Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey

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

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Of all things it is most difficult to understand the optimism of this
difference of language; the very beasts of the country do not understand
English. Say "poor fellow" to a dog, and he will probably bite you; the
cat will come if you call her "Meeth-tha," but "puss" is an outlandish
phrase she has not been accustomed to; last night I went to supper to the
fleas, and an excellent supper they made; and the cats serenaded me with
their execrable Spanish: to lie all night in _Bowling-Green Lane_,[53]
would be to enjoy the luxury of soft and smooth lying.

At sight of land a general shaving took place; no subject could be better
for Bunbury than a Packet cabin taken at such a moment. For me, I am as
yet whiskered, for I would not venture to shave on board, and have had no
razor on shore till this evening. Custom-house officers are more
troublesome here than in England, I have however got everything at last;
you may form some idea of the weather we endured; thirty fowls over our
head were drowned; the ducks got loose, and ran with a party of half
naked Dutchmen into our cabin: 'twas a precious place, eight men lying on
a shelf much like a coffin. Mr. Wahrendoff, a Swede, was the whole time
with the bason close under his nose.

The bookseller's shop was a great comfort; the Consul here has paid me
particular attentions, and I am to pass to-morrow morning with him, when
he will give me some directions concerning Spanish literature. He knows
the chief literary men in England, and did know Brissot and Petion. Of
the dramatic poet whom Coates's friend Zimbernatt mentioned as rivalling
Shakspeare, I hear nothing; that young Spaniard seems to exaggerate or
rather to represent things like a warm-hearted young man, who believes
what he wishes. The father-in-law of Tallien is a banker, what you call a
clever fellow; another word, says the most sensible man here, for a
cheat; the court and the clergy mutually support each other, and their
combined despotism is indeed dreadful, yet much is doing; Jardine is very
active; he has forwarded the establishment of schools in the Asturias
with his Spanish friends. Good night, they are going to supper. Oh, their
foul oils and wines!

Tuesday morning. I have heard of hearts as hard as rocks, and stones, and
adamants, but if ever I write upon a hard heart, my simile shall be, as
inflexible as a bed in a Spanish Posada; we had beef steaks for supper
last night, and a sad libel upon beef steaks they were. I wish you could
see our room; a bed in an open recess, one just moved from the other
corner. Raynsford packing his trunk; Maber shaving himself; tables and
chairs; looking-glass hung too high even for a Patagonian, the four
evangelists, &c. &c. the floor beyond all filth, most filthy.

I have been detained two hours since I began to write, at the custom
house. Mr. Cottle, if there be a custom house to pass through, to the
infernal regions, all beyond must be, comparatively, tolerable....

Adieu,

Robert Southey."

"Lisbon, February 1st, 1796.

'Certainly, I shall hear from Mr. Cottle, by the first packet' said I.
Now I say, 'probably I may hear by the next,' so does experience abate
the sanguine expectations of man. What, could you not write one letter?
and here am I writing not only to all my friends in Bristol, but to all
in England. Indeed I should have been vexed, but that the packet brought
a letter from Edith, and the pleasure that gave me, allowed no feeling of
vexation. What of 'Joan?' Mr. Coates tells me it gains upon the public,
but authors seldom hear the plain truth. I am anxious that it should
reach a second edition, that I may write a new preface, and enlarge the
last book. I shall omit all in the second book which Coleridge wrote.

Bristol deserves panegyric instead of satire. I know of no mercantile
place so literary. Here I am among the Philistines, spending my mornings
so pleasantly, as books, only books, can make them, and sitting at
evening the silent spectator of card playing and dancing. The English
here unite the spirit of commerce, with the frivolous amusements of high
life. One of them who plays every night (Sundays are not excepted here)
will tell you how closely he attends to profit. 'I never pay a porter for
bringing a burthen till the next day,' says he, 'for while the fellow
feels his back ache with the weight, he charges high; but when he comes
the next day the feeling is gone, and he asks only half the money.' And
the author of this philosophical scheme is worth L200,000!

