KENSINGTON GORE,
January 4, 1813.

SIR,—­I cannot help entertaining some apprehension of my not having received some letter or some card which you may have done me the favor of leaving at my house.  Be this, however, as it may, I gladly avail myself of the sanction of a letter from your father for introducing myself to you; and, as many calls are mere matters of form, I take the liberty of begging the favor of your company at dinner on Wednesday next, at a quarter before five o’clock, at Kensington Gore (one mile from Hyde Park corner), and of thereby securing the pleasure of an acquaintance with you.

The high respect which I have always entertained for your father, in addition to the many obliging marks of attention which I have received from him, render me desirous of becoming personally known to you, and enable me with truth to assure you I am, with good will, sir,

Your faithful servant,
W. WILBERFORCE.

Among Morse’s friends in London during the period of his student years, were Coleridge, Rogers, Lamb, and others whose names are familiar ones in the literary world.

While the letters of those days give only hints of the delightful intercourse between these congenial souls, the recollection of them was enshrined in the memory of some of their contemporaries, and the following reminiscences, preserved by Mr. James Wynne and recorded by Mr. Prune in his biography, will be found interesting:—­

“Coleridge, who was a visitor at the rooms of Leslie and Morse, frequently made his appearance under the influence of those fits of despondency to which he was subject.  On these occasions, by a preconcerted plan, they often drew him from this state to one of brilliant imagination.

“‘I was just wishing to see you,’ said Morse on one of these occasions when Coleridge entered with a hesitating step, and replied to their frank salutations with a gloomy aspect and deep-drawn sighs.  ’Leslie and myself have had a dispute about certain lines of beauty; which is right?’ And then each argued with the other for a few moments until Coleridge became interested, and, rousing from his fit of despondency, spoke with an eloquence and depth of metaphysical reasoning on the subject far beyond the comprehension of his auditors.  Their point, however, was gained, and Coleridge was again the eloquent, the profound, the gifted being which his remarkable productions show him to be.

“‘On one occasion,’ said Morse, ’I heard him improvise for half an hour in blank verse what he stated to be a strange dream, which was full of those wonderful creations that glitter like diamonds in his poetical productions.’  ‘All of which,’ remarked I, ’is undoubtedly lost to the world.’  ‘Not all,’ replied Mr. Morse, ’for I recognize in the “Ancient Mariner” some of the thoughts of that evening; but doubtless the greater part, which would have made the reputation of any other man, perished with the moment of inspiration, never again to be recalled.’