ure. The tone of his
correspondence during these years sufficiently indicates that he lived
almost exclusively among books. His letters, which had hitherto been
very natural and pretty, began to smack of the library, and please less
than those written in early boyhood. His pen was overcharged with the
metaphors and phrases of other men; and it was not till maturing powers
had enabled him to master and arrange the vast masses of literature
which filled his memory that his native force could display itself
freely through the medium of a style which was all his own. In 1815 he
began a formal literary correspondence, after the taste of the previous
century, with Mr. Hudson, a gentleman in the Examiner's Office of the
East India House.

Aspenden Hall: August 22, 1815.

Dear Sir,--The Spectator observes, I believe in his first paper, that
we can never read an author with much zest unless we are acquainted with
his situation. I feel the same in my epistolary correspondence; and,
supposing that in this respect we may be alike, I will just tell you
my condition. Imagine a house in the middle of pretty large grounds,
surrounded by palings. These I 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
c