Sir,--No more London for me! I've tried it, and know what it's like.
I have found a delightful cottage, twenty miles from town, and mean to
live in it always. Do we ever have one of your nasty yellow fogs here?
Never! Nothing more than a thick white mist, which rises from the
fields and envelopes the house every night. It is true that several
of our family complain of rheumatism, and when I had rheumatic fever
myself a month ago, I found it a little inconvenient being six
miles from a doctor and a chemist's shop. But then my house is so
picturesque, with an Early English wooden porch (which can be kept
from falling to pieces quite easily by hammering a few nails in now
and then, and re-painting once a week), and no end of gables, which
only let the water into the bedrooms in case of a _very_ heavy shower.
Then think of the delights of a garden, and a field (for which I pay
£20 a year, and repair the hedges), and chickens! I don't think I have
spent more than £50 above what I should have done in London, owing to
the necessity of fitting up chicken-runs and buying a conservatory
for my wife, who is passionately fond of flowers. Unfortunately my
chickens are now moulting, and decline to lay again before next March;
so I bring back fresh eggs from town, and, as my conservatory is
not yet full, flowers from Covent Garden; and I can assure you that,
until you try it, you cannot tell the amount of pleasure and exercise
which walking a couple of miles (the distance of my cottage from the
station), laden with groceries and other eatables, can be made to
afford. Yours chirpily,