How I sympathize with you on the dull duty of a reviewer, and heartily damn with you Ned Evans and the Prosodist!  I shall, however, wait impatiently for the articles in the “Critical Review” next month, because they are yours.  Young Evans (W.  Evans, a branch of a family you were once so intimate with) is come into our office, and sends his love to you.  Coleridge, I devoutly wish that Fortune, who lias made sport with you so long, may play one freak more, throw you into London or some spot near it, and there snug-ify you for life.  ’Tis a selfish but natural wish for me, cast as I am on life’s wide plain, friendless,” Are you acquainted with Bowles?  I see by his last Elegy (written at Bath) you are near neighbors,—­Thursday.

“And I can think I can see the groves again;” “Was it the voice of thee;” “Turns not the voice of thee, my buried friend;” “Who dries with her dark locks the tender tear,”—­are touches as true to Nature as any in his other Elegy, written at the Hot Wells, about poor Kassell, etc.  You are doubtless acquainted with it,

I do not know that I entirely agree with you in your stricture upon my sonnet “To Innocence,” To men whose hearts are not quite deadened by their commerce with the world, innocence (no longer familiar) becomes an awful idea.  So I felt when I wrote it.  Your other censures (qualified and sweetened, though, with praises somewhat extravagant) I perfectly coincide with:  yet I choose to retain the word “lunar,”—­indulge a “lunatic” in his loyalty to his mistress the moon!  I have just been reading a most pathetic copy of verses on Sophia Pringle, who was hanged and burned for coining.  One of the strokes of pathos (which are very many, all somewhat obscure) is, “She lifted up her guilty forger to heaven.”  A note explains, by “forger,” her right hand, with which she forged or coined the base metal.  For “pathos” read “bathos.”  You have put me out of conceit with my blank verse by your “Religious Musings.”  I think it will come to nothing.  I do not like ’em enough to send ’em.  I have just been reading a book, which I may be too partial to, as it was the delight of my childhood; but I will recommend it to you,—­it is Izaak Walton’s “Complete Angler.”  All the scientific part you may omit in reading.  The dialogue is very simple, full of pastoral beauties, and will charm you.  Many pretty old verses are interspersed.  This letter, which would be a week’s work reading only, I do not wish you to answer in less than a month.  I shall be richly content with a letter from you some day early in July; though, if you get anyhow settled before then, pray let me know it immediately; ’t would give me much satisfaction.  Concerning the Unitarian chapel, the salary is the only scruple that the most rigid moralist would admit as valid.  Concerning the tutorage, is not the salary low, and absence from your family unavoidable?  London is the only fostering soil for genius.  Nothing more occurs just now; so I will leave you, in mercy, one small white spot empty below, to repose your eyes upon, fatigued as they must be with the wilderness of words they have by this time painfully travelled through.  God love you, Coleridge, and prosper you through life! though mine will be loss if your lot is to be cast at Bristol, or at Nottingham, or anywhere but London.  Our loves to Mrs. C—.  C. L.