This is a comfortless place, and the only pleasure I find in it, is in
looking on to my departure. Three years ago I might have found a friend,
Count Leopold Berchtold. This man (foster brother of the Emperor Joseph)
is one of those rare characters, who spend their lives in doing good. It
is his custom in every country he visits, to publish books in its
language, on some subject of practical utility; these he gave away. I
have now lying before me the two which he printed in Lisbon; the one is
an Essay on the means of preserving life, in the various dangers to which
men are daily exposed. The other an Essay on extending the limits of
benevolence, not only towards men, but towards animals. His age was about
twenty-five; his person and his manners the most polished. My uncle saw
more of him than any one, for he used his library; and this was the only
house he called at; he was only seen at dinner, the rest of the day was
constantly given to study. They who lived in the same house with him,
believed him to be the wandering Jew. He spoke all the European
languages, had written in all, and was master of the Arabic. From thence
he went to Cadiz, and thence to Barbary; no more is known of him.

We felt a smart earthquake the morning after our arrival here. These
shocks alarm the Portuguese dreadfully; and indeed it is the most
terrifying sensation you can conceive. One man jumped out of bed and ran
down to the stable, to ride off almost naked as he was. Another, more
considerately put out his candle, 'because I know,' said he 'the fire
does more harm than the earthquake.' The ruins of the great earthquake
are not yet removed entirely.

The city is a curious place; a straggling plan; built on the most uneven
ground, with heaps of ruins in the middle, and large open places. The
streets filthy beyond all English ideas of filth, for they throw
everything into the streets, and nothing is removed. Dead animals annoy
you at every corner; and such is the indolence and nastiness of the
Portuguese, that I verily believe they would let each other rot, in the
same manner, if the priests did not get something by burying them. Some
of the friars are vowed to wear their clothes without changing for a
year; and this is a comfort to them: you will not wonder, therefore, that
I always keep to the windward of these reverend perfumers.

The streets are very disagreeable in wet weather. If you walk under the
houses you are drenched by the waterspouts; if you attempt the middle,
there is a river; if you would go between both, there is the dunghill.
The rains here are very violent, and the streams in the streets, on a
declivity, so rapid as to throw down men; and sometimes to overset
carriages. A woman was drowned some years ago, in one of the most
frequented streets of Lisbon. But to walk home at night is the most
dangerous adventure, for then the chambermaids shower out the filth into
the streets with such profusion, that a Scotchman might fancy himself at
Edinburgh. You cannot conceive what a cold perspiration it puts me in, to
hear one dashed down just before me; as Thomson says, with a little
alteration:

"Hear nightly dashed, amid the perilous street,
The fragrant stink pot."

This furnishes food for innumerable dogs, that belong to nobody, and
annoy everybody. If they did not devour it, the quantities would breed a
pestilence. In a moonlight night, we see dogs and rats feeding at the
same dunghill.

Lisbon is plagued with a very small species of red ant, that swarm over
everything in the house. Their remedy for this is, to send for the
priest, and exorcise them. The drain from the new convent opens into the
middle of the street. An English pigsty is cleaner than the metropolis of
Portugal.

To-night I shall see the procession of 'Our Lord of the Passion.' This
image is a very celebrated one, and with great reason, for one night he
knocked at the door of St Roque's church, and there they would not admit
him. After this he walked to the other end of the town, to the church of
St. Grace, and there they took him in: but a dispute now arose between
the two churches, to which the image belonged; whether to the church
which he first chose, or the church that first chose him. The matter was
compromised. One church has him, and the other fetches him for their
processions, and he sleeps with the latter the night preceding. The
better mode for deciding it, had been to place the gentleman between
both, and let him walk to which he liked best. What think you of this
story being believed in 1796!!!

The power of the Inquisition still exists, though they never exercise it,
and thus the Jews save their bacon. Fifty years ago it was the greatest
delight of the Portuguese to see a Jew burnt. Geddes, the then chaplain,
was present at one of these detestable Auto da Fe's. He says, 'the
transports expressed by all ages, and all sexes, whilst the miserable
sufferers were shrieking and begging mercy for God's sake, formed a scene
more horrible than any out of hell!' He adds, that 'this barbarity is not
their national character, for no people sympathize so much at the
execution of a criminal; but it is the damnable nature of their religion,
and the most diabolical spirit of their priests; their celibacy deprives
them of the affections of men, and their creed gives them the ferocity of
devils.' Geddes saw one man gagged, because, immediately he came out of
the Inquisition gates, he looked up at the sun, whose light for many
years had never visited him, and exclaimed, 'How is it possible for men
who behold that glorious orb, to worship any being but him who created
it!' My blood runs cold when I pass that accursed building; and though
they do not exercise their power, it is a reproach to human nature that
the building should exist.

