Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey

J >> Joseph Cottle >> Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey

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TO THE CITIZENS OF BRISTOL.

It will doubtless afford much pleasure to the liberal portion of the
inhabitants of this city, to understand that a subscription has been
set on foot in different parts of the kingdom, for the wife and five
small children of poor Burns, the Scotch poet. There has already been
subscribed--

At Dumfries (where the Bard lived) L104 12 0
At Edinburgh ... ... ... 64 16 0
At Liverpool ... ... ... 67 10 0

Whoever, in Bristol, from their admiration of departed genius, may
wish to contribute, in rescuing from distress the family of Robert
Burns, will be pleased to leave their donations with Mr. Cottle,
High-Street. Mr. Nichol, of Pall-Mall, London, will publicly
acknowledge the receipt of all monies subscribed in this city.

The sum we transmitted to the general fund, did credit to the liberality
of Bristol.

Mr. Coleridge had often, in the keenest terms, expressed his contemptuous
indignation at the Scotch patrons of the poet, in making him an
exciseman! so that something biting was expected.

The Poem was entitled, "To a Friend, who had declared his intention of
writing no more Poetry." In reading the Poem immediately after it was
written, the rasping force which Mr. C. gave to the following concluding
lines was inimitable.

"Is thy Burns dead?
And shall he die unwept, and sink to earth,
Without the meed of one melodious tear?
Thy Burns, and nature's own beloved Bard,
Who to 'the illustrious of his native land,'[35]
So properly did look for patronage.
Ghost of Maecenas! hide thy blushing face!
They took him from the sickle and the plough--
To guage ale firkins!
O, for shame return!
On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian Mount,
There stands a lone and melancholy tree,
Whose aged branches to the midnight blast
Make solemn music, pluck its darkest bough,
Ere yet th' unwholesome night dew be exhaled,
And weeping, wreath it round thy Poet's tomb:
Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow,
Pick stinking henbane, and the dusky flowers
Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit;
These, with stopped nostril, and glove-guarded hand,
Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine
Th' illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility!"

If Mr. C.'s nature had been less benevolent, and he had given full vent
to the irascible and satirical, the restrained elements of which abounded
in his spirit, he would have obtained the least enviable of all kinds of
pre-eminence, and have become the undisputed modern Juvenal.

Mr. George Burnet resided sometimes with his relations, sometimes with
Mr. Coleridge, at Stowey. Mr. and Mrs. C. happened to be now in Bristol,
when the former was summoned home on account of Burnet's sudden and
serious illness. On reaching Stowey, Mr. C. sent me the following letter.

"Stowey.

My dear friend,

I found George Burnet ill enough, heaven knows, Yellow Jaundice,---the
introductory symptoms very violent. I return to Bristol on Thursday, and
shall not leave till _all be done._

Remind Mrs. Coleridge of the kittens, and tell her that George's brandy
is just what smuggled spirits might be expected to be, execrable! The
smack of it remains in my mouth, and I believe will keep me most horribly
temperate for half a century. He (Burnet) was bit, but I caught the
Brandiphobia.[36] [obliterations ...]--scratched out, well knowing that
you never allow such things to pass, uncensured. A good joke, and it
slipped out most impromptu--ishly.

The mice play the very devil with us. It irks me to set a trap. By all
the whiskers of all the pussies that have mewed plaintively, or
amorously, since the days of Whittington, it is not fair. 'Tis telling a
lie. 'Tis as if you said, 'Here is a bit of toasted cheese; come little
mice! I invite you!' when, oh, foul breach of the rites of hospitality! I
mean to assassinate my too credulous guests! No, I cannot set a trap, but
I should vastly like to make a Pitt--fall. (Smoke the Pun!). But
concerning the mice, advise thou, lest there be famine in the land. Such
a year of scarcity! Inconsiderate mice! Well, well, so the world wags.

Farewell, S. T. C.

P. S. A mad dog ran through our village, and bit several dogs. I have
desired the farmers to be attentive, and to-morrow shall give them, in
writing, the first symptoms of madness in a dog.

I wish my pockets were as yellow as George's phiz!"[37]

The preceding letter is about a fair example of that playful and
ebullient imagination for which Mr. Coleridge, at this time, was
distinguished. Subjects high and low received the same embellishment.
Figure crowded on figure, and image on image, in new and perpetual
variety.

