friend; indeed, so much, that I regret, seriously regret, that you have
been my copyholder.

If I have written petulantly, forgive me. God knows I am sore all over.
God bless you, and believe me that, setting gratitude aside, I love and
esteem you, and have your interest at heart full as much as my own.

S. T. Coleridge."


At the receipt of this painful letter, which made me smile and sigh at
the same moment, my first care was to send the young and desponding Bard
some of the precious metal, to cheer his drooping spirits; to inform him
of his mistake; and to renew my invitation; which was accepted, and at
this interview he was as cheerful as ever. He saw no difference in my
countenance, and I perceived none in his. The "thick cloud" and the
"thorn" had completely passed away, whilst his brilliant conversation
charmed and edified the friend for whose sake he had been invited.

At length, Mr. Coleridge's volume of poems was completed. On the blank
leaf of one of the copies, he asked for a pen, and wrote the following:


"Dear Cottle,

On the blank leaf of my poems, I can most appropriately write my
acknowledgments to you, for your too disinterested conduct in the
purchase of them. Indeed, if ever they should acquire a name and
character, it might be truly said, the world owed them to you. Had it not
been for you, none perhaps of them would have been published, and some