Wordsworth has nearly finished a series of masterly essays on our late and present relations to Portugal and Spain. Southey is sending to the press his _History of Brazil_, and at the same time (the indefatigable!) composing a defence of religious missions to the East, etc. Excepting the introduction (which, however, I have heard highly praised, but myself think it shallow, flippant, and ipse dixitish), I have read few books with such deep interest as the _Chronicle of the Cid_. The whole scene in the Cortes is superior to any equal part of any epic poem, save the _Paradise Lost--me saltem judice_. The deep glowing, yet ever self-controlled passion of the Cid--his austere dignity, so finely harmonizing with his pride of loyal humility--the address to his swords, and the burst of contemptuous rage in his final charge and address to the Infantes of Carrion, and his immediate recall of his mind--are beyond all ordinary praises. It delights me to be able to speak thus of a work of Southey's! I am so often forced to quarrel with his want of judgment and his unthinkingness--which, Heaven knows, I never do without pain, and the vexation of a disappointed wish. But I am encroaching on time more valuable than my own, and I, too, have enough to do. May God grant you health and the continuance of your intellectual vigour! S. T. COLERIDGE. LETTER 141. TO DAVY Grasmere, Kendal, December 14 (1808). Dear Davy,