He was once reprobating the introduction of all bull and bear similes
into poetry. "Well," I replied, "whatever your antipathies may be to
bulls and bears, you have no objection to wolves." "Yes," he answered, "I
equally abominate the whole tribe of lion, bull, bear, boar, and wolf
similes. They are more thread-bare than a beggar's cast-off coat. From
their rapid transition from hand to hand, they are now more hot and
sweaty than halfpence on a market day. I would as soon meet a wolf in the
open field, as in a friend's poem." I then rejoined, "Your objection,
once at least, to wolf similes, was not quite so strong, seeing you
prevailed on Mr. Southey to throw into the first book of "Joan of Arc," a
five-line flaming wolf simile of yours. One could almost see the wolf
leap, he was so fierce!" "Ah" said Mr. C. "but the discredit rests on
him, not on me."

The simile, in question, if not a new subject, is at least, perhaps, as
energetically expressed as any five lines in Mr. Coleridge's writings.

As who, through many a summer night serene
Had hover'd round the fold with coward wish;
Horrid with brumal ice, the fiercer wolf,
From his bleak mountain and his den of snows
Leaps terrible and mocks the shepherd's spear.
Book 1. L. 47.

"June, 1796.

My dear Cottle,

I am sojourning for a few days at Racedown, Dorset, the mansion of our
friend Wordsworth; who presents his kindest respects to you....

Wordsworth admires my tragedy, which gives me great hopes. Wordsworth has
written a tragedy himself. I speak with heartfelt sincerity, and I think,
unblinded judgment, when I tell you that I feel myself a little man by
his side, and yet I do not think myself a less man than I formerly
thought myself. His drama is absolutely wonderful. You know I do not
commonly speak in such abrupt and unmingled phrases, and therefore will
the more readily believe me. There are, in the piece, those profound
touches of the human heart, which I find three or four times in the
"Robbers" of Schiller, and often in Shakspeare, but in Wordsworth there
are no inequalities....

God bless you, and eke,

S. T. Coleridge."

Respecting this tragedy of Mr. W.'s, parts of which I afterwards heard
with the highest admiration, Mr. Coleridge in a succeeding letter gave me
the following information. "I have procured for Wordsworth's tragedy, an
introduction to Harris, the manager of Covent Garden, who has promised to
read it attentively, and give his answer immediately; and if he accepts
it, to put it in preparation without an hour's delay.

This tragedy may or may not have been deemed suitable for the stage.
Should the latter prove the case, and the closet be its element, the
public after these intimations, will importunately urge Mr. W. to a
publication of this dramatic piece, so calculated still to augment his
high reputation.

There is a peculiar pleasure in recording the favorable sentiments which
one poet and man of genius entertains of another, I therefore state that
Mr. Coleridge says, in a letter received from him March 8th, 1798, "The
Giant Wordsworth-God love him! When I speak in the terms of admiration
due to his intellect, I fear lest these terms should keep out of sight
the amiableness of his manners. He has written near twelve hundred lines
of blank verse, superior, I hesitate not to aver, to any thing in our
language which any way resembles it."

And in a letter received from Mr. Coleridge, 1807, he says--speaking of
his friend Mr. W. "He is one, whom God knows, I love and honour as far
beyond myself, as both morally and intellectually he is above me."

"Stowey, 1797.

My dear Cottle,

Wordsworth and his exquisite sister are with me. She is a woman indeed!
in mind I mean, and heart; for her person is such, that if you expected
to see a pretty woman, you would think her rather ordinary; if you
expected to see an ordinary woman, you would think her pretty! but her
manners are simple, ardent, impressive. In every motion, her most
innocent soul outbeams so brightly, that who saw would say,

"Guilt was a thing impossible in her."

Her information various. Her eye watchful in minutest observation of
nature; and her taste, a perfect electrometer. It bends, protrudes, and
draws in, at subtlest beauties, and most recondite faults.

She and W. desire their kindest respects to you.

Your ever affectionate friend.

S. T. C."

"Stowey, Sept. 1797.

My very dear Cottle,

Your illness afflicts me, and unless I receive a full account of you by
Milton, I shall be very uneasy, so do not fail to write.

Herbert Croft is in Exeter gaol! This is unlucky. Poor devil! He must now
be unpeppered.[39] We are all well. Wordsworth is well. Hartley sends a
grin to you? He has another tooth!

In the wagon, there was brought from Bath, a trunk, in order to be
forwarded to Stowey, directed, 'S. T. Coleridge, Stowey, near
Bridgwater.' This, we suppose, arrived in Bristol on Tuesday or
Wednesday, last week.

