a feeble counter-action through the Table Book of last
Saturday. Has it not reach'd you, that you are silent about
it? Our new domicile is no manor house, but new, and
externally not inviting, but furnish'd within with every
convenience. Capital new locks to every door, capital grates
in every room, with nothing to pay for incoming and the rent
£10 less than the Islington one. It was built a few years
since at £1,100 expense, they tell me, and I perfectly
believe it. And I get it for £35 exclusive of moderate
taxes. We think ourselves most lucky. It is not our
intention to abandon Regent Street, and West End
perambulations (monastic and terrible thought!) but
occasionally to breathe the FRESHER AIR of the
metropolis. We shall put up a bedroom or two (all we want)
for occasional ex-rustication, where we shall visit, not be
visited. Plays too we'll see--perhaps our own. Urbani
Sylvani, and Sylvan Urbanuses in turns. Courtiers for a
spurt, then philosophers. Old homely tell-truths and
learn-truths in the virtuous shades of Enfield. Liars again
and mocking gibers in the coffee-houses and resorts of
London. What can a mortal desire more for his bi-parted
nature?

O the curds and cream you shall eat with us here!
O the turtle soup and lobster sallads we shall devour with you there!
O the old books we shall peruse here!
O the new nonsense we shall trifle with over there!
O Sir T. Browne!--here.
O Mr. Hood and Mr. Jerdan there! thine, C(urbanus) L(sylvanus)
(ELIA ambo)--