because he expresses the things we already know. His is a
hard task, requiring intense concentration--a concentration that can only
be continued for a short time without the absolute burning out of
existence.

To think one's best and write out ideas is an abnormal operation. The most
artistic work is always done in a sort of fever or ecstacy, which in its
very nature is transient. To hunt and fish and dream and to work with
one's hands are all very natural; but to sit down and think and then
express your thoughts by the artificial scheme of writing on paper is a
dangerous operation. If carried to excess it shall be paid for by your
life.

Coleridge had turned night into day in his hot zeal to follow the winding,
dancing mystery of existence to its inmost recess. At times he had
forgotten to eat or sleep; and then to reinforce despairing nature he had
resorted to stimulants.

Digestion had become impaired, circulation faulty through lack of
exercise, so sleeplessness followed stimulation. Then to quiet pain came
the use of the drug that brings oblivion. And lo! thought burned up
brighter than ever and all the dreams of youth and twenty came trooping
back.

Coleridge had made a discovery. He thought he was getting the start of God
Almighty; but he wasn't, for men have tried that before, and are trying it
today, and many know not yet that we are strong only as we cling close to
the skirts of Mother Nature and follow lovingly in her ways.

From his twenty-ninth year we find Coleridge a wreck in mind and body;
shuffling, sick, disheartened, erratic, uncertain, yet occasionally
brilliant. He tramped the streets, feared and shunned. His money was gone,
his power of concentration had vanished. In search of bread he met an
old-time friend, Doctor Gillman.

"Gillman," said Coleridge, "I am sick and helpless--look at me!"

"Why don't you come to my house and live with me?" asked the kind friend.

"Gillman," said the poor man, "Gillman, I am on my way there!"

So Gillman brought him to his house up at Highgate and took care of him as
a child. And there he remained, the pride and pet of a group of brave,
thinking men and women.

He lived on for thirty years, under the kindly, skilful care of his
friend, but all the real work of his life was done before he was thirty.
Occasionally the old fire would flash forth, and the wit and insight of
his youth would shine out. Keats, Shelley, Lord Byron, and others strong
and great