It is as warm here as in May with you; of course we broil in that month
at Lisbon; but I shall escape the hot weather here, as I did the cold
weather of England, and quit this place the latter end of April. You will
of course see me the third day after my landing at Falmouth, or, if I can
get companions in a post-chaise, sooner. This my resolution is like the
law of the Medes and Persians, that altereth not. Be so good as to
procure for me a set of Coleridge's 'Watchman,' with his Lectures and
Poems. I want to write a tragedy here, but can find no leisure to begin
it.

Portugal is much plagued with robbers, and they generally strip a man,
and leave him to walk home in his birth-day suit. An Englishman was
served thus at Almeyda, and the Lisbon magistrates, on his complaint,
took up the whole village, and imprisoned them all. Contemplate this
people in what light you will, you can never see them in a good one. They
suffered their best epic poet to perish for want: and they burned to
death their best dramatic writer, because he was a Jew.

Pombal, whose heart was bad, though he made a good minister, reduced the
church during his administration. He suffered no persons to enter the
convents, and, as the old monks and nuns died, threw two convents into
one, and sold the other estates. By this means, he would have annihilated
the whole generation of vermin; but the king died, and the queen, whose
religion has driven her mad, undid, through the influence of the priests,
all that Pombal had done. He escaped with his life, but lived to see his
bust destroyed, and all his plans for the improvement of Portugal
reversed. He had the interest of his country at heart, and the
punishment, added to the regret of having committed so many crimes to
secure his power, must almost have been enough for this execrable
marquis.

The climate here is delightful, and the air so clear, that when the moon
is young, I can often distinguish the whole circle, thus; O. You and
Robert may look for this some fine night, but I do not remember ever to
have observed it in England. The stars appear more brilliant here, but I
often look up at the Pleiades, and remember how much happier I was when I
saw them in Bristol. Fare you well. Let me know that my friends remember
me....

Robert Southey."

After the complete reconciliation had taken place with Mr. Coleridge, Mr.
Southey in the autumn of 1796, settled in London, and purposed to study
the law. From London he sent me the following letter.

"London, Nov. 1796.

My dear friend,

I am now entering on a new way of life which will lead me to
independence. You know that I neither lightly undertake any scheme, nor
lightly abandon what I have undertaken. I am happy because I have no
want, and because the independence I labour to attain, and of attaining
which, my expectations can hardly be disappointed, will leave me nothing
to wish. I am indebted to you, Cottle, for the comforts of my later time.
In my present situation I feel a pleasure in saying thus much.

Thank God! Edith comes on Monday next. I say Thank God, for I have never
since my return from Portugal, been absent from her so long before, and
sincerely hope and intend never to be so again. On Tuesday we shall be
settled, and on Wednesday my legal studies begin in the morning, and I
shall begin with 'Madoc' in the evening. Of this it is needless to
caution you to say nothing; as I must have the character of a lawyer; and
though I can and will unite the two pursuits, no one would credit the
possibility of the union. In two years the Poem shall be finished, and
the many years it must lie by will afford ample time for correction.

I have declined being a member of a Literary Club, which meet at the
Chapter Coffee House, and of which I had been elected a member. Surely a
man does not do his duty who leaves his wife to evenings of solitude; and
I feel duty and happiness to be inseparable. I am happier at home than
any other society can possibly make me. With Edith I am alike secure from
the wearisomeness of solitude, and the disgust which I cannot help
feeling at the contemplation of mankind, and which I do not wish to
suppress.

Here is a great deal about myself, and nothing about those whom I have
seen in London, and of whom we have all heard in the country. I will make
a report upon them in my next letter. God bless you.

Yours sincerely,

Robert Southey."

Letter from Robert Southey, to Amos Cottle, Magdalen College, Cambridge.

"London, Feb. 28, 1797.

20, Prospect Place, Newington Butts.

... Here I am travelling on in the labyrinth of the law; and though I had
rather make books myself than read the best lawyer's composition, I am
getting on cheerfully, and steadily, and well.

While you are amusing yourself with mathematics, and I lounging over the
law, the political and commercial world are all in alarm and confusion. I
cannot call myself a calm witness of all this, for I sit by the fireside,
hear little about it, think less, and see nothing; 'all hoping, and
expecting all in patient faith.' Tranquillity of mind is a blessing too
valuable to sacrifice for all the systems man has ever established. My
day of political enthusiasm is over. I know what is right, and as I see
that everything is wrong, care more about the changing of the wind, lest
it should make the chimney smoke, than for all the empires of Europe...."

