See the rest in the Complete Angler.  We have got our books into our new house.  I am a drayhorse if I was not asham’d of the indigested dirty lumber, as I toppled ’em out of the cart, and blest Becky that came with ’em for her having an unstuffd brain with such rubbish.  We shall get in by Michael’s mass.  Twas with some pain we were evuls’d from Colebrook.  You may find some of our flesh sticking to the door posts.  To change habitations is to die to them, and in my time I have died seven deaths.  But I don’t know whether every such change does not bring with it a rejuvenescence.  Tis an enterprise, and shoves back the sense of death’s approximating, which tho’ not terrible to me, is at all times particularly distasteful.  My house-deaths have generally been periodical, recurring after seven years, but this last is premature by half that time.  Cut off in the flower of Colebrook.  The Middletonian stream and all its echoes mourn.  Even minnows dwindle.  A parvis fiunt MINIMI.  I fear to invite Mrs. Hood to our new mansion, lest she envy it, & rote [? rout] us.  But when we are fairly in, I hope she will come & try it.  I heard she & you were made uncomfortable by some unworthy to be cared for attacks, and have tried to set up a feeble counteraction thro’ the Table Book of last Saturday.  Has it not reach’d you, that you are silent about it?  Our new domicile is no manor house, but new, & externally not inviting, but furnish’d within with every convenience.  Capital new locks to every door, capital grates in every room, with nothing to pay for incoming & the rent L10 less than the Islington one.  It was built a few years since at L1100 expence, they tell me, & I perfectly believe it.  And I get it for L35 exclusive of moderate taxes.  We think ourselves most lucky.  It is not our intention to abandon Regent Street, & West End perambulations (monastic & terrible thought!), but occasionally to breathe the FRESHER AIR of the metropolis.  We shall put up a bedroom or two (all we want) for occasional ex-rustication, where we shall visit, not be visited.  Plays too we’ll see,—­perhaps our own.  Urban!  Sylvani, & Sylvan Urbanuses in turns.  Courtiers for a spurt, then philosophers.  Old homely tell-truths and learn-truths in the virtuous shades of Enfield, Liars again and mocking gibers in the coffee houses & resorts of London.  What can a mortal desire more for his bi-parted nature?

O the curds & cream you shall eat with us here!

O the turtle soup and lobster sallads we shall devour with you there!

O the old books we shall peruse here!

O the new nonsense we shall trifle over there!

O Sir T. Browne!—­here.

O Mr. Hood & Mr. Jerdan there,

thine,

C (urbanus) L (sylvanus) (ELIA ambo)—­

Inclos’d are verses which Emma sat down to write, her first, on the eve after your departure.  Of course they are only for Mrs. H.’s perusal.  They will shew at least, that one of our party is not willing to cut old friends.  What to call ’em I don’t know.  Blank verse they are not, because of the rhymes—­Rhimes they are not, because of the blank verse.  Heroics they are not, because they are lyric, lyric they are not, because of the Heroic measure.  They must be call’d EMMAICS.------