I have not written to you during my absence from England, because I had no satisfactory account of any marked progress towards health to give you, and the feelings of an invalid are painful enough for himself, and should, I think, never form a part of his correspondence; for they are not diminished by the conviction that they are felt by others. Would I were better! I would then write to you an agreeable letter from this glorious city; but I am here _wearing away_ the winter; a ruin amongst ruins! I am anxious to hear from you,--very anxious, so pray write to me with this address, "Sir H. Davy, Inglese, posta restanti, Rovigo, Italia." You know you must pay the postage to the frontier, otherwise the letters, like one a friend sent to me, will go back to you. Pray be so good as to be particular in the direction,--the "Inglese" is necessary. I hope you got a copy of my little trifle "_Salmonia_." I ordered copies to be sent to you, to Mr. W----, and to Mr. Baker: but as the course of letters in foreign countries is uncertain, I am not sure you received them; if not, you will have lost little; a _second edition_ will soon be out, which will be in every respect more worthy of your perusal, being, I think, twice (not saying much for it) as entertaining and philosophical. I will take care by early orders that you have this book. I write and philosophize a good deal, and have nearly finished a work with a higher aim than the little book I speak of above, and which I shall dedicate to you. It contains the essence of my philosophical opinions, and some of my poetical reveries. It is, like the "Salmonia," an amusement of my sickness; but "_paulo majora canamus_." I sometimes think of the lines of Waller, and seem to feel their truth: "The soul's dark cottage, batter`d and decay'd, Lets in new lights through chinks that Time has made."