_North._ James, you don't know S.T. Coleridge--do you? He writes but
indifferent books, begging his pardon: witness his "Friend," his "Lay
Sermons," and, latterly, his "Aids to Reflection"; but he becomes
inspired by the sound of his own silver voice, and pours out wisdom like
a sea. Had he a domestic Gurney, he might publish a Moral Essay, or a
Theological Discourse, or a Metaphysical Disquisition, or a Political
Harangue, every morning throughout the year during his lifetime.
_Tickler._ Mr. Coleridge does not seem to be aware that he cannot write
a book, but opines that he absolutely has written several, and set many
questions at rest. There's a want of some kind or another in his mind;
but perhaps when he awakes out of his dream, he may get rational and
sober-witted, like other men, who are not always asleep.
_Shepherd._ The author o' "Christabel," and "The Ancient Mariner," had
better just continue to see visions, and dream dreams--for he's no fit
for the wakin' world.--_April, 1827._