to your side.  I was thought in the days of my childhood much to resemble my mother; and in my natural temper, of which at the age of fifty-eight I must be supposed to be a competent judge, can trace both her, and my late uncle, your father.  Somewhat of his irritability; and a little, I would hope, both of his and of her—­I know not what to call it, without seeming to praise myself, which is not my intention, but speaking to you, I will even speak out, and say good nature.  Add to all this, I deal much in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, the Dean of St. Paul’s, and I think I shall have proved myself a Donne at all points.  The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you all.

EDMUND BURKE

1729-1797

TO MATTHEW SMITH

First impressions of London

[1750.]

You’ll expect some short account of my journey to this great city.  To tell you the truth, I made very few remarks as I rolled along, for my mind was occupied with many thoughts, and my eyes often filled with tears, when I reflected on all the dear friends I left behind; yet the prospects could not fail to attract the attention of the most indifferent:  country seats sprinkled round on every side, some in the modern taste, some in the style of old De Coverley Hall, all smiling on the neat but humble cottage; every village as neat and compact as a bee-hive, resounding with the busy hum of industry; and inns like palaces.

What a contrast to our poor country, where you’ll scarce find a cottage ornamented with a chimney!  But what pleased me most of all was the progress of agriculture, my favourite study, and my favourite pursuit, if Providence had blessed me with a few paternal acres.

A description of London and its natives would fill a volume.  The buildings are very fine:  it may be called the sink of vice:  but its hospitals and charitable institutions, whose turrets pierce the skies like so many electrical conductors, avert the wrath of Heaven.  The inhabitants may be divided into two classes, the undoers and the undone; generally so, I say, for I am persuaded there are many men of honesty and women of virtue in every street.  An Englishman is cold and distant at first; he is very cautious even in forming an acquaintance; he must know you well before he enters into friendship with you; but if he does, he is not the first to dissolve that sacred bond:  in short, a real Englishman is one that performs more than he promises; in company he is rather silent, extremely prudent in his expressions, even in politics, his favourite topic.  The women are not quite so reserved; they consult their glasses to the best advantage; and as nature is very liberal in her gifts to their persons, and even minds, it is not easy for a young man to escape their glances, or to shut his ears to their softly flowing accents.