"Welcome, Samuel, my blessed old friend! Welcome, a thousand times!"
At his words, the guests sprang up with a single impulse, crying in astonishment,—
"Coleridge!"
Then for an instant they turned their eyes away from the two who stood clasping one another's hands in wordless, heartfelt greeting.
The silence endured but a moment; then the new-comer was quickly surrounded, and the room rang with the hearty good-will of his reception.
Charles hastened to relieve him of his travelling cloak and hat, Mary summoned the party to the table, temptingly laid, and the guests sat down to the enjoyment of the viands and the company of their unexpected friend.
Samuel Coleridge had just returned after a two years' absence from England, and the tales he related of his visit, the accounts he gave of his adventures abroad, captivated the company. Every word that fell from his lips was received with keen attention, and whether his mood was grave or gay, serious or sprightly, his hearers sat enthralled.
"To be sure, Coleridge is a wonderful poet," whispered Southey to the lady next him, "but in my judgment he talks even better than he writes."
"He holds us with his expressive eyes," mused Mary.