"London, 1797.

My dear friend,

... I physiognomise everything, even the very oysters may be accurately
judged by their shells. I discovered this at Lisbon, where they are all
deformed, hump-backed, and good for nothing. Is it not possible by the
appearance of a river to tell what fish are in it? In the slow sluggish
stream you will find the heavy chub. In the livelier current, the trout
and the pike. If a man loves prints you have an excellent clue to his
character; take for instance, the inventory of mine at College:--Four
views of the ruins at Rome; Charles Fox; Belisarius; Niobe; and four
Landscapes of Poussin; and Claude Lorraine. These last are of constant
source of pleasure. I become acquainted with the inhabitants in every
house, and know every inch of ground in the prospect. They have formed
for me many a pleasant day-dream. I can methodise these into a little
poem. I am now settled; my books are organised; and this evening I set
off on my race.

We have a story of a ghost here, who appears to the watchman,--the spirit
of a poor girl, whose life was abandoned, and her death most horrible. I
am in hopes it may prove _true!_ as I have a great love for apparitions.
They make part of the poetical creed. Fare you well.

Sincerely yours,

To Joseph Cottle.

Robert Southey."

"London, March 6, 1797.

... I am inclined to complain heavily of you, Cottle. Here am I
committing grand larceny on my time, in writing to you; and you, who
might sit at your fire, and write me huge letters, have not found time to
fill even half a sheet. As you may suppose, I have enough of employment.
I work like a negro at law, and therefore neglect nothing else, for he
who never wastes time has always time enough.

I have to see many of the London lions, or literati, George Dyer is to
take me to Mary Hayes, Miss Christal, and Taylor, the Pagan, my near
neighbour. You shall have my physiognomical remarks upon them. I hate
this city more and more, although I see little of it. You do not know
with what delight I anticipate a summer in Wales, and I hope to spend the
summer of the next year there, and to talk Welsh most gutturally. I shall
see Meirion this week, whose real name is William Owen. He is the author
of the new Welsh dictionary, a man of uncommon erudition, and who ought
to esteem me for Madoc's sake. Fare you well. Remember me to all friends.
God bless you.

Yours sincerely,

Robert Southey."

"... Perhaps you will be surprised to hear, that of all the lions of
literati that I have seen here, there is not one whose countenance has
not some unpleasant trait. Mary Imlay is the best, infinitely the best.
The only fault in it, is an expression somewhat similar to what the
prints of Horne Tooke display; an expression indicating superiority, not
haughtiness, not conceit, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but still it is
unpleasant. Her eyes are light brown, and though the lid of one of them
is affected by a slight paralysis, they are the most meaning I ever saw.
Her complexion is dark, sun-burnt, and her skin a little cracked, for she
is near forty, and affliction has borne harder on her than years; but her
manners are the most pleasing I ever witnessed, they display warm
feeling, and strong understanding; and the knowledge she has acquired of
men and manners, ornaments, not disguises, her own character. I have
given an unreserved opinion of Mrs. Barbauld to Charles Danvers.

While I was with George Dyer one morning last week, Mary Hayes and Miss
Christal entered, and the ceremony of introduction followed. Mary Hayes
writes in the New Monthly Magazine, under the signature of M. H., and
sometimes writes nonsense there about Helvetius. She has lately published
a novel, 'Emma Courtney,' a book much praised and much abused. I have not
seen it myself, but the severe censure passed on it by persons of narrow
mind, have made me curious, and convinced me that it is at least an
uncommon book. Mary Hayes is an agreeable woman and a Godwinite. Now if
you will read Godwin's book with attention, we will determine between us,
in what light to consider that sectarian title. As for Godwin himself, he
has large noble eyes, and a nose,--oh, most abominable nose! Language is
not vituperative enough to express the effect of its downward elongation.
He loves London, literary society, and talks nonsense about the collision
of mind, and Mary Hayes echoes him.

But Miss Christal, have you seen her Poems? A fine, artless, sensible
girl. Now, Cottle, that word sensible must not be construed here in its
dictionary acceptation. Ask a Frenchman what it means, and he will
understand it, though, perhaps, he can by no circumlocution explain its
French meaning. Her heart is alive. She loves poetry. She loves
retirement. She loves the country. Her verses are very incorrect, and the
literary circle say, she has no genius, but she has genius, Joseph
Cottle, or there is no truth in physiognomy. Gilbert Wakefield came in
while I was disputing with Mary Hayes upon the moral effects of towns. He
has a most critic-like voice, as if he had snarled himself hoarse. You
see I like the women better than the men. Indeed they are better animals
in general, perhaps because more is left to nature in their education.
Nature is very good, but God knows there is very little of it left.

