in your letter, let me
end with assuring you of our very best kindness, and excuse Mary for not
handling the pen on this occasion, especially as it has fallen into so
much better hands! Will Dr. W. accept of my respects at the end of a
foolish letter?

C. L.

LXXIV.

TO MR. AND MRS. BRUTON. [1]

_January_ 6, 1823.

The pig was above my feeble praise. It was a dear pigmy. There was some
contention as to who should have the ears; but in spite of his obstinacy
(deaf as these little creatures are to advice), I contrived to get at
one of them.

It came in boots, too, which I took as a favor. Generally these
petty-toes, pretty toes I are missing: but I suppose he wore them to
look taller.

He must have been the least of his race. His little foots would have
gone into the silver slipper. I take him to have beec a Chinese and
a female.

If Evelyn could have seen him, he would never have farrowed two such
prodigious volumes, seeing how much good can be contained in--how small
a compass!

He crackled delicately.

I left a blank at the top of my letter, not being determined which to
address it to j so farmer and farmer's wife will please to divide our
thanks. May your granaries be full, and your rats empty, and your
chickens plump, and your envious neighbors lean, and your laborers busy,
and you as idle and as happy as the day is long!

VIVE L'AGRICULTURE!

How do you make your pigs so little?
They are vastly engaging at the age.
I was so myself.
Now I am a disagreeable old hog,
A middle-aged gentleman-and-a-half;
My faculties (thank God!) are not much impaired.

I have my sight, hearing, taste, pretty perfect, and can read the Lord's
Prayer in common type, by the help of a candle, without making many
mistakes....

Many happy returns, not of the pig, but of the New Year, to both. Mary,
for her share of the pig and the memoirs, desires to send the same.

Yours truly,

C. LAMB.

[1] Hertfordshire connections of the Lambs.

LXXV.

TO BERNARD BARTON. [1]

_January_ 9, 1823.

Throw yourself on the world without any rational plan of support beyond
what the chance employ of booksellers would afford you!

Throw yourself, rather, my dear sir, from the steep Tarpeian rock
slap-dash headlong upon iron spikes. If you had but five consolatory
minutes between the desk and the bed, make much of them, and live a
century in them, rather than turn slave to the booksellers. They are