It belonged to Thelwall. If it be not forwarded to Stowey, let it be
stopped, and not sent.

Give my kind love to your brother Robert, and _ax_ him to put on his hat,
and run, without delay to the inn, or place, by whatever bird, beast,
fish, or man distinguished, where Parsons's Bath wagon sets up.

From your truly affectionate friend,

S. T. Coleridge."

A letter, written, at this time, by Mr. Coleridge to Mr. Wade, more
particularly refers to Mr. Thelwall's visit at Stowey.

"Stowey, 1797.

My very dear friend,

... John Thelwall is a very warm-hearted, honest man; and disagreeing as
we do, on almost every point of religion, of morals, of politics, and
philosophy, we like each other uncommonly well. He is a great favorite
with Sara. Energetic activity of mind and of heart, is his master
feature. He is prompt to conceive, and still prompter to execute; but I
think he is deficient in that patience of mind which can look intensely
and frequently at the same subject. He believes and disbelieves with
impassioned confidence. I wish to see him doubting, and doubting. He is
intrepid, eloquent, and honest. Perhaps, the only acting democrat that is
honest, for the patriots are ragged cattle; a most execrable herd.
Arrogant because they are ignorant, and boastful of the strength of
reason, because they have never tried it enough to know its weakness. Oh!
my poor country! The clouds cover thee. There is not one spot of clear
blue in the whole heaven!

My love to all whom you love, and believe me, with brotherly affection,
with esteem and gratitude, and every warm emotion of the heart,

Your faithful

S. T. Coleridge."

"London, 1797.

Dear Cottle,

If Mrs. Coleridge be in Bristol, pray desire her to write to me
immediately, and I beg you, the moment you receive this letter, to send
to No. 17, Newfoundland Street to know whether she be there. I have
written to Stowey, but if she be in Bristol, beg her to write to me of it
by return of post, that I may immediately send down some cash for her
travelling expenses, &c. We shall reside in London for the next four
months. God bless you, Cottle, I love you,

S. T. Coleridge."

P. S. The volume (second edition, Coleridge, Lloyd, and Lamb) is a most
beautiful one. You have determined that the three Bards shall walk up
Parnassus, in their best bib and tucker.

"Stowey, June 29th, 1797.

My very dear Cottle,

... Charles Lamb will probably be here in about a fortnight. Could you
not contrive to put yourself in a Bridgwater coach, and T. Poole would
fetch you in a one-horse chaise to Stowey. What delight would it not give
us....

It was not convenient at this time to accept Mr. C.'s invitation, but
going to Stowey two or three weeks afterwards, I learnt how pleasantly
the interview had been between Charles Lamb and himself. It is
delightful, even at the present moment, to recal the images connected
with my then visit to Stowey, (which those can best understand, who, like
myself, have escaped from severe duties to a brief season of happy
recreation). Mr. Coleridge welcomed me with the warmest cordiality. He
talked with affection of his old school-fellow, Lamb, who had so recently
left him; regretted he had not an opportunity of introducing me to one
whom he so highly valued. Mr. C. took peculiar delight in assuring me (at
least, at that time) how happy he was; exhibiting successively, his
house, his garden, his orchard, laden with fruit; and also the
contrivances he had made to unite his two neighbours' domains with his
own.

After the grand circuit had been accomplished, by hospitable contrivance,
we approached the "Jasmine harbour," when to our gratifying surprise, we
found the tripod table laden with delicious bread and cheese, surmounted
by a brown mug of true Taunton ale. We instinctively took our seats; and
there must have been some downright witchery in the provisions which
surpassed all of its kind; nothing like it on the wide terrene, and one
glass of the Taunton, settled it to an axiom. While the dappled sun-beams
played on our table, through the umbrageous canopy, the very birds seemed
to participate in our felicities, and poured forth their selectest
anthems. As we sat in our sylvan hall of splendour, a company of the
happiest mortals, (T. Poole, C. Lloyd, S. T. Coleridge, and J. C.) the
bright-blue heavens; the sporting insects; the balmy zephyrs; the
feathered choristers; the sympathy of friends, all augmented the
pleasurable to the highest point this side the celestial! Every
interstice of our hearts being filled with happiness, as a consequence,
there was no room for sorrow, exorcised as it now was, and hovering
around at unapproachable distance. With our spirits thus entranced,
though we might weep at other moments, yet joyance so filled all within
and without, that, if, at this juncture, tidings had been brought us,
that an irruption of the ocean had swallowed up all our brethren of
Pekin; from the pre-occupation of our minds, "poor things," would have
been our only reply, with anguish put off till the morrow. While thus
elevated in the universal current of our feelings, Mrs. Coleridge
approached, with her fine Hartley; we all smiled, but the father's eye
beamed transcendental joy! "But, all things have an end." Yet, pleasant
it is for memory to treasure up in her choicest depository, a few such
scenes, (these sunny spots in existence!) on which the spirit may repose,
when the rough, adverse winds shake and disfigure all besides.

