ce on
the attorneys, and proportioned to that sense of dependence is our
affectation of superiority. Even to take a meal with an attorney is a
high misdemeanour. One of the most eminent men among us brought
himself into a serious scrape by doing so. But to carry a letter of
introduction, to wait in the outer room while it is being read, to be
then ushered into the presence, to receive courtesies which can only be
considered as the condescensions of a patron, to return courtesies which
are little else than the blessings of a beggar, would be an infinitely
more terrible violation of our professional code. Every barrister to
whom I have applied for advice has most earnestly exhorted me on no
account whatever to present the letters myself. I should perhaps add
that my advisers have been persons who cannot by any possibility feel
jealous of me.

In default of anything better I will eke out my paper with some lines
which I made in bed last night,--an inscription for a picture of
Voltaire.

If thou would'st view one more than man and less,
Made up of mean and great, of foul and fair,
Stop here; and weep and laugh, and curse and bless,
And spurn and worship; for thou seest Voltaire.
That flashing eye blasted the conqueror's spear,
The monarch's sceptre, and the Jesuit's beads
And every wrinkle in that haggard sneer
Hath been the grave of Dynasties and Creeds.
In very wantonness of childish mirth
He puffed Bastilles, and thrones, and shrines away,
Insulted Heaven, and liberated earth.
Was it for good or evil? Who shall say?

Ever affectionately yours

T. B. M.

York: July 21, 1826.

My dear Father,--The other day, as I was changing my neck-cloth which my
wig had disfigured, my good landlady knocked at the door of my bedroom,
and told me that Mr. Smith wished to see me, and was in my room below.
Of all names by which men are called there is none which conveys a less
determinate idea to the mind than that of Smith. Was he on the circuit?
For I do not know half the names of my companions. Was he a special
messenger from London? Was he a York attorney coming to be preyed upon,
or a beggar coming to prey upon me, a barber to solicit the dressing
of my wig, or a collector for the Jews' Society? Down I went, and to my
utter amazement beheld the Smith of Smiths, Sydney Smith, alias Peter
Plymley. I had forgotten his very existence till I discerned the queer
contrast between his black coat and his snow-white head,