My first motive in writing, and, indeed, in calling on you, was to ask if you were enough acquainted with any of the Benchers to lay a plain statement before them of the circumstances of the family. I almost fear not, for you are of another hall. But if you can oblige me and my poor friend, who is now insensible to any favors, pray exert yourself. You cannot say too much good of poor Norris and his poor wife.
 Randal Norris, sub-treasurer of the Inner Temple, an early friend of the Lambs.
TO PETER GEORGE PATMORE.
LONDRES, Julie 19_th_, 1827.
Dear P.,—I am so poorly. I have been to a funeral, where I made a pun, to the consternation of the rest of the mourners. And we had wine. I can’t describe to you the howl which the widow set up at proper intervals. Dash  could; for it was not unlike what he makes.
The letter I sent you was one directed to the care of Edward White, India House, for Mrs. Hazlitt. Which Mrs. H. I don’t yet know; but Allsop has taken it to France on speculation. Really it is embarrassing. There is Mrs. present H., Mrs. late H., and Mrs. John H.; and to which of the three Mrs. Wigginses it appertains, I know not. I wanted to open it, but ’tis transportation.
I am sorry you are plagued about your book. I would strongly recommend you to take for one story Massinger’s “Old Law.” It is exquisite. I can think of no other.
Dash is frightful this morning. He whines and stands up on his hind legs. He misses Becky, who is gone to town. I took him to Barnet the other day, and he couldn’t eat his vittles after it. Pray God his intellectuals be not slipping.
Mary is gone out for some soles. I suppose ’tis no use to ask you to come and partake of ’em; else there is a steam vessel.
I am doing a tragi-comedy in two acts, and have got on tolerably; but it will be refused, or worse, I never had luck with anything my name was put to.
Oh, I am so poorly! I waked it at my cousin’s the bookbinder, who is now with God; or if he is not,’tis no fault of mine.
We hope the Frank wines do not disagree with Mrs. Patmore. By the way, I like her.
Did you ever taste frogs? Get them if you can. They are like little Lilliput rabbits, only a thought nicer.
How sick I am!—not of the world, but of the Widow Shrub. She’s sworn under L6,000; but I think she perjured herself. She howls in E la, and I comfort her in B flat. You understand music?
If you haven’t got Massinger, you have nothing to do but go to the first Bibliotheque you can light upon at Boulogne, and ask for it (Gifford’s edition); and if they haven’t got it, you can have “Athalie,” par Monsieur Racine, and make the best of it. But that “Old Law” is delicious.