When you used the word "gigantic," you meant, no doubt, to give me a specimen of the irony I must expect from my Philo-Lockian critics. I trust, that I shall steer clear of almost all offence. My book is not, strictly speaking, metaphysical, but historical. It perhaps will merit the title of a History of Metaphysics in England from Lord Bacon to Mr. Hume, inclusive. I confine myself to facts in every part of the work, excepting that which treats of Mr. Hume:—him I have assuredly besprinkled copiously from the fountains of Bitterness and Contempt. As to this, and the other works which you have mentioned, "have patience, Lord! and I will pay thee all!"
Mr. T. Wedgwood goes to Italy in the first days of May. Whether I accompany him is uncertain. He is apprehensive that my health may incapacitate me. If I do not go with him, (and I shall be certain, one way or the other, in a few weeks,) I shall go by myself, in the first week of April, if possible.
Poole's kindest remembrances I send you on my own hazard; for he is busy below, and I must fold up my letter. Whether I remain in England or am abroad, I will occasionally write you; and am ever, my dear Purkis, with affectionate esteem,
Your's sincerely,
S. T. Coleridge.
Remember me kindly to Mrs. Purkis and your children. T. Wedgwood's disease is not painful: it is a complete tædium vitæ; nothing pleases long, and novelty itself begins to cease to act like novelty. Life and all its forms move, in his diseased moments, like shadows before him, cold, colourless, and unsubstantial.
From the tone of the following letter, it may be presumed also, that Mr. Poole, to whom it is addressed, had expressed some anxiety upon the dangers to which his flattering station exposed him.
TO THOMAS POOLE, ESQ.
London, May 1, 1803.
MY DEAR POOLE,
Have you no thoughts of coming to London? I have always recollected the short periods that you have spent in town, with a kind of mixed feeling of pleasure and regret.