I have lately made up my mind to undertake one great historical work, the 'History of Portugal,' but for this, and for many other noble plans, I want uninterrupted leisure; time wholly my own, and not frittered away by little periodical employments. My working at such work is Columbus serving before the mast. God bless you. Yours affectionately, Robert Southey." "Falmouth, 1800. My dear Cottle, Our journey here was safe, but not without accidents. We found the packet, by which we were to sail, detained by the wind, and we are watching it with daily anxiety.[61] A voyage is a serious thing, and particularly an outward-bound voyage. The hope of departure is never an exhilarating hope. Inns are always comfortless, and the wet weather that detains us at Falmouth, imprisons us. Dirt, noise, restlessness, expectation, impatience,--fine cordials for the spirits! Devonshire is an ugly county. I have no patience with the cant of travellers, who so bepraise it. They have surely slept all the way through Somersetshire. Its rivers are beautiful, very beautiful, but nothing else. High hills, all angled over with hedges, and no trees. Wide views, and no object. I have heard a good story of our friend, Charles Fox. When his house, at this place, was on fire, he found all effort to save it useless, and being a good draughtsman, he went up the next hill to make a drawing of the fire! the best instance of philosophy I ever heard. I have received letters from Rickman and Coleridge. Coleridge talks of flaying Sir Herbert Croft. This may not be amiss. God bless you. I shake you mentally by the hand, and when we shake hands bodily, trust that you will find me a repaired animal, with a head fuller of knowledge, and a trunk full of manuscripts. Tell Davy this Cornwall is such a vile county, that nothing but its merit, as his birth-place, redeems it from utter execration. I have found in it nothing but rogues, restive horses, and wet weather; and neither Pilchards, White-ale, or Squab-pie, were to be obtained! Last night I dreamt that Davy had killed himself by an explosion. Once more, God bless you. Yours affectionately, Robert Southey. Mr. Southey, in this second visit to Lisbon, sent me the following poetical letter, which, for ease, vivacity, and vigorous description, stands at the head of that class of compositions. A friendly vessel, mistaken for a French privateer, adds to the interest. In one part, the poet conspicuously bursts forth. "Lisbon, May 9th, 1800.