I am under the visitation of my annual cold, which condemns me for a great part of every day to idleness. In the morning I do not rise before breakfast, because this visitor rises with me, & very soon afterwards I am fain to lie back on the sopha, & close my eyes, which have no complaint of their own, but are incapable of bearing the light while the membrane which lines the nose & the throat are in a state of such extreme excitability. First I tried repose, – & that almost long enough to disable me from exertion, by putting me what is called out of condition; – then I tried exercise, – & am now again resigned to inaction & a darkened room, with an upper lip which no razor dare approach, & a proboscis half excoriated by the frequent visits of the pockethandkerchief. In 1799 when I had the first of these inveterate cararrhs (which I never failed to have every year since, except when I was in Portugal) – I wrote an Ode, upon it being at that time Poet Laureate to the Morning Post

– & it is worthy of being transferred from the rough copy in my desk to Ediths magnifico Album. Behold a specimen of it –

Since you heard from me I have scarcely been able to write any thing except a review of Hayleys Memoirs

which I went thro doggedly making what I could of materials not very good in themselves, & miserably put together by their author. Having however some gratitude for Hayley for introducing me by his notes to the Spanish poets,

– a good deal of respect for his love of literature & the arts & the country, – for his total exemption from all envious feelings, his attachment to his friends, – & above all for his devotion to that poor son,

– I have spoken of him in a style very different from the prevailing tone of magazines & reviews.

You asked me once about Mary Wollstonecraft. I had never seen her when that Dedication was written.

I saw her afterwards three or four times when she was M^rs Godwin; – & never saw a woman, who would have been better fitted to do honour to her sex, if she had not fallen on evil times, – & into evil hands. But it is hardly possible for any one to conceive what those times were, who has not lived in them.

I wish Landor’s book

may fall in your way, still more do I wish that you could see Landor himself, – who talks as that book is written, – as if he spoke in thunder & lightning. Such of the sheets as frightened the publisher were sent to me, & I struck out what would either have given most offence here, or endangered his personal safety where he is. How it is received I know not, – & indeed I know nothing of what is going on in the world of London, except that Edith is not yet ball-sick, & <that> poor Bertha I believe is home-sick. The former goes into Devonshire at the end of this month with Lady Malet,

– the latter to the neighbourhood of Portsmouth with the Rickmans;

– & in case she should pass your way in any of their excursions – which is by no means unlikely, I shall tell her where you she may hope to see give you a passing call. – We are parching here for want of rain. – The <History> H

of the W Indies is my brother Tom’s.

– I hear to day that Bowles is out of health, – & depressed by his xxx it. He is at present in London. – How are you? & is your singing time come – for come it will. – Love from all here. Cuthbert would be delighted to see you, & your Sultan also, – being a great admirer of what he used to call oodleoos.

Dear friend God bless you