Gentlemen, I
wish you good-night; and we are very much obliged to you that you have
not used us ill!" And this is the cuckoo that has the audacity to foist
upon me ten buttons on a side and a black velvet collar,--a cursed ninth
of a scoundrel!

When you write to Lloyd, he wishes his Jacobin correspondents to address
him as _Mr._ C. L. Love and respects to Edith. I hope she is well.

Yours sincerely,

C. LAMB.

[1] This quaint scholar, a marvel of simplicity and universal optimism,
is a constantly recurring and delightfully humorous character in the
Letters. Lamb and Dyer had been schoolfellows at Christ's Hospital.

[2] John Woodvil.