_No. 61, Berwick Street, Soho._
Having inserted this letter here the matter ends, for nothing remains to
be said.
It being within the purpose of the _Every-Day Book_ to observe on the
phenomena of the times, Mr. Leeming, as “the Ærial,” was included, but
not until he had been previously in print from the character he assumed.
His present letter speaks for itself. He admits “_little_”
indiscretions: among these “_little_” ones a _large_ one was, what he
terms, his “_hoax_” on the public; but his visits to the artists are of
another character. There exists no feeling towards him, on the part of
the editor of this work, but a kind one; and he advises him, for his own
sake, to “_study_ to be _quiet_.”
* * * * *
Happy the man whose wish and care,
A few paternal acres bound;
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.
Sound sleep by night, study and ease
Together mix’d; sweet recreation!
And innocence which most does please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
_Pope._
* * * * *