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termine. . . . You may guess we are very quiescent, and I am very glad of it, for of all lionization, country lionizing is my utter contempt. As soon as my 'Golden Violet' begins for me to realize its name, with what pleasure shall I pay the Jehu, guard, and hackney-coachman, that land me in Hans-place. St. Vitus!—being the most dissipated and dancing saint I can think of to invoke—it will not be my fault if I do not have a gay winter. Well, give me a metropolitan five hundred a-year in preference to a rural five thousand. Albeit, I don't do much description in general, I must favour you with a little in honour of the exceeding beauty of the lanes about here. Say what you will of a spring hedge, give me an autumn one; the first has only a few flowers, the latter is covered with fruit. They are now literally loaded, thousands of haws like coral, the bright scarlet heps, the deep purple of the sloes, and the shining black of the blackberries, are so richly relieved by the sycamore and ash, the one just touched with yellow, the other with red;—the gay ribbon repositories of Bond-street might take many a useful hint. They say every gastronomic hint is a white line in the record of your life, and I have added to my list of delicacies, a branch of sloes roasted over a wood fire. I have been most edifyingly industrious; you who heard all of the 'Golden Violet' that was written, know how much I was behind hand—it is now completely finished, and I am equally busy with my 'Erinna.' I shall be so anxious for you and Mr. Thomson to like it. Is there not an old proverb which says, 'it is ill judging your own bigging?' Still, if I can write up to the idea I have formed, it must be a striking poem. Other poets have painted a very sufficient