… I physiognomise everything, even the very oysters may be accurately judged by their shells. I discovered this at Lisbon, where they are all deformed, hump-backed, and good for nothing. Is it not possible by the appearance of a river to tell what fish are in it? In the slow sluggish stream you will find the heavy chub. In the livelier current, the trout and the pike. If a man loves prints you have an excellent clue to his character; take for instance, the inventory of mine at College:—Four views of the ruins at Rome; Charles Fox; Belisarius; Niobe; and four Landscapes of Poussin; and Claude Lorraine. These last are of constant source of pleasure. I become acquainted with the inhabitants in every house, and know every inch of ground in the prospect. They have formed for me many a pleasant day-dream. I can methodise these into a little poem. I am now settled; my books are organised; and this evening I set off on my race.
We have a story of a ghost here, who appears to the watchman,—the spirit of a poor girl, whose life was abandoned, and her death most horrible. I am in hopes it may prove true! as I have a great love for apparitions. They make part of the poetical creed. Fare you well.
Sincerely yours,
To Joseph Cottle.
Robert Southey."
"London, March 6, 1797.
… I am inclined to complain heavily of you, Cottle. Here am I committing grand larceny on my time, in writing to you; and you, who might sit at your fire, and write me huge letters, have not found time to fill even half a sheet. As you may suppose, I have enough of employment. I work like a negro at law, and therefore neglect nothing else, for he who never wastes time has always time enough.
I have to see many of the London lions, or literati, George Dyer is to take me to Mary Hayes, Miss Christal, and Taylor, the Pagan, my near neighbour. You shall have my physiognomical remarks upon them. I hate this city more and more, although I see little of it. You do not know with what delight I anticipate a summer in Wales, and I hope to spend the summer of the next year there, and to talk Welsh most gutturally. I shall see Meirion this week, whose real name is William Owen. He is the author of the new Welsh dictionary, a man of uncommon erudition, and who ought to esteem me for Madoc's sake. Fare you well. Remember me to all friends. God bless you.
Yours sincerely,
Robert Southey."