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Updated: October 14, 2025
But it must be a slow, and occasionally an interrupted progress, after a sad retrogress of nearly twelve years. "'Friday, 27th May, 1814. "'MY DEAR COTTLE: I feel, with an intensity unfathomable by words, my utter nothingness, impotence, and worthlessness, in and for myself. I have learned what a sin is against an infinite, imperishable being, such as is the soul of man.
Robert Southey." A few days after I received the following letter from Mr. Southey: "Keswick, Oct. 10, 1836. My dear Cottle, I have long foreseen that poor S. T. Coleridge would leave a large inheritance of uneasiness to his surviving friends, and those who were the most nearly connected with him.
These emendations came too late for admission in the second edition; nor have they appeared in the last edition. They will remain therefore for insertion in any future edition of Mr. Coleridge's Poems. "Stowey, 1797. My dear Cottle, ... Public affairs are in strange confusion. I am afraid that I shall prove, at least, as good a Prophet as Bard. Oh, doom'd to fall, my country! enslaved and vile!
Wordsworth, thirty guineas each, as proposed, for their two tragedies; but which, after some hesitation, was declined, from the hope of introducing one, or both, on the stage. The volume of Poems was left for some future arrangement. "My dear Cottle,
Coleridge reaching his new abode, I was gratified by receiving from him the following letter. "Stowey, 1796. My dear Cottle, We arrived safe. Our house is set to rights. We are all wife, bratling, and self, remarkably well. Mrs. Coleridge likes Stowey, and loves Thomas Poole and his mother, who love her.
Coleridge told me, he was attacked with a dangerous illness, when he thought he should have died, but for the "good captain," who attended him with the solicitude of a father. Mr. C. also said, had he known what the captain was going to swear, whatever the consequences might have been, he would have prevented him. The following long letter will be read with interest. "Bristol, 1807. Dear Cottle,
We have spent our time pleasantly enough in Germany, but we are right glad to find ourselves in England, for we have learnt to know its value. We left Coleridge well at Gottingen, a month ago.... God bless you, my dear Cottle, Your affectionate friend, W. Wordsworth." Soon after the receipt of the above, I received another letter from Mr.
S., I resolved to suspend my determination till he had an opportunity of inspecting the MS. once more, when his specific objections might be better understood. Two or three weeks after receiving the former letter, Mr. S. addressed to me the following hasty line: "Friday, Nov. 1, 1836, Pipe Hayes. My dear Cottle, Here we are, six miles from Birmingham.
He has a very red drinking face: little good humoured eyes, with the skin drawn up under them, like cunning and short-sightedness united. I saw Dr. Hunter again yesterday. I neither like him, nor his wife, nor his son, nor his daughter, nor any thing that is his. To night I am to meet Opie. God bless you. Edith's love. Yours affectionately, Robert Southey." "May, 1797. My dear Cottle,
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