I wish you were within a morning's walk, but I am always persecuted by
time and space. Robert Southey, and law, and poetry, make up an odd kind
of tri-union. We jog on easily together, and I advance with sufficient
rapidity in Blackstone, and 'Madoc.' I hope to finish my poem, and to
begin my practice in about two years.

God bless you.

Yours affectionately,

Robert Southey."

"... I am running a race with the printers again: translating a work from
the French: 'Necker on the French Revolution,' vol. II. Dr. Aikin and his
son translate the 1st volume. My time is wholly engrossed by the race,
for I run at the rate of sixteen pages a day; as hard going as sixteen
miles for a hack horse. About sixteen days more will complete it.

There is no necessity for my residing in London till the close of the
autumn. Therefore after keeping the next term, which may be kept the
first week in May, I intend to go into the country for five months;
probably near the sea, at the distance of one day's journey from London,
for the convenience of coming up to keep the Trinity Term. This will not
increase my expenses, though it will give me all the pleasure of
existence which London annihilates. God bless you,

Yours affectionately,

Robert Southey."

"My dear Cottle,

... George Dyer gave me what he calls his 'Crotchet,' and what I call an
indifferent poem. Said he to me, 'I could not bring in Wordsworth, and
Lloyd, and Lamb, but I put them in a note.' That man is all benevolence.

If, which is probable, we go to Hampshire, I shall expect to see you
there. It is an easy day's ride from Bristol to Southampton; but I shall
lay before you a correct map of the road when all is settled.

I have seen your Dr. Baynton's book. It is vilely written; but the
theory, seems good, (that of bandaging wounded legs) My friend Carlisle
means to try it at the Westminster Hospital. I was somewhat amused at
seeing a treatise on sore legs, printed on wove paper, and hot pressed.

I met Townsend, the Spanish traveller, a few days since at Carlisle's. He
flattered me most unpleasantly on 'Joan of Arc.' Townsend is much taller
than I am, and almost as thin. He invited me to Pewsey, and I shall
breakfast with him soon. He is engaged in a work of immense labour; the
origin of languages. I do not like him; he is too polite to be sincere.

Yours affectionately,

Robert Southey."

The late George Dyer, referred to by Mr. Southey, was an University man
who exercised his talents chiefly in writing for the Periodicals. His
chief work was "The History of the Halls and Colleges of Cambridge." He
published also several small works. The Poem, referred to above, was
complimentary, in which he noticed most of his literary friends. The way
in which he "brought in" the author of the "Pleasures of Memory" was,
very properly putting wit before wealth,

"Was born a banker, and then rose a bard,"

George Dyer was sincere, and had great simplicity of manners, so that he
was a favourite with all his friends. No man in London encouraged so much
as he did, Bloomfield, the author of the "Farmer's Boy;" and he was
equally prepared with kind offices for every body. He had some odd
fancies, one of which was, that men ought to live more sparingly and
drink plenty of water-gruel. By carrying this wholesome precept on one
occasion, rather too far, he unhappily reduced himself to death's door.
Charles Lamb told me, that having once called on him, at his room in
Clifford's Inn, he found a little girl with him, (one of his nieces) whom
he was teaching to sing hymns.

Mr. Coleridge related to me a rather ludicrous circumstance concerning
George Dyer, which Charles Lamb had told him, the last time he passed
through London. Charles Lamb had heard that George Dyer was very ill, and
hastened to see him. He found him in an emaciated state, shivering over a
few embers. "Ah!" said George, as Lamb entered, "I am glad to see you.
You wont have me here long. I have just written this letter to my young
nephews and nieces, to come immediately and take a final leave of their
uncle." Lamb found, on inquiry, that he had latterly been living on
water-gruel, and a low starving diet, and readily divined the cause of
his maladies. "Come," said Lamb, "I shall take you home immediately to my
house, and I and my sister will nurse you." "Ah!" said George Dyer, "it
wont do." The hackney coach was soon at the door, and as the sick man
entered it, he said to Lamb, "Alter the address, and then send the letter
with all speed to the poor children." "I will," said Lamb, "and at the
same time call the doctor."

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