What a state England is in! But you will never write politics. I don’t wonder;--but I wish, then, that you would write a paper in “The Examiner,” on the actual state of the country, and what, under all the circumstances of the conflicting passions and interests of men, we are to expect. Not what we ought to expect, or what, if so and so were to happen, we might expect,--but what, as things are, there is reason to believe will come;--and send it me for my information. Every word a man has to say is valuable to the public now; and thus you will at once gratify your friend, nay, instruct, and either exhilarate him or force him to be resigned,--and awaken the minds of the people. I have no spirits to write what I do not know whether you will care much about; I know well, that if I were in great misery, poverty, &c., you would think of nothing else but how to amuse and relieve me. You omit me if I am prosperous. I could laugh if I found a joke, in order to put you in good humour with me after my scolding;--in good humour enough to write to us. * * * * * Affectionate love to and from all. This ought not only to be the _vale_ of a letter, but a superscription over the gate of life. Your sincere friend, P. B. Shelley. I send you a _sonnet_. I don’t expect you to publish it; but you may show it to whom you please. * * * * * Florence, _November 1819_. My dear Friend,--Two letters, both bearing date Oct 20, arrive on the same day:--one is always glad of twins. We hear of a box arrived at Genoa with books and clothes: it must be yours. Meanwhile the babe is wrapped in flannel petticoats, and we get on with him as we can. He is small, healthy, and pretty. Mary is recovering rapidly. Marianne, I hope, is quite recovered. You do not tell me whether you have received my lines on the Manchester affair. They are of the exoteric species, and are meant, not for “The Indicator,” but “The Examiner.” I would send for the former, if you like, some letters on such subjects of art as suggest themselves in Italy. Perhaps I will, at a venture, send you a specimen of what I mean next post. I enclose you in this a piece for “The Examiner;” or let it share the fate, whatever that fate may be, of the “Mask of Anarchy.” I am sorry to hear that you have employed yourself in translating “Aminta,” though I doubt not it will be a just and beautiful translation. You ought to write Amintas. You ought to exercise your fancy in the perpetual creation of new forms of gentleness and beauty. * * * * *