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yourself had received from us the first offer of our tragedies and of the volume of Wordsworth's poems. At the same time we did not expect that you could, with prudence and propriety advance such a sum as we should wish at the time we specified. In short, we both regard the publication of our tragedies as an evil. It is not impossible but that on happier times they may be brought on the stage; and to throw away this chance for a mere trifle would be to make the present moment act fraudulently and injuriously towards the future time.

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My tragedy employed and strained all my thoughts and fancies for six or seven months; Wordsworth consumed far more time, and far more thought, and far more genius. We consider the publication of them an evil on any terms; but our thoughts were bent on a plan, for the accomplishment of which a certain sum of money was necessary (the whole at that particular time), and in order to that we resolved, although reluctantly, to part with our tragedies; that is, if we could obtain thirty guineas for each, and at less than thirty guineas Wordsworth will not part with the copyright of his volume of poems. We shall offer the Tragedies to no one, for we have determined to procure the money some other way. If you chose the volume of Poems at the price mentioned, to be paid at the time specified, i.e., thirty guineas, to be paid sometime in the last fortnight of July, you may have them; but remember, my dear fellow, I write. to you now merely as a bookseller, and entreat you, in your answer, to consider yourself only. As to us, although money is necessary to our plan [that of visiting Germany], yet the plan is not necessary to our happiness; and if it was, W. would sell his Poems to someone else, or we could procure the money without selling the Poems; so I entreat you, again and again, in your answer, which must be immediate, consider yourself only.

"Wordsworth has been caballed against so long and so loudly, that he has found it impossible to prevail on the tenant of the Alfoxden estate to let him the house after the first agreement is expired, so we must quit it at Midsummer; whether we shall be able to procure him a house and furniture near Stowey we know not, and yet we must; for the hills, and the woods, and the streams, and the sea, and the shores would break forth into reproaches against us if we did not strain every nerve to keep their Poet among them, Without joking, and in serious sadness, Poole and I cannot endure to think of losing him.

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At all events, come down, Cottle, as soon as you can, but before Midsummer, and we will procure a horse easy as thy own soul, and we will go on to a roam to Linton and Linmouth, which, if thou comest in May, will be in all their pride of woods and waterfalls, not to speak of its august cliff, and the green ocean, and the vast Valley of Stones, all which live disdainful of the seasons, or accept new honours only from the winter's snow. At all events, come down soon, and cease not to believe me much and affectionately your friend, S. T. COLERIDGE."

"In consequence of their conjoint invitation, I spent a week with Mr C. and Mr W. at Alfoxden House, and during this time (besides the reading of MS. poems) they took me to Linmouth, and Linton, and the Valley of Stones.

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At this interview it was determined that the volume would be published under the title of Lyrical Ballads,' on the terms stipulated in a former letter; that this volume should not contain the poem of Salisbury Plain,' but only an extract from it; that it should not contain the poem of 'Peter Bell,' but consist rather of sundry shorter poems, and, for the most part, of pieces more recently written. I had recommended two volumes, but one was fixed on, and that to be published anonymously. It was to be begun imme

diately, and with the 'Ancient Mariner,' which poem I brought with me to Bristol. A day or two after, I received the following:--

"MY DEAR COTTLE,—

"Wordsworth and I have duly weighed your proposal, and this is an answer. W. would not object to the publishing of 'Peter Bell' or the 'Salisbury Plain' singly; but to the publishing of his poems in two volumes he is decisively repugnant and oppugnant.

“He deems that they would want variety, &c., &c. If this apply in his case, it applies with tenfold more force to mine. We deem that the volumes offered you are, to a certain degree, one work, in kind, though not in degree, as an ode is one work; and that our different poems are as stanzas good, relatively rather than absolutely mark you, I say in kind, though not in degree.

