wine and macaroons were again served round, and we parted, with a
promise to go again next week, and meet the Miss Porters, who, it seems,
have heard much of Mr. Coleridge, and wish to meet _us_, because we are
_his_ friends. I have been preparing for the occasion. I crowd cotton in
my ears. I read all the reviews and magazines of the past month against
the dreadful meeting, and I hope by these means to cut a tolerable
second-rate figure.

Pray let us have no more complaints about shadows. We are in a fair way,
_through you_, to surfeit sick upon them.

Our loves and respects to your host and hostess. Our dearest love to
Coleridge.

Take no thought about your proof-sheets; they shall be done as if
Woodfall himself did them. Pray send us word of Mrs. Coleridge and
little David Hartley, your little reality.

Farewell, dear Substance. Take no umbrage at any thing I have written.

C. LAMB, _Umbra_.

Land of Shadows,
Shadow-month the 16th or 17th, 1800.

Coleridge, I find loose among your papers a copy of "_Christabel_." It
wants about thirty lines; you will very much oblige me by sending me the
beginning as far as that line,--

"And the spring comes slowly up this way;"