never pass. You may therefore suppose that I resemble the Hermit
of Parnell.

"As yet by books and swains the world he knew,
Nor knew if books and swains report it true."

If you substitute newspapers and visitors for books and swains,
you may form an idea of what I know of the present state of
things. Write to me as one who is ignorant of every event except
political occurrences. These I learn regularly; but if Lord Byron
were to publish melodies or romances, or Scott metrical tales
without number, I should never see them, or perhaps hear of them,
till Christmas. Retirement of this kind, though it precludes me
from studying the works of the hour, is very favourable for the
employment of "holding high converse with the mighty dead."

I know not whether "peeping at the world through the loopholes of
retreat" be the best way of forming us for engaging in its busy
and active scenes. I am sure it is not a way to my taste. Poets
may talk of the beauties of nature, the enjoyments of a country
life, and rural innocence; but there is another kind of life
which, though unsung by bards, is yet to me infinitely superior
to the dull uniformity of country life. London is the place for
me. Its smoky atmosphere, and its muddy river, charm me more than
the pure air of Hertfordshire, and the crystal currents of the
river Rib. Nothing is equal to the splendid varieties of London
life, "the fine flow of London talk," and the dazzling brilliancy
of London spectacles. Such are my sentiments, and, if ever I
publish poetry, it shall not be pastoral. Nature is the last
goddess to whom my devoirs shall be paid.