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Your ever grateful servant takes his leave.
Lay your plans surer when you plot to grieve,
See while you kindly mean to mortify
Another, the wild arrow do not fly,
And gall yourself. For once you've been mistaken;
Your shafts have missed their aim-Hogsflesh has saved

his Bacon.





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MY DEAR COLERIDGE, You will sinile to see the slender labours of your friend designated by the title of works; but such was the wish of the gentlemen who have kindly undertaken the trouble of collecting them, and from their judgment could be no appeal.

It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself a volume containing the early pieces, which were first published among your poems,

and were fairly derivatives from you and them. My friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a sort of warfare) under cover of she greater Ajax. How this association, which shall always be a dear and proud recollection to me, came to be broken-who snapped the three-fold cord whether yourself (but I know that was not the case) grew ashamed of your former companions-or whether (which is by much the more probable) some ungracious bookseller was author of the separation-I cannot tell; but wanting the support of your friendly elm, (I speak for myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or no fruits; the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner, dried up and extinct; and you will find your old associate, in his second volume, dwindled into prose and criticism.

Am I right in assuming this as the cause ? or is it that, as years come upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) life itself loses much of its poetry for us? we transcribe but what we read in the great volume of Nature; and, as the characters grow dim, we turn off, and look another way. You yourself write no Christables or Ancient Mariners now.

Some of the sonrets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances which I should be sorry should be ever totally extinct-the memory

* Of summer days and delightful years"even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ********** Inn--when life was fresh and topics exhaustless-and you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty, and kindliness.

" What words have I heard

Spoke at the Mermaid !" The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time, but either my eyes, are grown dimmer, or my old friend is the same who stood he. fore me three-and-twenty years ago-his hair a little confessing the hand of time, but still shrouding the saine capacious brain-his heart not altered, scarcely where it “alteration finds."

One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original form, though I have heard you complain of a certain over-imitation of the antique in the

• Prefixed to the author's works published in 1818

style. If I could see any way of getting rid of the objection without 16 writing i entirely, I would make some sacrifices. But when I wrote Joht Woodvil I never proposed to myself any."Istinct deviation from common Eng. lish. I had been newly initiated in the writings of our elder dramatists; Beau. mont and Fletcher, and Massinger, were then a first love; and from what ] was so freshly conversant in, what wonder if my language imperceptibly took a tinge? The very time which I had chosen for my story, that which imme diately followed the restoration, seemed to require, in an English play, that the English should be of rather an older cast than that of tire precise year in which it happened to be written. I wish it had not some faults, which I can lons vindicate than the language.

I remain,
My dear Coleridge,

With unabato l esteem,


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