Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey
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Joseph Cottle >> Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey
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George Dyer was now seated by Charles Lamb's comfortable fire, while Lamb
hastened to his medical friend, and told him that a worthy man was at his
house who had almost starved himself on water-gruel. "You must come,"
said he, "directly, and prescribe some kitchen stuff, or the poor man
will be dead. He wont take any thing from me; he says, 'tis all useless."
Away both the philanthropists hastened, and Charles Lamb, anticipating
what would be required, furnished himself, on the road, with a pound of
beef steaks. The doctor now entered the room, and advancing towards his
patient, felt his pulse, and asked him a few questions; when, looking
grave, he said, "Sir, you are in a very dangerous way," "I know it Sir, I
know it Sir," said George Dyer. The Dr. replied, "Sir, yours is a very
peculiar case, and if you do not implicitly follow my directions, you
will die of atrophy before to-morrow morning. It is the only possible
chance of saving your life. You must directly make a good meal off
beef-steaks, and drink the best part of a pot of porter." "Tis too late,"
said George, but "I'll eat, I'll eat." The doctor now withdrew, and so
nicely had Lamb calculated on results, that the steaks were all this time
broiling on the fire! and, as though by magic, the doctor had scarcely
left the room, when the steaks and the porter were both on the table.
Just as George Dyer had begun voraciously to feast on the steaks, his
young nephews and nieces entered the room crying. "Good bye, my dears,"
said George, taking a deep draught of the porter. "You wont see me much
longer." After a few mouthfuls of the savoury steak, he further said, "be
good children, when I am gone." Taking another draught of the porter, he
continued, "mind your books, and don't forget your hymns." "We wont,"
answered a little shrill silvery voice, from among the group, "we wont,
dear Uncle." He now gave them all a parting kiss; when the children
retired in a state of wonderment, that "sick Uncle" should be able to eat
and drink so heartily. "And so," said Lamb, in his own peculiar
phraseology "at night, I packed up his little nipped carcass snug in bed,
and, after stuffing him for a week, sent him home as plump as a
partridge."
"April, 26, 1797.
"... I have finished Necker this morning, and return again to my regular
train of occupation. Would that digging potatoes were amongst them! and
if I live a dozen years, you shall eat potatoes of my digging: but I must
think now of the present.
Some Mr. ---- sent me a volume of his poems, last week. I read his book:
it was not above mediocrity. He seems very fond of poetry and even to a
superstitious reverence of Thompson's 'old table,' and even of Miss
Seward, whose MS. he rescued from the printer. I called on him to thank
him, and was not sorry to find him not at home. But the next day a note
arrived with more praise. He wished my personal acquaintance, and 'trusts
I shall excuse the frankness which avows, that it would gratify his
feelings to receive a copy of 'Joan of Arc, from the author.' I thought
this, to speak tenderly, not a very modest request, but there is a
something in my nature which prevents me from silently displaying my
sentiments, if that display can give pain, and so I answered his note,
and sent him the book. He writes sonnets to Miss Seward, and Mr. Hayley;
enough to stamp him 'blockhead.'
Carlisle and I, instead of our neighbours' 'Revolutionary Tribunal,' mean
to erect a physiognomical one, and as transportation is to be the
punishment, instead of guillotining, we shall put the whole navy in
requisition to carry off all ill-looking fellows, and then we may walk
London streets without being jostled. You are to be one of the Jury, and
we must get some good limner to take down the evidence. Witnesses will be
needless. The features of a man's face will rise up in judgment against
him; and the very voice that pleads 'Not Guilty,' will be enough to
convict the raven-toned criminal.
I sapped last night with Ben. Flower, of Cambridge, at Mr. P.'s, and
never saw so much coarse strength in a countenance. He repeated to me an
epigram on the dollars which perhaps you may not have seen.
To make Spanish dollars with Englishmen pass,
Stamp the head of a fool, on the tail of an ass.[54]
This has a coarse strength rather than a point. Danvers tells me that you
have written to Herbert Croft. Give me some account of your letter. Let
me hear from you, and tell me how you all are, and what is going on in
the little world of Bristol. God bless you.
Yours affectionately,
Robert Southey.
"... We dine with Mary Wolstoncroft (now Godwin) to-morrow. Oh! he has a
foul nose! I never see it without longing to cut it off. By the by, Dr.
Hunter (the murderer of St. Pierre) [55] told me that I had exactly
Lavater's nose, to my no small satisfaction, for I did not know what to
make of that protuberance, or promontory of mine. I could not compliment
him. He has a very red drinking face: little good humoured eyes, with the
skin drawn up under them, like cunning and short-sightedness united. I
saw Dr. Hunter again yesterday. I neither like him, nor his wife, nor his
son, nor his daughter, nor any thing that is his. To night I am to meet
Opie. God bless you. Edith's love.
