me to be in more venerable characters, than as a
gilded room with tapestry and tapers, where I might live with handsome
visible objects. I consider the clouds above me but as a roof
beautifully painted, but unable to satisfy the mind, and at last, like
the pictures of the apartment of a connoisseur, unable to afford him any
longer a pleasure. So fading upon me, from disuse, have been the
beauties of Nature, as they have been confidently called; so ever fresh
and green and warm are all the inventions of men and assemblies of men
In this great city. I should certainly have laughed with dear Joanna.

Give my kindest love _and my sister's_ to D. and yourself. And a kiss
from me to little Barbara Lewthwaite. [1] Thank you for liking my play!

C.L.

XXXVI.

TO MANNING.

_February_, 1801.

I am going to change my lodgings, having received a hint that it would
be agreeable, at our Lady's next feast. I have partly fixed upon most
delectable rooms, which look out (when you stand a-tiptoe) over the
Thames and Surrey Hills, at the upper end of King's Bench Walks, in the
Temple. There I shall have all the privacy of a house without the
encumbrance; and shall be able to lock my friends out as often as I
desire to hold free converse with my immortal mind; for my present
lodgings resemble a minister's levee, I have so increased my
acquaintance (as they call 'em), since I have resided in town. Like the
country mouse, that had tasted a little of urban manners, I long to be
nibbling my own cheese by my dear self without mousetraps and
time-traps. By my new plan, I shall be as airy, up four pair of stairs,
as in the country; and in a garden, in the midst of enchanting, more
than Mahometan paradise, London, whose dirtiest drab-frequented alley,
and her lowest-bowing tradesman, I would not exchange for Skiddaw,
Helvellyn, James, Walter, and the parson into the bargain. Oh, her lamps
of a night; her rich goldsmiths, print-shops, toy-shops, mercers,
hardwaremen, pastrycooks; St. Paul's Churchyard; the Strand; Exeter
'Change; Charing Cross, with a man _upon_ a black horse! These are thy
gods, O London! Ain't you mightily moped on the banks of the Cam? Had
not you better come and set up here? You can't think what a difference.
All the streets and pavements are pure gold, I warrant you,--at least, I
know an alchemy that turns her mud into that metal: a mind that loves to
be at home in crowds.

'Tis half-past twelve o'clock, and all