Without Lifting A Finger

It'll take some time, but I think it worthwhile: I'll peck out the entire thing. *  Autumn, 1794 Last night, dear Southey, I received a special invitation from Dr. Edwards (the great Grecian of Cambridge and heterodox divine) to drink tea and spend the evening. I there met a councillor whose name is Lushington, a democrat, and a man of the most powerful and Briarean intellect. I was challenged on the subject of pantisocracy, which is, indeed, the universal topic at the University. A discussion began and continued for six hours. In conclusion, Lushington and Edwards declared the system impregnable, supposing the assigned quantum of virtue and genius in the first individuals. I came home at one o'clock this morning in the honest consciousness of having exhibited closer argument in more elegant and appropriate language than I had ever conceived myself capable of. Then my heart smote me, for I saw your letter on the propriety of taking servants with us. I had answered

Pantisocracy (from the Greek "πάν" and "ισοκρατία" meaning "equal or level government by/for all") was a utopian scheme devised in 1794 by the poets Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey for an egalitarian community. It is a system of government where all rule equally. They originally intended to establish such a community on the banks of the Susquehanna River in the United States, [1] but by 1795 Southey had doubts about the viability of this and proposed moving the project to Wales . The two men were unable to agree on the location, causing the project to collapse. [From Wikipedia:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantisocracy ]

What I scribbled electronically yesterday (6.29.16) as I stumbled out of Bucks, crossed the street into the park, and started my walk: Feeling the need to be transported (w/o analysis in writ): if not in space, then in time. Thus perhaps DQ. And now STC. Reading: Finished Modiano's Pedigree on the plane to Edinburgh; switched to rereading De Quincey's Confessions in Edinburgh (I walked to his grave early the first morning); started reading Coleridge's letters (spurred by De Quincey and a little bee: Bishop) this morning. From a letter written by Coleridge to a Mr. Poole: My mother relates a story of me, which I repeat here, because it must be regarded as my first piece of wit. During my fever, I asked why Lady Northcote (our neighbor) did not come and see me. My mother said she was afraid of catching the fever. I was piqued, and answered, "Ah, Mamma! the four Angels round my bed an't afraid of catching it!" I suppose you know the prayer: -- "Ma