Brown is gone to bed--and I am tired of rhyming--there is a north wind blowing playing young gooseberry with the trees--I don't care so it helps even with a side wind a Letter to me--for I cannot put faith in any reports I hear of the Settlement; some are good and some bad. Last Sunday I took a Walk towards Highgate and in the lane that winds by the side of Lord Mansfield's park I met Mr. Green our Demonstrator at Guy's in conversation with Coleridge--I joined them, after enquiring by a look whether it would be agreeable--I walked with him at his alderman-after-dinner pace for near two miles I suppose. In those two Miles he broached a thousand things--let me see if I can give you a list--Nightingales--Poetry--on Poetical Sensation--Metaphysics--Different genera and species of Dreams--Nightmare--a dream accompanied by a sense of touch--single and double touch--a dream related--First and second consciousness--the difference explained between will and Volition--so say metaphysicians from a want of smoking the second consciousness--Monsters-- the Kraken--Mermaids--Southey believes in them--Southey's belief too much diluted--a Ghost story--Good morning--I heard his voice as he came towards me--I heard it as he moved away--I had heard it all the interval--if it may be called so. He was civil enough to ask me to call on him at Highgate. Good-night! [Later, April 16 or 17.] It looks so much like rain I shall not go to town to-day: but put it off till to-morrow. Brown this morning is writing some Spenserian stanzas against Mrs., Miss Brawne and me; so I shall amuse myself with him a little: in the manner of Spenser-- He is to weet a melancholy Carle Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair As hath the seeded thistle when in parle It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair Its light balloons into the summer air Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom No brush had touch'd his chin or razor sheer No care had touch'd his cheek with mortal doom, But new he was and bright as scarf from Persian loom. Ne cared he for wine, or half-and-half Ne cared he for fish or flesh or fowl, And sauces held he worthless as the chaff He 'sdeign'd the swineherd at the wassail bowl Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl Ne with sly Lemans in the scorner's chair But after water-brooks this Pilgrim's soul Panted, and all his food was woodland air Though he would ofttimes feast on gilliflowers rare-- The slang of cities in no wise he knew _Tipping the wink_ to him was heathen Greek; He sipp'd no olden Tom or ruin blue Or nantz or cherry brandy drunk full meek By many a Damsel hoarse and rouge of cheek Nor did he know each aged Watchman's beat-- Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat Who as they walk abroad make tinkling with their feet.