a counsel pronounced it otherwise. In conclusion, he
"would consult Serjeant Wilde," who gave it against him. Sometimes he
falleth into the water, sometimes into the fire. He came down here, and
insisted on reading Virgil's "AEneid" all through with me (which he did),
because a counsel must know Latin. Another time he read out all the
Gospel of St. John, because Biblical quotations are very emphatic in a
court of justice. A third time he would carve a fowl, which he did very
ill favoredly, because we did not know how indispensable it was for a
barrister to do all those sort of things well. Those little things were
of more consequence than we supposed. So he goes on, harassing about the
way to prosperity, and losing it. With a long head, but somewhat a wrong
one,--harum-scarum. Why does not his guardian angel look to him? He
deserves one,--maybe he has tired him out.

I am tired with this long scrawl; but I thought in your exile you might
like a letter. Commend me to all the wonders in Derbyshire, and tell the
devil I humbly kiss my hand to him.

Yours ever,

C. LAMB.

[1] Martin Burney, originally a solicitor, had lately been called to the
Bar.

CIV.

TO GEORGE DYER.

_December_ 20, 1830.

Dear Dyer,--I would have written before to thank you for your kind
letter, written with your own hand. It glads us to see your writing. It
will give you pleasure to hear that, after so much illness, we are in
tolerable health and spirits once more. Miss Isola intended to call upon
you after her night's lodging at Miss Buffam's, but found she was too
late for the stage. If she comes to town before she goes home, she will
not miss paying her respects to Mrs. Dyer and you, to whom she desires
best love. Poor Enfield, that has been so peaceable hitherto, that has
caught an inflammatory fever, the tokens are upon her; and a great fire
was blazing last night in the barns and haystacks of a fanner about half
a mile from us. Where will these things end? There is no doubt of its
being the work of some ill-disposed rustic; but how is he to be
discovered? They go to work in the dark with strange chemical
preparations unknown to our forefathers. There is not even a dark
lantern to have a chance of detecting these Guy Fauxes. We are past the
iron age, and are got into the fiery age, undream'd of by Ovid. You are
lucky in Clifford's Inn, where, I think, you have few ricks or stacks
worth the burning. Pray keep as little corn by yo