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.