The gardens of the neighbourhood are now in full bloom, the weather is fine, and my ride this morning brought me about thirty miles from town. In variety and richness the suburbs of London surpass those of any other capital; which here and there display natural beauties, but never that exquisite mixture of nature and the highest cultivation,--never at least in any considerable masses. I should have gladly ridden further and further, and returned at length with great regret. The meadows around me were so luxuriant, that it was only at a distance they looked green; when you were near them they were embroidered with blue, yellow, red, and lilac, like a carpet of Tournay. The cows were wading up to their bellies in the gay flowers, or resting under the shadow of huge domes of foliage, impenetrable to every ray of sun. It was magnificent, and adorned with a richness which art can never reach. In an hour's riding I reached a hill where the ruins of a church stood in the midst of a garden. The sun darted its rays from behind a cloud athwart the whole sky, like a huge torch, the centre of which rested directly on the metropolis of the world,--the immeasurable Babel which lay outstretched with its thousand towers, and its hundred thousand sins, its fog and smoke, its treasures and its misery, further than the eye could reach. It was in vain! I must plunge into it again, from the spring and its bursting blossoms, from the green meadows--again into the macadamized slough,--into the everlasting dead monotony,--into dinners and routs. Accept my farewell--my next letter will go on to tell what became of Daniel in the lion's den. Your faithful friend L----. LETTER XV. _London, April 15th, 1827._ DEAREST FRIEND, At length the long-desired letter is arrived, and another in its company. Why was it so long on the road?--'Quien sabbe?' as the South Americans say. Probably the official reader was lazy, and let it lie by him some time before he would take the trouble to re-seal it dexterously. But, dear Julia, how pretty and tender is your poem--a new talent, which I never discovered in you before. Yes, may God grant that "all your tears may turn to flowers, to adorn us and refresh us with their fragrance!" and that this beautiful and loving prophecy may soon be fulfilled! And yet the fairest flowers would be too dearly bought, for me, at that price. _Your_ tears at least ought not to flow to produce them. What you say of H----, "qu'il se sent misérable parcequ'il n'est fier que par orgueil et libéral que par bassesse" is striking, and will unfortunately suit too many liberals. I wrote to you on the occasion in question, that you should think only of yourself; and you reply, that I am yourself. Best and kindest! yes, one self we will remain wherever we may be; and had men guardian spirits, ours must act in common: but here we have no other tutelary genius than that moral strength which Heaven has given us.