We arrived safe. Our house is set to rights. We are all--wife, bratling,
and self, remarkably well. Mrs. Coleridge likes Stowey, and loves Thomas
Poole and his mother, who love her. A communication has been made from
our orchard into T. Poole's garden, and from thence to Cruikshank's, a
friend of mine, and a young married man, whose wife is very amiable, and
she and Sara are already on the most cordial terms; from all this you
will conclude we are happy. By-the-bye, what a delightful poem, is
Southey's 'Musings on a Landscape of Gaspar Poussin.' I love it almost
better than his 'Hymn to the Penates.' In his volume of poems. The
following, namely,

'The Six Sonnets on the Slave Trade.--The Ode to the Genius of
Africa.--To my own Miniature Picture.--The Eight
Inscriptions.--Elinor, Botany-bay Eclogue.--Frederick, ditto.--The
Ten Sonnets, (pp. 107-116.) On the death of an Old Spaniel.--The
Soldier's Wife, Dactylics.--The Widow, Sapphics.--The Chapel
Bell.--The Race of Banco. Rudiger.'

All these Poems are worthy the Author of 'Joan of Arc.' And
'The Musings on a Landscape,' &c. and
'The Hymn to the Penates,'
deserve to have been published after 'Joan of Arc,' as proofs of
progressive genius.

God bless you,

S. T. C."