farmer, 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 you as you can, for fear of the worst.

It was never good times in England since the poor began to speculate upon their condition.  Formerly, they jogged on with as little reflection as horses:  the whistling ploughman went cheek by jowl with his brother that neighed.  Now the biped carries a box of phosphorus in his leather-breeches; and in the dead of night the half-illuminated beast steals his magic potion into a cleft in a barn, and half a country is grinning with new fires.  Farmer Graystock said something to the touchy rustic that he did not relish, and he writes his distaste in flames.  What a power to intoxicate his crude brains, just muddlingly awake, to perceive that something is wrong in the social system!-what a hellish faculty above gunpowder!

Now the rich and poor are fairly pitted; we shall see who can hang or burn fastest.  It is not always revenge that stimulates these kindlings.  There is a love of exerting mischief.  Think of a disrespected clod that was trod into earth, that was nothing, on a sudden by damned arts refined into an exterminating angel, devouring the fruits of the earth and their growers in a mass of fire!  What a new existence!—­what a temptation above Lucifer’s!  Would clod be any thing but a clod, if he could resist it?  Why, here was a spectacle last night for a whole country!—­a Bonfire visible to London, alarming her guilty towers, and shaking the Monument with an ague fit—­all done by a little vial of phosphor in a Clown’s fob!  How he must grin, and shake his empty noddle in clouds, the Vulcanian Epicure!  Can we ring the bells backward?  Can we unlearn the arts that pretend to civilize, and then burn the world?  There is a march of Science; but who shall beat the drums for its retreat?  Who shall persuade the boor that phosphor will not ignite?

Seven goodly stacks of hay, with corn-barns proportionable, lie smoking ashes and chaff, which man and beast would sputter out and reject like those apples of Asphaltes and bitumen.  The food for the inhabitants of earth will quickly disappear.  Hot rolls may say:  “Fuimus panes, fuit quartern-loaf, et ingens gloria Apple-pasty-orum.”  That the good old munching system may last thy time and mine, good un-incendiary George, is the devout prayer of thine,

To the last crust,

CH.  LAMB.

[Incendiarism, the result of agricultural distress and in opposition to the competition of the new machinery, was rife in the country at this time.]