DEAR Coleridge,—Soon after I wrote to you last, an offer was made me by Gutch (you must remember him? at Christ’s—you saw him, slightly, one day with Thomson at our house)—to come and lodge with him at his house in Southampton Buildings, Chancery-Lane. This was a very comfortable offer to me, the rooms being at a reasonable rent, and including the use of an old servant, besides being infinitely preferable to ordinary lodgings in our case, as you must perceive. As Gutch knew all our story and the perpetual liability to a recurrence in my sister’s disorder, probably to the end of her life, I certainly think the offer very generous and very friendly. I have got three rooms (including servant) under £34 a year. Here I soon found myself at home; and here, in six weeks after, Mary was well enough to join me. So we are once more settled. I am afraid we are not placed out of the reach of future interruptions. But I am determined to take what snatches of pleasure we can between the acts of our distressful drama. . . . I have passed two days at Oxford on a visit, which I have long put off, to Gutch’s family. The sight of the Bodleian Library and, above all, a fine bust of Bishop Taylor at All Souls’, were particularly gratifying to me; unluckily, it was not a family where I could take Mary with me, and I am afraid there is something of dishonesty in any pleasures I take without her. She never goes anywhere. I do not know what I can add to this letter. I hope you are better by this time; and I desire to be affectionately remembered to Sara and Hartley.
I expected before this to have had tidings of another little philosopher. Lloyd’s wife is on the point of favouring the world.
Have you seen the new edition of Burns? his posthumous works
and letters? I have only been able to procure the first volume, which contains
his life—very confusedly and badly written, and interspersed with dull
pathological and medical discussions. It
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I hope to hear again from you very soon. Godwin is gone to Ireland on a visit to Grattan. Before he went I passed much time with him, and he has showed me particular attentions: N.B. A thing I much like. Your books are all safe: only I have not thought it necessary to fetch away your last batch, which I understand are at Johnson’s the bookseller, who has got quite as much room, and will take as much care of them as myself—and you can send for them immediately from him.
I wish you would advert to a letter I sent you at Grasmere about “Christabel,” and comply with my request contained therein.
Love to all friends round Skiddaw.
