conflagration was renewed. Charges of "desertion," flew thick around; of
"dishonourable retraction, in a compact the most binding"--I again spoke
to Mr. Coleridge, and endeavoured to soften his asperity. I also wrote to
Mr. Southey, and expressed a hope, that if he found it impossible at the
present moment to return to cordiality, he would at least consent when he
met Mr. Coleridge, to restrain the indignant look, which was painfully
manifest on both countenances.

The most pleasant part of the narrative will now be unfolded. Mr.
Coleridge and Mr. Southey met at the house of a relation when, without
explanation, the relentings of nature threw them silently into each
other's arms! I knew nothing of this happy reconciliation, the first
intimation of which was their calling on me, arm in arm, after having
taken a pleasant walk together into the country. Each seemed to relish
the surprise and the delight which it was impossible for me to conceal;
and I had reason afterwards to think, that this sprightly scene was a
preconcerted arrangement to heighten the stage-effect. I shall now
withdraw the reader's attention from Mr. Southey, and proceed with the
narrative of Mr. Coleridge.

When Mr. Southey departed for the continent, Mr. Coleridge repaired to
his own calm retreat at Stowey, from which place he sent me the following
letter.


"Stowey, 1796.

Dear Cottle,

I write under great agony of mind, Charles Lloyd being very ill. He has