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.  I shook hands with him very heartily; and on the Catholic question we immediately fell, regretted Evans, triumphed over Lord George Beresford, and abused the Bishops. [These allusions refer to the general election which had recently taken place.] He then very kindly urged me to spend the time between the close of the Assizes and the commencement of the Sessions at his house; and was so hospitably pressing that I at last agreed to go thither on Saturday afternoon.  He is to drive me over again into York on Monday morning.  I am very well pleased at having this opportunity of becoming better acquainted with a man who, in spite of innumerable affectations and oddities, is certainly one of the wittiest and most original writers of our times.

Ever yours affectionately

T. B. M.

Bradford:  July 26, 1826.

My dear Father,—­On Saturday I went to Sydney Smith’s.  His parish lies three or four miles out of any frequented road.  He is, however, most pleasantly situated.  “Fifteen years ago,” said he to me as I alighted at the gate of his shrubbery, “I was taken up in Piccadilly and set down here.  There was no house, and no garden; nothing but a bare field.”  One service this eccentric divine has certainly rendered to the Church.  He has built the very neatest, most commodious, and most appropriate rectory that I ever saw.  All its decorations are in a peculiarly clerical style; grave, simple, and gothic.  The bed-chambers are excellent, and excellently fitted up; the sitting-rooms handsome; and the grounds sufficiently pretty.  Tindal and Parke, (not the judge of course,) two of the best lawyers, best scholars, and best men in England, were there.  We passed an extremely pleasant evening, had a very good dinner, and many amusing anecdotes.