Yours affectionately,
Robert Southey."
"May, 1797.
My dear Cottle,
... Opie indeed is a very extraordinary man. I have now twice seen him.
Without any thing of politeness, his manners are pleasing, though their
freedom is out of the common; and his conversation, though in a
half-uttered, half-Cornish, half-croak, is interesting. There is a
strange contrast between his genius, which is not confined to painting,
and the vulgarity of his appearance, --his manners, and sometimes of his
language. You will however easily conceive that a man who can paint like
Opie, must display the same taste on other subjects. He is very fond of
Spenser. No author furnishes so many pictures, he says. You may have seen
his 'Britomart delivering Amoret.' He has begun a picture from
Spenser,--which he himself thinks his best design, but it has remained
untouched for three years. The outline is wonderfully fine. It is the
delivery of Serena from the Salvages, by Calepine. You will find the
story in the 6th book of the 'Fairy Queen.' The subject has often struck
me as being fit for the painter.
I saw Dr. Gregory (Biographer of Chatterton) to-day; a very brown-looking
man, of most pinquescent, and full-moon cheeks. There is much tallow in
him. I like his wife, and perhaps him too, but his Christianity is of an
intolerant order, and he affects a solemnity when talking of it, which
savours of the high priest. When he comes before the physiognomical
tribunal, we must melt him down. He is too portly. God bless you....
Yours truly,
Robert Southey."
May, 1797.
"... I fancy you see no hand-writing so often as mine. I have been much
pleased with your letter to Herbert Croft. I was at Dr. Gregory's last
night. He has a nasal twang, right priestly in its note. He said he would
gladly abridge his life of Chatterton, if I required it. But it is a bad
work, and Coleridge should write a new one, or if he declines it, let it
devolve on me.[56] They knew Miss Wesley, daughter of Charles Wesley,
with whom I once dined at your house. She told them, had he not
prematurely died, that she was going to be married to John Henderson. Is
this true?[57]
I have a treasure for you. A 'Treatise on Miracles,' written by John
Henderson, your old tutor, for Coleridge's brother George, and given to
me by a pupil of his, John May, a Lisbon acquaintance, and a very
valuable one. John May is anxious for a full life of John Henderson. You
should get Agutter's papers. You ought also to commit to paper all you
know concerning him, and all you can collect, that the documents may
remain, if you decline it. If the opportunity pass, he will die without
his fame.
I have lost myself in the bottomless profundity of Gilbert's papers.
Fire, and water, and cubes, and sybils, and Mother Church, &c. &c. Poor
fellow. I have been introduced to a man, not unlike him in his
ideas,--Taylor the Pagan, a most devout Heathen! who seems to have some
hopes of me. He is equally unintelligible, but his eye has not that
inexpressible wildness, which sometimes half-terrified us in Gilbert."
"Christ Church, June 14, 1797.
"... I am in a place I like: the awkwardness of introduction over, and
the acquaintance I have made here pleasant.... Your letter to Herbert
Croft has made him some enemies here. I wish much to see you on that
business. Bad as these times are for literature, a subscription might be
opened now with great success, for Mrs. Newton (Chatterton's sister) and
the whole statement of facts ought to be published in the prospectus.
Time gallops with me. I am at work now for the Monthly Magazine, upon
Spanish poetry. If we are unsuccessful here (in suiting ourselves with a
house) I purpose writing to Wordsworth, and asking him if we can get a
place in his neighbourhood. If not, down we go to Dorsetshire. Oh, for a
snug island in the farthest of all seas, surrounded by the highest of all
rocks, where I and some ten or twelve more might lead the happiest of all
possible lives, totally secluded from the worst of all possible monsters,
man...."
"Christ Church, June 18, 1797.
"... The main purport of my writing is to tell you that we have found a
house for the next half year. If I had a mind to affect the pastoral
style, I might call it a cottage; but, in plain English, it is exactly
what it expresses. We have got a sitting-room, and two bed-rooms, in a
house which you may call a cottage if you like it, and that one of these
bed-rooms is ready for you, and the sooner you take possession of it the
better. You must let me know when you come that I may meet you.
So you have had Kosciusco with you, (in Bristol) and bitterly do I regret
not having seen him. If he had remained one week longer in London, I
should have seen him; and to have seen Kosciusco would have been
something to talk of all the rest of one's life.
We have a congregation of rivers here, the clearest you ever saw: plenty
of private boats too. We went down to the harbour on Friday, in Mr.
Rickman's;[58] a sensible young man, of rough, but mild manners, and very
seditious. He and I rowed, and Edith was pilot.
