ABSTRACT
If he dies, it will be from a sulky imagination, produced from the general cause of such things; i.e. want of regular work or application: which is great pity. Happening to look into the Lyrical Ballads the other day, there was (under the title ‘Lines left on Seat under a Yew Tree’) an account of somebody so written as to be very evidently a self-portrait – Wordsworth’s I believe; and the same would not be very un-true of Coleridge. It is certainly to admire Nature in the country too much, when it leads us into final Evil, and self-discontent, so founded as those lines demonstrate to be felt, and justly felt, can hardly be denied. Why should not the beauties of Nature be to a grown thinking man, what play hours are at school? Then no harm would be done, and the world would not lose men capable of being the most usefull members of society.
