ict, the village is likely to be
stocked. But, for my part, strip my neighbourhood of human beings, and I
should think it one of the greatest privations I could undergo. You have
all the poverty of solitude, nothing of its elevation. In a word, if I
were disposed to write a sermon (and this is something like one) upon
the subject of taste in natural beauty, I should take for my text the
little pathway in Lowther Woods, and all which I had to say would begin
and end in the human heart, as under the direction of the Divine Nature,
conferring value on the objects of the senses, and pointing out what is
valuable in them.

I began this subject with Coleorton in my thoughts, and a confidence,
that whatever difficulties or crosses (as of many good things it is not
easy to chuse the best) you might meet with in the practical application
of your principles of Taste, yet, being what they are, you will soon be
pleased and satisfied. Only (if I may take the freedom to say so) do not
give way too much to others: considering what your studies and pursuits
have been, your own judgment must be the best: professional men may
suggest hints, but I would keep the decision to myself.

Lady Beaumont utters something like an apprehension that the slowness of
workmen or other impediments may prevent our families meeting at
Coleorton next summer. We shall be sorry for this, the more so, as the
same cause will hinder your coming hither. At all events, we shall
depend upon her frankness, which we take most kindly indeed; I mean, on
the promise she has made, to let us know whether you are gotten so far
through your work as to make it comfortable for us all to be together.

I cannot close this letter without a word about myself. I am sorry to
say I am not yet settled to any serious employment. The expectation of
Coleridge not a little unhinges me, and, still more, the number of
visitors we have had; but winter is approaching, and I have good hopes.
I mentioned Michael Angelo's poetry some time ago; it is the most
difficult to construe I ever met with, but just what you would expect
from such a man, shewing abundantly how conversant his soul was with
great things. There is a mistake in the world concerning the Italian
language; the poetry of Dante and Michael Angelo proves, that if there
be little majesty and strength in Italian verse, the fault is in the
authors, and not in the tongue. I can translate, and have translated,
two books of Ariosto, a