Although so familiar with the name and character of Charles Lamb, through
the medium of S. T. Coleridge, yet my intercourse (with the exception of
one casual visit) commenced with him in the year 1802, during a residence
of many months in London, when we often met. After this period, from my
residing permanently in Bristol, our acquaintance was intermitted, till
1819, when he requested the loan of a portrait, for the purpose expressed
in the following letter.

"Dear Sir,

It is so long since I have seen or heard from you, that I fear that you
will consider a request I have to make, as impertinent. About three years
since, when I was in Bristol, I made an effort to see you, by calling at
Brunswick Square, but you were from home. The request I have to make, is,
that you would very much oblige me, if you have any small portrait of
yourself, by allowing me to have it copied, to accompany a selection, of
the likenesses of 'Living Bards,' which a most particular friend of mine
is making. If you have no objection, and would oblige me by transmitting
such portrait, I will answer for taking the greatest care of it, and for
its safe return. I hope you will pardon the liberty,

From an old friend and well wisher,

Charles Lamb."

In consequence of this application, I sent Charles Lamb a portrait, by
Branwhite, and enclosed for his acceptance, the second part of my
"Messiah." When the portrait was returned, it was accompanied with the
following letter, containing a few judicious remarks, such as might have
been expected from one whose judgment Mr. Coleridge so highly estimated.

"Dear Sir,

My friend, whom you have obliged by the loan of your picture, has had it
very nicely copied (and a very spirited drawing it is; so every one
thinks who has seen it.) The copy is not much inferior to yours, done by
a daughter of Joseph's, R. A.

I accompany the picture with my warm thanks, both for that, and your
better favour the 'Messiah' which I assure you I have read through with
great pleasure. The verses have great sweetness, and a New Testament
plainness about them which affected me very much. I could just wish that
in page 63, you had omitted the lines 71 and 72, and had ended the period
with,

The willowy brook was there, but that sweet sound--
When to be heard again on earthly ground!"

Two very sweet lines, and the sense perfect.

And in page 154, line 68,

He spake, 'I come, ordain'd a world to save,
To be baptis'd by thee in Jordan's wave."

These words are hardly borne out by the story, and seem scarce accordant
with the modesty with which our Lord came to take his common portion
among the baptismal candidates. They also anticipate the beauty of John's
recognition of the Messiah, and the subsequent confirmation by the Voice
and Dove.

You will excuse the remarks of an old brother bard, whose career, though
long since pretty well stopped, was coeval in its beginning with your
own, and who is sorry his lot has been always to be so distant from you.
It is not likely that C. L. will see Bristol again, but if J. C. should
ever visit London, he will be a most welcome visitor to C. L. My sister
joins in cordial remembrances.

Dear sir, Yours truly,

Charles Lamb."

Having always entertained for Charles Lamb a very kind feeling,
independently of my admiration of his wit and genius, I requested his
acceptance of my poem of the "Fall of Cambria," to which he sent the
following characteristic reply.

"London, India House, May 26, 1829.

My dear Sir,

I am quite ashamed of not having acknowledged your kind present earlier,
but that unknown something which was never yet discovered, though so
often speculated upon, which stands in the way of lazy folks' answering
letters, has presented its usual obstacle. It is not forgetfulness, nor
disrespect, nor incivility, but terribly like all these bad things.

I have been in my time a great Epistolatory scribbler, but the passion,
and with it the facility, at length wears out, and it must be pumped up
again by the heavy machinery of duty or gratitude, when it should run
free. I have read your 'Fall of Cambria' with as much pleasure as I did
your 'Messiah.' Your Cambrian Poem I shall be tempted to repeat oftenest,
as human poems take me in a mood more frequently congenial than divine.
The character of Llewellyn pleases me more than anything else perhaps;
and then some of the Lyrical pieces are fine varieties.

