And now, my dear Sir, trifling apart, the gloomy catastrophe of yesterday morning prompts a sadder vein.  The fate of the unfortunate Fauntleroy makes me, whether I will or no, to cast reflecting eyes around on such of my friends as by a parity of situation are exposed to a similarity of temptation.  My very style, seems to myself to become more impressive than usual, with the change of theme.  Who that standeth, knoweth but he may yet fall?  Your hands as yet, I am most willing to believe, have never deviated into others’ property.  You think it impossible that you could ever commit so heinous an offence.  But so thought Fauntleroy once; so have thought many besides him, who at last have expiated, as he hath done.  You are as yet upright.  But you are a Banker, at least the next thing to it.  I feel the delicacy of the subject; but cash must pass thro’ your hands, sometimes to a great amount.  If in an unguarded hour—­but I will hope better.  Consider the scandal it will bring upon those of your persuasion.  Thousands would go to see a Quaker hanged, that would be indifferent to the fate of a Presbyterian, or an Anabaptist.  Think of the effect it would have on the sale of your poems alone; not to mention higher considerations.  I tremble, I am sure, at myself, when I think that so many poor victims of the Law at one time of their life made as sure of never being hanged as I in my presumption am too ready to do myself.  What are we better than they?  Do we come into the world with different necks?  Is there any distinctive mark under our left ears?  Are we unstrangulable?  I ask you.  Think of these things.  I am shocked sometimes at the shape of my own fingers, not for their resemblance to the ape tribe (which is something) but for the exquisite adaptation of them to the purposes of picking, fingering, &c.  No one that is so framed, I maintain it, but should tremble.

Postscript for your Daughter’s eyes only.

Dear Miss ——­ Your pretty little letterets make me ashamed of my great straggling coarse handwriting.  I wonder where you get pens to write so small.  Sure they must be the pinions of a small wren, or a robin.  If you write so in your Album, you must give us glasses to read by.  I have seen a Lady’s similar book all writ in following fashion.  I think it pretty and fanciful.

“O how I love in early dawn
To bend my steps o’er flowery dawn [lawn],”

which I think has an agreeable variety to the eye.  Which I recommend to your notice, with friend Elia’s best wishes.

[The London Magazine began a new series at half a crown with the number for January, 1825.  It had begun to decline very noticeably.  The New Monthly Magazine, to the January number of which Lamb contributed his “Illustrious Defunct” essay, was its most serious rival.  Lamb returned to some of his old vivacity and copiousness in the London Magazine for January, 1825.  To that number he contributed his “Biographical Memoir of Mr. Liston” and the “Vision of Horns”; and to the February number “Letter to an Old Gentleman,” “Unitarian Protests” and the “Autobiography of Mr. Munden.”