I had no
time for thought; I only felt. I never attempted to write poetry; my
poetry seemed all to go off by transpiration. I lived poetry; it was
all a poetical dream to me. A mere sensualist knows nothing of the
delights of a splendid metropolis. He lives in a round of animal
gratifications and heartless habits. But to a young man of poetical
feelings it is an ideal world; a scene of enchantment and delusion; his
imagination is in perpetual excitement, and gives a spiritual zest to
every pleasure.
A season of town life somewhat sobered me of my intoxication; or rather
I was rendered more serious by one of my old complaints--I fell in
love. It was with a very pretty, though a very haughty fair one, who
had come to London under the care of an old maiden aunt, to enjoy the
pleasures of a winter in town, and to get married. There was not a
doubt of her commanding a choice of lovers; for she had long been the
belle of a little cathedral town; and one of the prebendaries had
absolutely celebrated her beauty in a copy of Latin verses.
I paid my court to her, and was favorably received both by her and her
aunt. Nay, I had a marked preference shown me over the younger son of a
needy baronet, and a captain of dragoons on half pay. I did not
absolutely take the field in form, for I was determined not to be
precipitate; but I drove my equipage frequently through the street in
which she lived, and was always sure to see her at the window,
generally with a book in her hand.
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