My time here has been completely occupied in riding about the country. I have contrived to manufacture one eclogue, and that is all; but the exercise of riding has jostled a good many ideas into my brain, and I have plans enough for long leisure. You know my tale of the 'Adite' in the garden of Irem. I have tacked it on to an old plan of mine upon the destruction of the Domdanyel, and made the beginning, middle, and end. There is a tolerable skeleton formed. It will extend to ten or twelve books, and they appear to me to possess much strong conception in the Arabian manner. It will at least prove that I did not reject machinery in my Epics, because I could not wield it. This only forms part of a magnificent project, which I do not despair of one day completing, in the destruction of the 'Domdanyel.' My intention is, to show off all the splendor of the Mohammedan belief. I intend to do the same to the Runic, and Oriental systems; to preserve the costume of place as well as of religion. I have been thinking that though we have been disappointed of our Welsh journey, a very delightful pilgrimage is still within our reach. Suppose you were to meet me at Boss. We go thence down the Wye to Monmouth. On the way are Goodrich castle, the place where Henry V. was nursed; and Arthur's cavern. Then there is Ragland Castle somewhere thereabout, and we might look again at Tintern. I should like this much. The Welsh mail from Bristol, comes every day through Boss; we can meet there. Let me hear from you, and then I will fix the day, and we will see the rocks and woods in all their beauty. God bless you. Yours affectionately, Robert Southey." "Exeter, Sept. 22, 1799. My dear Cottle, ... You will, I hope, soon have a cargo to send me of your own, for the second volume of the 'Anthology' and some from Davy. If poor Mrs. Yearsley were living I should like much to have her name there. As yet I have only Coleridge's pieces, and my own, amounting to eighty or one hundred pages. 'Thalaba, the Destroyer' is progressing. There is a poem called 'Geber' of which I know not whether my review of it, in the Critical' be yet printed, but in that review you will find some of the most exquisite poetry in the language. The poem is such as Gilbert, if he were only half as mad as he is, could have written. I would go a hundred miles to see the (anonymous) author.[59] There are some worthies in Exeter, with whom I have passed some pleasant days, but the place is miserably bigoted. Would you believe that there are persons here who still call the Americans 'the Rebels' Exeter is the filthiest town in England; a gutter running down the middle of every street and lane. We leave on Monday week. I shall rejoice to breathe fresh air. Exeter, however, has the best collection of old books for sale, of any town out of London.[60]