Dreams, Waking Thoughts, and Incidents; in a Series of Letters from
Various Parts of Europe



LETTER I



June 19th, 1780.--Shall I tell you my dreams?--To give an account of
my time is doing, I assure you, but little better. Never did there
exist a more ideal being. A frequent mist hovers before my eyes,
and, through its medium, I see objects so faint and hazy, that both
their colours and forms are apt to delude me. This is a rare
confession, say the wise, for a traveller to make: pretty accounts
will such a one give of outlandish countries: his correspondents
must reap great benefit, no doubt, from such purblind observations.
But stop, my good friends; patience a moment!--I really have not the
vanity of pretending to make a single remark, during the whole of my
journey: if--be contented with my visionary way of gazing, I am
perfectly pleased; and shall write away as freely as Mr. A., Mr. B.,
Mr. C., and a million others whose letters are the admiration of the
politest circles.

All through Kent did I doze as usual; now and then I opened my eyes
to take in an idea or two of the green, woody country through which I
was passing; then closed them again; transported myself back to my
native hills; thought I led a choir of those I loved best through
their shades; and was happy in the arms of illusion. The sun set
before I recovered my senses enough to discover plainly the