Mr. Coleridge, at Stowey. Mr. and Mrs. C. happened to be now in Bristol,
when the former was summoned home on account of Burnet's sudden and
serious illness. On reaching Stowey, Mr. C. sent me the following letter.


"Stowey.

My dear friend,

I found George Burnet ill enough, heaven knows, Yellow Jaundice,---the
introductory symptoms very violent. I return to Bristol on Thursday, and
shall not leave till _all be done._

Remind Mrs. Coleridge of the kittens, and tell her that George's brandy
is just what smuggled spirits might be expected to be, execrable! The
smack of it remains in my mouth, and I believe will keep me most horribly
temperate for half a century. He (Burnet) was bit, but I caught the
Brandiphobia.[36] [obliterations ...]--scratched out, well knowing that
you never allow such things to pass, uncensured. A good joke, and it
slipped out most impromptu--ishly.

The mice play the very devil with us. It irks me to set a trap. By all
the whiskers of all the pussies that have mewed plaintively, or
amorously, since the days of Whittington, it is not fair. 'Tis telling a
lie. 'Tis as if you said, 'Here is a bit of toasted cheese; come little
mice! I invite you!' when, oh, foul breach of the rites of hospitality! I
mean to assassinate my too credulous guests! No, I cannot set a trap, but
I should vastly like to make a Pitt--fall. (Smoke the Pun!). But
concerning the mice, advise thou, lest there be famine in the land. Such
a year of scarcity! Inconsiderate mice! Well, well, so the world wags.