meant not to infer; by “elaborate” I meant simply “labored"), it is the gigantic hyperbole by which you describe the evils of existing society:  “snakes, lions, hyenas, and behemoths,” is carrying your resentment beyond bounds.  The pictures of “The Simoom,” of “Frenzy and Ruin,” of “The Whore of Babylon,” and “The Cry of Foul Spirits disinherited of Earth,” and “The Strange Beatitude” which the good man shall recognize in heaven, as well as the particularizing of the children of wretchedness (I have unconsciously included every part of it), form a variety of uniform excellence.  I hunger and thirst to read the poem complete.  That is a capital line in your sixth number,—­

  “This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month.”

They are exactly such epithets as Burns would have stumbled on, whose poem on the ploughed-up daisy you seem to have had in mind.  Your complaint that of your readers some thought there was too much, some too little, original matter in your numbers, reminds me of poor dead Parsons in the “Critic.”  “Too little incident!  Give me leave to tell you, sir, there is too much incident.”  I had like to have forgot thanking you for that exquisite little morsel, the first Sclavonian Song.  The expression in the second, “more happy to be unhappy in hell,” is it not very quaint?  Accept my thanks, in common with those of all who love good poetry, for “The Braes of Yarrow.”  I congratulate you on the enemies you must have made by your splendid invective against the barterers in human flesh and sinews.  Coleridge, you will rejoice to hear that Cowper is recovered from his lunacy, and is employed on his translation of the Italian, etc., poems of Milton for an edition where Fuseli presides as designer.  Coleridge, to an idler like myself, to write and receive letters are both very pleasant; but I wish not to break in upon your valuable time by expecting to hear very frequently from you.  Reserve that obligation for your moments of lassitude, when you have nothing else to do; for your loco-restive and all your idle propensities, of course, have given way to the duties of providing for a family.  The mail is come in, but no parcel; yet this is Tuesday.  Farewell, then, till to-morrow; for a niche and a nook I must leave for criticisms.  By the way, I hope you do not send your own only copy of “Joan of Arc;” I will in that case return it immediately.

Your parcel is come; you have been lavish of your presents.

Wordsworth’s poem I have hurried through, not without delight.  Poor Lovell! my heart almost accuses me for the light manner I lately spoke of him, not dreaming of his death.  My heart bleeds for your accumulated troubles; God send you through ’em with patience.  I conjure you dream not that I will ever think of being repaid; the very word is galling to the ears.  I have read all your “Religious Musings” with uninterrupted feelings of profound admiration.  You may safely