I am going to change my lodgings, having received a hint that it would be agreeable, at our Lady’s next feast.  I have partly fixed upon most delectable rooms, which look out (when you stand a tip-toe) over the Thames and Surrey Hills, at the upper end of King’s Bench walks in the Temple.  There I shall have all the privacy of a house without the encumbrance, and shall be able to lock my friends out as often as I desire to hold free converse with my immortal mind; for my present lodgings resemble a minister’s levee, I have so increased my acquaintance (as they call ’em), since I have resided in town.  Like the country mouse, that had tasted a little of urban manners, I long to be nibbling my own cheese by my dear self without mouse-traps and time-traps.  By my new plan, I shall be as airy, up four pair of stairs, as in the country; and in a garden, in the midst of enchanting, more than Mahometan paradise, London, whose dirtiest, drab-frequented alley, and her lowest-bowing tradesman, I would not exchange for Skiddaw, Helvellyn James, Walter, and the parson into the bargain.  O! her lamps of a night! her rich goldsmiths, print-shops, toy-shops, mercers, hardwaremen, pastry-cooks!  St. Paul’s churchyard! the Strand!  Exeter Change!  Charing Cross, with the man upon a black horse!  These are thy gods, O London!  Ain’t you mightily moped on the banks of the Cam?  Had you not better come and set up here?  You can’t think what a difference.  All the streets and pavements are pure gold, I warrant you.  At least I know an alchemy that turns her mud into that metal,—­a mind that loves to be at home in crowds.

Here we have the voice of the best of London-lovers, and here we have also a hint of the way in which he was finding himself too much “accompanied”—­to use a phrase from one of his unpublished letters.  He frequently chafed against the number of visitors who ate up his day, and at times had even to resent the way in which an intimate friend would be over-zealous in entertaining him, when for his own part he would rather have been alone.  One special evening in each week was set apart for cards and conversation, and those occasions are perhaps among the best remembered features of early nineteenth-century literary life.  Representative evenings will be found described in various works.[3] The company was not limited to literary folk, though many notable men of letters were to be met there, along with humbler friends, for the Lambs were catholic in their friendships, and had nothing of the exclusiveness of more pretentious salons.  “We play at whist, eat cold meat and hot potatoes, and any gentleman that chooses smokes.”  At these gatherings Mary Lamb moved about observantly looking after her diverse guests, while Lamb himself, it has been said, might be depended upon for at once the wisest and the wittiest utterance of the evening.  Here it was that he made his whimsical reproach to a player with dirty hands:  “I say, Martin, if dirt were trumps what a hand you’d have.”  And it was on some such occasion, too, that he retorted on Wordsworth, who had said that the writing of “Hamlet” was not so very wonderful:  “Here’s Wordsworth says he could have written ’Hamlet’—­if he had the mind.”