In 1798 its sale was over 2000; and so well had DANIEL STUART managed his property—being exceedingly well served by his principal assistant, GEORGE LANE—that when he left _The Morning Post_ for _The Courier_, in 1803, the circulation amounted to 4,500. It, therefore, stood higher in point of sale than any other morning paper, the order in respect of numbers from high to low being this: _Morning Post_, _Morning Herald_, _Morning Advertiser_, _Times_. The amount received for it was about £25,000. According to JOHN TAYLOR, editor of _The Sun_, in his _Records of my Life_, _The Morning Post_ was afterwards purchased by Government to silence attacks on the PRINCE REGENT. Much of the success of _The Morning Post_ was undoubtedly owing to the writings of COLERIDGE. He afterwards declared that he had wasted the prime and manhood of his intellect in writing for _The Morning Post_ and _Courier_. Among his contributions to the former (March 19, 1800) was his famous character of WILLIAM PITT. The last time he wrote in it was in August, 1802. A very competent judge, THOMAS DE QUINCEY, thus alludes to COLERIDGE’S political writings:—“Worlds of fine thinking,” he says of the daily press, “lie buried in that vast abyss, never to be disentombed, or restored to human admiration. Like the sea, it has swallowed treasures without end, that no diving-bell will bring up again. But nowhere throughout its shoreless magazines of wealth does there lie such a bed of pearls, confounded with the rubbish and ‘_purgamenta_’ of ages, as in the political papers of COLERIDGE. No more appreciable monument could be raised to the memory of COLERIDGE, than a re-publication of his Essays in _The Morning Post_, but still more of those afterwards published in _The Courier_.” These have since been reprinted under the title of _Essays on his own Times_. APPENDIX. THE ANARCHISTS.—An Ode. [A Parody on Collins’s Ode to the Passions.] —Numero plures, virtute et honore minores, Indocti stolidique et depugnare parati.—_Hor._ When Anarchy, sworn foe to Kings, O’er Gallia wav’d her crimson wings, Ere yet she spoil’d with iron hand Fair Europe’s desolated land; Her offspring here, a spurious brood, In faction nurs’d, inur’d to blood, Elate with Hope, perplex’d with Fear, Would often raise the listening ear; And all their mother’s wonders tell, And throng around her secret cell, Ranting, bribing, whispering, trembling, Urging, boasting, and dissembling. By turns they felt the Gallic mind Enlarg’d, unprejudic’d, refin’d; Till once, by all the goddess fir’d, Beyond Discretion rapt, inspir’d; Seditious, false, and prone to ill, They eager snatch’d the grey-goose quill. And as they oft had heard apart The wonders of Sedition’s art, Each, for Madness rul’d the hour, Would prove his own subversive power.