"nothing to do," and can slumber away their lives unharmed amongst the
dumb weeds and flowers.

In the course of a short time it appeared that he was unable to enjoy, so
perfectly as he had anticipated, his golden time of "Nothing to do," his
Liberia. He therefore took long walks into the country. He also acquired
the companionship of the large dog Dash, much given to wandering, to whose
erratic propensities (Lamb walking at the rate of fourteen miles a day) he
eventually became a slave. The rambling, inconstant dog rendered the
clear, serene day of leisure almost turbid; and he was ultimately (in
order to preserve for Charles some little remaining enjoyment) bestowed
upon another master. Lamb was always (as I have said) fond of walking, and
he had some vague liking, I suppose, for free air and green pastures;
although he had no great relish specially for the flowers and ornaments of
the country. I have often walked with him in the neighborhood of our great
city; and I do not think that he ever treasured up in his memory the
violets (or other flowers), the songs of birds, or the pictures of sheep
or kine dotting the meadows. Neither his conversation nor writings
afforded evidence that he had done so. It is not easy, therefore, to
determine what the special attractions were that drew him out of London,
which he loved, into the adjoining country, where his walks oftenest lay.

At the time of Lamb's deliverance from office labor, he was living in
Colebrook Row. It was there that George Dyer, whose blindness and absence
of mind rendered it almost dangerous for him to wander unaccompanied about
the suburbs of London, came to visit him on one occasion. By accident,
instead of entering the house door, Dyer's aqueous instincts led him
towards the water, and in a moment he had plunged overhead in the New
River. I happened to go to Lamb's house, about an hour after his rescue
and restoration to dry land, and met Miss Lamb in the passage, in a state