had blended so many pleasant fancies that they cheated me of my grief; but in your absence the tide of melancholy rushed in again, and did its worst mischief by overwhelming my reason.  I have recovered, but feel a stupor that makes me indifferent to the hopes and fears of this life.  I sometimes wish to introduce a religious turn of mind; but habits are strong things, and my religious fervours are confined, alas! to some fleeting moments of occasional solitary devotion,

A correspondence, opening with you, has roused me a little from my lethargy and made me conscious of existence.  Indulge me in it; I will not be very troublesome!  At some future time I will amuse you with an account, as full as my memory will permit, of the strange turn my frenzy took.  I look back upon it at times with, a gloomy kind of envy; for while it lasted, I had many, many hours of pure happiness.  Dream not, Coleridge, of having tasted all the grandeur and wildness of fancy till you have gone mad!  All now seems to me vapid,—­comparatively so.  Excuse this selfish digression.  Your “Monody” [3] is so superlatively excellent that I can only wish it perfect, which I can’t help feeling it is not quite.  Indulge me in a few conjectures; what I am going to propose would make it more compressed and, I think, more energetic, though, I am sensible, at the expense of many beautiful lines.  Let it begin, “Is this the land of song-ennobled line?” and proceed to “Otway’s famished form;” then, “Thee, Chatterton,” to “blaze of Seraphim;” then, “clad in Nature’s rich array,” to “orient day;” then, “but soon the scathing lightning,” to “blighted land;” then, “sublime of thought,” to “his bosom glows;” then

  “But soon upon his poor unsheltered head
  Did Penury her sickly mildew shed;
  Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal grace,
  And joy’s wild gleams that lightened o’er his face.”

Then “youth of tumultuous soul” to “sigh,” as before.  The rest may all stand down to “gaze upon the waves below.”  What follows now may come next as detached verses, suggested by the “Monody,” rather than a part of it.  They are, indeed, in themselves, very sweet;

  “And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng,
  Hanging enraptured on thy stately song!”

in particular, perhaps.  If I am obscure, you may understand me by counting lines.  I have proposed omitting twenty-four lines; I feel that thus compressed it would gain energy, but think it most likely you will not agree with me; for who shall go about to bring opinions to the bed of Procrustes, and introduce among the sons of men a monotony of identical feelings?  I only propose with diffidence.

Reject you, if you please, with as little remorse as you would the color of a coat or the pattern of a buckle, where our fancies differed.