My Dear Manning, -- I must positively write, or I shall miss you at Toulouse. I sit here like a decayed minute-hand (I lie; _that_ does not _sit_), and being myself the exponent of no time, take no heed how the clocks about me are going. You possibly by this time may have explored all Italy, and toppled, unawares, into Etna, while you went too near those rotten-jawed, gap-toothed, old worn-out chaps of hell, -- while I am meditating a quiescent letter to the honest postmaster at Toulouse. But in case you should not have been _felo de se_, this is to tell you that your letter was quite to my palate; in particular your just remarks upon Industry, cursed Industry (though indeed you left me to explore the reason), were highly relishing.
I've often wished I lived in the Golden Age, before doubt, and propositions, and corollaries, got into the world. _Now_, as Joseph Cottle, a Bard of Nature, sings, going up Malvern Hills, --
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