It was quite a mistake that I could dislike anything you should write
against Lord Byron, for I have a thorough aversion to his character, and
a very moderate admiration of his genius; he is great in so little a way.
To be a poet is to be the man; not a petty portion of occasional low
passion worked up into a permanent form of humanity. Shakspeare has
thrust such rubbishly feelings into a corner--the dark dusky heart of Don
John, in the 'Much Ado about Nothing.' The fact is, I have not seen your
'Expostulatory Epistle' to him. I was not aware, till your question, that
it was out. I shall inquire and get it forthwith.

Southey is in town, whom I have seen slightly. Wordsworth expected, whom
I hope to see much of. I write with accelerated motion, for I have two or
three bothering clerks and brokers about me, who always press in
proportion as you seem to be doing something that is not business. I
could exclaim a little profanely, but I think you do not like swearing.

I conclude, begging you to consider that I feel myself much obliged by
your kindness, and shall be most happy at any and at all times to hear
from you.

Dear Sir, yours truly,

Charles Lamb."

Mr. Coleridge, in the second edition of his poems, transferred some of
the poems which appeared in the first, to a supplement, and, amongst
others, some verses addressed to myself, with the following notice.

"The first in order of these verses which I have thus endeavoured to
reprieve from immediate oblivion, was originally addressed "To the Author
of Poems published anonymously at Bristol." A second edition of these
poems has lately appeared with the author's name prefixed: (Joseph
Cottle) and I could not refuse myself the gratification of seeing the
name of that man amongst my poems, without whose kindness, they would
probably have remained unpublished; and to whom I know myself greatly,
and variously obliged, as a poet, a man, and a Christian.

LINES ADDRESSED TO JOSEPH COTTLE.

My honor'd friend! whose verse concise, yet clear,
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
May your fame fadeless live, "as never seer"
The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence
Embow'rs me from noon's sultry influence!
For like that nameless riv'let stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing quiet dear
Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd, the charm'd eye
Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky.

Circling the base of the poetic mount
A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow;
Its cold-black waters from oblivion's fount;
The vapour poison'd birds that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet,
Beneath the mountain's lofty frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
A mead of mildest charm delays the unlab'ring feet.

Not there the cloud-climb rock, sublime and vast,
That like some giant king, o'er-glooms the hill;
Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music! But the unceasing rill
To the soft wren or lark's descending trill
Murmurs sweet under-song 'mid jasmine bowers.
In this same pleasant meadow at your will,
I ween, you wander'd--there collecting flow'rs
Of sober tint, and herbs of medicinal powers!

There for the monarch-murder'd soldier's tomb
You wove the unfinish'd[40] wreath of saddest hues,
And to that holier[41] chaplet added bloom
Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.
But lo! your[42] Henderson awakes the Muse--
His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height!
You left the plain and soar'd mid richer views!
So nature mourn'd, when sank the first day's light,
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!

Still soar my friend those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing fancy's beam!
Virtue and truth shall love your gentler song:
But Poesy demands th' impassion'd theme:
Wak'd by heaven's silent dews at Eve's mild gleam
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around?
But if the vex'd air rush a stormy stream,
Or autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest honor'd ground."

While the first edition of Mr. Coleridge's poems was in the press, I
received from him the following letter.

"My dear Sir,

... There is a beautiful little poetic epistle of Sara's, which I mean to
print here. What if her epistle to you were likewise printed, so as to
have two of her poems? It is remarkably elegant, and would do honour to
any volume of poems."

The first epistle I never received. The second was printed in the first
edition of Mr. C.'s poems, and in no other. On account of its merit it is
here inserted.

"THE PRODUCTION OF A YOUNG LADY,[43] ADDRESSED TO HER FRIEND, J.
COTTLE.

* * * * *

She had lost her thimble, and her complaint being accidentally
overheard by her friend, he immediately sent her four others to take
her choice from.

* * * * *

As oft mine eye, with careless glance,
Has gallop'd o'er some old romance,
Of speaking birds, and steeds with wings,
Giants and dwarfs, and fiends, and kings:
Beyond the rest, with more attentive care,
I've loved to read of elfin-favor'd fair--
How if she longed for aught beneath the sky,
And suffered to escape one votive sigh,
Wafted along on viewless pinions airy,
It kid itself obsequious at her feet:
Such things I thought we might not hope to meet,
Save in the dear delicious land of fairy!
But now (by proof I know it well)
There's still some peril in free wishing--
Politeness is a licensed spell,
And you, dear sir, the arch-magician.

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