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"The picture shall be sent.*

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"Cottle, my dear Cottle, I meant to have written you an Essay on the Metaphysics of Typography, but I have not time. Take a few hints, without the abstruse reasons for them, with which I mean to favour you. Eighteen lines in a page, the lines closely printed, certainly more closely printed than those of the 'Joan'† ['Oh, by all means, closer, W. Wordsworth'], equal ink, and large margins; that is beauty; it may even, under your immediate care, mingle the sublime! And now, my dear Cottle, may God love you and me, who am, with most unauthorish feelings, your true friend, S. T. COLERIDGE.'

Mr W. had taken the Alfoxden House, near Stowey, for

* This refers to the earliest portrait of Wordsworth, painted in 1797, by

an artist in Stowey, now the property of Mr George, Bristol.

+ Joan of Arc, 4to, first edition, had twenty lines in a page.

one year (during the minority of the heir), and the reason why he was refused a continuance, by the ignorant man. who had the letting of it, arose (as Mr Coleridge informed me) from a whimsical cause, or rather, a series of causes. The wiseacres of the village had, it seemed, made Mr W. the subject of their serious conversation. One said that, 'He had seen him wander about by night, and look rather strangely at the moon! and then, he roamed over the hills, like a partridge.' Another said, 'he had heard him mutter, as he walked, in some outlandish brogue, that nobody could understand!' Another said, 'It's useless to talk, Thomas, I think he is what people call a "wise man" [a conjuror!]. Another said, 'You are every one of you wrong. I know what he is. We have all met him, tramping away toward the sea. Would any man in his senses, take all that trouble to look at a parcel of water! I think he carries on a snug business in the smuggling line, and, in these journeys, is on the look-out for some wet cargo!' Another very signifi

cantly said, 'I know that he has got a private still in his cellar, for I once passed his house, at a little better than a hundred yards distance, and I could smell the spirits, as plain as an ashen fagot at Christmas !' Another said,

'However that was, he is surely a desperate French jacobin, for he is so silent and dark, that no body ever heard him say one word about politics!' And thus these ignoramuses drove from their village, a greater ornament than will ever again be found amongst them.

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"A visit to Mr Coleridge, at Stowey, in the year 1797, had been the means of my introduction to Mr Wordsworth. Soon after our acquaintance had commenced, Mr W. happened to be in Bristol, and asked me to spend a day or two with him at Alfoxden. I consented, and drove him down in a gig. We called for Mr Coleridge, Miss Wordsworth, and the servant, at Stowey; and they walked, while we rode on

to Mr W.'s house, (distant two or three miles), where we purposed to dine. A London alderman would smile at our bill-of-fare. It consisted of philosophers' viands, namely, a bottle of brandy, a noble loaf, and a stout piece of cheese; and as there were plenty of lettuces in the garden, with all these comforts we calculated on doing very well.

"Our fond hopes, however, were somewhat damped, by finding that our stout piece of cheese' had vanished! A sturdy rat of a beggar, whom we had relieved on the road, with his olfactories all alive no doubt, smelt our cheese; and, while we were gazing at the magnificent clouds, contrived to abstract our treasure! Cruel tramp! An ill return for our pence! We both wished the rind might not choke him! The mournful fact was ascertained a little before we drove into the court-yard of the house. Mr Coleridge bore the loss with great fortitude, observing, that we should never starve with a loaf of bread and a bottle of brandy. He now, with the dexterity of an adept (admired by his friends around), unbuckled the horse, and putting down the shafts with a jerk, as a triumphant conclusion of his work, lo! the bottle of brandy, that had been placed most carefully behind us, on the seat, from the inevitable law of gravity, suddenly rolled down, and before we could arrest the spirituous avalanche, pitching right on the stones, was dashed to pieces! We all beheld the spectacle, silent and petrified We might have collected the broken fragments of glass, but, the brandy! that was gone! clean gone!

"One little untoward thing often follows another, and while the rest stood musing, chained to the place, regaling themselves with the Cogniac effluvium, and all miserably chagrined, I led the horse to the stable, when a fresh perplexity arose. I removed the harness without difficulty, but after many strenuous attempts, I could not get off the collar. In

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