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;"
and the intermediate lines between—
"The lady leaps up suddenly.
The lovely Lady Christabel;"
and the lines,—
"She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak."
The trouble to you will be small, and the benefit to us very great!
A pretty antithesis! A figure in speech I much applaud.
Godwin has called upon us. He spent one evening here. Was very friendly. Kept us up till midnight. Drank punch, and talked about you. He seems, above all men, mortified at your going away. Suppose you were to write to that good-natured heathen—"or is he a shadow?" If I do not write, impute it to the long postage, of which you have so much cause to complain. I have scribbled over a queer letter, as I find by perusal; but it means no mischief.
I am, and will be, yours ever, in sober sadness,