My dear Will Ranstead,—

When, in our too infrequent talks, I have confessed my growing fondness for life in London, your kindly countenance has assumed an expression so piteous that my Conscience has turned upon what I am pleased to call my Mind, to demand explanation of a feeling so distressing to so excellent a friend.

My Mind, at first, was disposed to apologise. It pleaded its notoriously easy-going character: it had never met man or woman that it had not more or less admired, nor remained long anywhere without coming to strike kinship with the people and to develop pride in their activities.

In its infancy it had been as Badisch as the Grossherzog of Baden, and had deemed lilac-scented Carlsruhe the grandest town in the world.

In blue-and-white Lutetia, it had grown as Parisian as an English dramatist.

When the fickle Fates moved it on to Manchester, it had learned in a little while to ogle Gaythorn and Oldham Road as enchanted Titania ogled her gentle joy, the loathly Bottom. It had looked with scorn on the returned prodigals who had been to London—"to tahn," they called it—and who came back to their more or less marble halls in Salford with trousers turned up round the hems, shepherds' crooks to support their elegantly languid totter, and words of withering scorn for the streets of Peter and Oxford, which my Mind had learned to regard as boulevards of dazzling light.

Mine had always been a pliant and affable mind. Perhaps if it lived in Widnes it might prefer it to Heaven.

But the longer I remained in London the more convinced I became that never again should I like Widnes, or Manchester, or Paris, or Carlsruhe, as well as this tantalising, fascinating, baffling city of misty light—this stately, monstrous, grey, grimy, magnificent London.

Then I sought reason for my state, and the following papers—one or two contributed to the Liverpool Post, one to the Clarion, and the most part printed now for the first time—are the result of my inquiries.

One day I found cause for liking London, another day the reverse. As the reasons came to me I wrote them down, and with all their inconsistencies upon their heads, you have them here collected.

I have addressed the papers to you, because:—

As you had inspired the book, it was only fair you should share the blame.

By answering you publicly, I saved myself the trouble of separately answering many other country friends who likewise looked upon my love of London as a deplorable falling from grace.

Thirdly, by this means, I save postages, and may actually induce a few adventurous moneyed persons to pay me for the work.

Lastly, and most seriously, I lay hold on this occasion to publish the respect and gratitude I owe to you, and which I repay to the best of my ability by this small token of my friendship.—Sincerely yours,

ALEX. M. THOMPSON.

P.S.—You will naturally wonder after reading the book—should you be spared so long—why I call it Haunts of Old Cockaigne.

I may say at once that you are fully entitled to wonder.

It is included in the price.