cheerful? I mean when he is pleased, for otherwise there is
no judging. You can't be too careful. Has he bit any of the children
yet? If he has, have them shot, and keep _him_ for curiosity, to see if
it was the hydrophobia. They say all our army in India had it at one
time; but that was in _Hyder_-Ally's time. Do you get paunch for him?
Take care the sheep was sane. You might pull his teeth out (if he would
let you), and then you need not mind if he were as mad as a Bedlamite.

It would be rather fun to see his odd ways. It might amuse Mrs. P. and
the children. They'd have more sense than he. He'd be like a fool kept
in a family, to keep the household in good humor with their own
understanding. You might teach him the mad dance, set to the mad howl.
_Madge Owlet_ would be nothing to him. "My, how he capers!" (_In the
margin is written "One of the children speaks this_.") ... What I
scratch out is a German quotation, from Lessing, on the bite of rabid
animals; but I remember you don't read German. But Mrs. P. may, so I
wish I had let it stand. The meaning in English is: "Avoid to approach
an animal suspected of madness, as you would avoid fire or a
precipice,"--which I think is a sensible observation. The Germans are
certainly profounder than we. If the slightest suspicion arises in your
breast that all is not right with him, muzzle him and lead him in a
string (common packthread will do; he don't care for twist) to Mr.
Hood's, his quondam master, and he'll take him in at any time. You may
mention your suspicion, or not, as you like, or as you think it may
wound, or not, Mr. H.'s feelings. Hood, I know, will wink at a few
follies in Dash, in consideration of his former sense. Besides, Hood is
deaf, and if you hinted anything, ten to one he would not hear you.
Besides, you will have discharged your conscience, and laid the child at
the right door, as they say.

We are dawdling our time away very idly and pleasantly at a Mrs.
Leishman's, Chase, Enfield, where, if you come a-hunting, we can give
you cold meat and a tankard. Her husband is a tailor; but that, you
know, does not make her one. I know a jailor (which rhymes), but his
wife was a fine lady.

Let us hear from you respecting Mrs. P.'s regimen. I send my love in
a-- to Dash.

C. LAMB.

XCVIII.

TO BERNARD BARTON.

_October_ 11, 1828.

A splendid edition of Bunyan's Pilgrim! [1] Why, the thought is enough to
turn one's moral stomach. His cockle-hat