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, and the equally curious contrast between the clerical amplitude of his person, and the most unclerical wit, whim, and petulance of his eye.