I suppose that I must tell you what we talked of. Well, I am patiently going through my task of _minute_ narrative in the beginning; but by the time that you are acquainted with the characters around me, through these my _masterly_ sketches you must prepare to take your leave of such reports. I shall write regularly, and mention whatever incidents may occur; but to hold on in this method, of repeating every word that is uttered, would be more than flesh and blood are equal to. Besides, should money fall short, you may take advantage of me, and make a book out of these my voluminous materials. Thus forestalling, for all you can possibly tell, my intentions of giving so many sapient observations as I have committed to paper, one day myself to the world. Well, but you want to know who Bentley is, and what we talked about. As to who a young man, living in the county of Kerry in Ireland, may be, I am not quite ready to answer though _faute d'autres sujets_, I shall inquire more concerning him; perhaps somewhat more determined in my design so to do, from having remarked a scarlet blush pass over his cheek at dinner when Charlotte's name was mentioned. In these back settlements there is nothing to do, but exercise the skill of a calm observer; and I expect to be quite _au fait_ as a critic in every thing appertaining to countenance, by the time that I return to the world. As to conversation we had a great deal of one sort or other. Some politics, some anecdote, some I know not what, pleasant enough, but nothing striking. I remember only two remarks that I shall take the trouble of exporting to Pisa. We were speaking of Scott's Novels (for I take the liberty of calling them his, notwithstanding all the denials which are cited to prove the contrary[A]) and I instanced these and some other works of fiction which are justly celebrated, and of recent publication, to support my opinion, that the present genius of literature stands upon a lofty pedestal in comparison with former times, adding "what can be a stronger argument in favour of modern wisdom than that _such_ books are the recreation of our contemporaries?" A stranger just set down in England might naturally say, if this be _amusement_, what are the _serious_ studies in this country? And if, as some writer has said, "tell me your diversions, and I'll tell you what you are," carry any weight, we may fairly claim to high pre-eminence." [Footnote A: The authorship of the Novels has been avowed by Sir Walter Scott since this letter was written.]