disheartened by the failure of my first. My poem was evidently too
didactic. The public was wise enough. It no longer read for
instruction. "They want horrors, do they?" said I, "I'faith, then they
shall have enough of them." So I looked out for some quiet retired
place, where I might be out of reach of my friends, and have leisure to
cook up some delectable dish of poetical "hell-broth."

I had some difficulty in finding a place to my mind, when chance threw
me in the way Of Canonbury Castle. It is an ancient brick tower, hard
by "merry Islington;" the remains of a hunting-seat of Queen Elizabeth,
where she took the pleasures of the country, when the neighborhood was
all woodland. What gave it particular interest in my eyes, was the
circumstance that it had been the residence of a poet. It was here
Goldsmith resided when he wrote his Deserted Village. I was shown the
very apartment. It was a relique of the original style of the castle,
with pannelled wainscots and gothic windows. I was pleased with its air
of antiquity, and with its having been the residence of poor Goldy.

"Goldsmith was a pretty poet," said I to myself, "a very pretty poet;
though rather of the old school. He did not think and feel so strongly
as is the fashion now-a-days; but had he lived in these times of hot
hearts and hot heads, he would have written quite differently."

In a few days I was quietly established in my new quarters; my books
all arranged, my writing desk placed by a window looking out into the
field; and I felt as snug as Robinson Crusoe, when he had finished his
bower. For several days I enjoyed all the novelty of change and the
charms which grace a new lodgings before one has found out their
defects. I rambled about the fields where I fancied Goldsmith had
rambled. I explored merry Islington; ate my solitary dinner at the