I cannot express to you how much it has affected me to hear of your affliction, [a long continued inflammation of the eyes, subdued ultimately, after bleeding, blistering, and cupping, by Singleton's eye ointment,] for though I am sure there is no one who would bear any sufferings with which it should please God to visit him, more patiently and serenely, than yourself, this nevertheless, is an affliction of the heaviest kind. It is very far from being the habit of my mind to indulge in visionary hopes, but from what I recollect of the nature of your complaint, it is an inveterate inflammation, and this I believe to be completely within the reach of art...." In the year 1814, after an hemorrhage from the lungs, and consequent debility, I relieved my mind by writing a kind, serious, and faithful letter to my friend Southey, under an apprehension that it might be my last; to which Mr. Southey returned the following reply. "Keswick, May 13, 1814. My dear Cottle, I have seen so dreadful a case of hemorrhage from the lungs terminate favorably, that your letter alarms me less than otherwise it would have done. Basil Montague the younger, continued to bleed at intervals for six weeks, in January and February last, and he has this day left Keswick without any dangerous symptoms remaining upon him. Two other instances have occurred within my knowledge, I will therefore hope for a favorable termination. Your letter comes upon me when I am like a broken reed, so deeply has the loss of Danvers wounded me. Were I to lose you also, I should never have heart to visit Bristol again. What answer shall I make to your exhortations? We differ, if indeed there be a difference, more in appearance than reality; more in the form than in the substance of our belief. I have already so many friends on the other side of the grave, that a large portion of my thoughts and affections are in another world, and it is only the certainty of another life, which could make the changes and insecurity of this life endurable. May God bless you, and restore you, my dear old friend, is the sincere prayer of Your affectionate Robert Southey." In the year 1816, Mr. Southey sustained a great loss in the death of his youngest son, a boy of promising talent, and endued with every quality which could attach a father's heart. Mr. S. thus announced the melancholy tidings. "Keswick, May 23, 1816. My dear Cottle,