God bless you.
Yours affectionately.
Robert Southey."
Mr. Rickman afterwards acquired some celebrity. He became private
secretary to the prime minister, Mr. Perceval, and afterwards for many
years, was one of the clerks of the House of Commons. He published also,
in 4to, a creditable Life of Telford, the great engineer, and officially
conducted the first census, (1800) a most laborious undertaking. The
second census, (1810) was conducted in a very efficient way, by Mr.
Thomas Poole, whose name often appears in this work, appointed through
the influence of Mr. Rickman.
"London, Dec. 14, 1797.
My dear Cottle,
I found your parcel on my return from a library belonging to the
Dissenters, (Dr. Williams's Library) in Redcross-street, from which, by
permission of Dr. Towers, I brought back books of great importance for my
'Maid of Orleans.' A hackney coach horse turned into a field of grass,
falls not more eagerly to a breakfast which lasts the whole day, than I
attacked the old folios, so respectably covered with dust. I begin to
like dirty rotten binding, and whenever I get among books, pass by the
gilt coxcombs, and disturb the spiders. But you shall hear what I have
got. A latin poem in four long books; on 'Joan of Arc;' very bad, but it
gives me a quaint note or two, and Valerandus Valerius is a fine name for
a quotation. A small 4to, of the 'Life of the Maid', chiefly extracts
from forgotten authors, printed at Paris, 1712, with a print of her on
horseback. A sketch of her life by Jacobus Philippus Bergomensis,--bless
the length of his erudite name.
John May, and Carlisle, (surgeon) were with me last night, and we struck
out a plan, which, if we can effect it, will be of great use. It is to be
called the 'Convalescent Asylum'; and intended to receive persons who are
sent from the hospitals; as the immediate return to unwholesome air, bad
diet, and all the loathsomeness of poverty, destroys a very great number.
The plan is to employ them in a large garden, and it is supposed in about
three years, the institution would pay itself, on a small scale for forty
persons. The success of one, would give birth to many others. C. W. W.
Wynn enters heartily into it. We meet on Saturday again, and as soon as
the plan is at all digested, Carlisle means to send it to Dr. Beddoes,
for his inspection. We were led to this by the circumstance of finding a
poor woman, almost dying for want, who is now rapidly recovering in the
hospital, under Carlisle.
Yours affectionately,
Robert Southey."
"1798.
My dear Cottle,
In the list of the killed and wounded of the 'Mars,' you saw the name of
Bligh, a midshipman. I remember rejoicing at the time, that it was not a
name I knew. Will you be surprised that the object of this letter is to
require your assistance in raising some little sum for the widow of this
man.
I cannot express to you how deep and painful an interest I take in the
history of this man. My brother Tom, an officer in the same ship, loved
him; and well he might, for poor Bligh was a man, who, out of his
midshipman's pay, allowed his wife and children thirteen pounds a year.
He wished to be made master's mate, that he might make the sum twenty
pounds, and then he said they would be happy. He was a man about
thirty-five years of age; an unlettered man, of strong natural powers,
and of a heart, of which a purer, and a better, never lived. I could tell
you anecdotes of him that would make your eyes overflow, like mine.
Surely, Cottle, there will be no difficulty in sending his poor wife some
little sum. Five guineas would be much to her. We will give one, and I
will lay friends in London under contribution. God bless you.
Yours truly,
Robert Southey."
"Hereford, 1798.
My dear Cottle,
My time here has been completely occupied in riding about the country. I
have contrived to manufacture one eclogue, and that is all; but the
exercise of riding has jostled a good many ideas into my brain, and I
have plans enough for long leisure. You know my tale of the 'Adite' in
the garden of Irem. I have tacked it on to an old plan of mine upon the
destruction of the Domdanyel, and made the beginning, middle, and end.
There is a tolerable skeleton formed. It will extend to ten or twelve
books, and they appear to me to possess much strong conception in the
Arabian manner. It will at least prove that I did not reject machinery in
my Epics, because I could not wield it. This only forms part of a
magnificent project, which I do not despair of one day completing, in the
destruction of the 'Domdanyel.' My intention is, to show off all the
splendor of the Mohammedan belief. I intend to do the same to the Runic,
and Oriental systems; to preserve the costume of place as well as of
religion.
I have been thinking that though we have been disappointed of our Welsh
journey, a very delightful pilgrimage is still within our reach. Suppose
you were to meet me at Boss. We go thence down the Wye to Monmouth. On
the way are Goodrich castle, the place where Henry V. was nursed; and
Arthur's cavern. Then there is Ragland Castle somewhere thereabout, and
we might look again at Tintern. I should like this much. The Welsh mail
from Bristol, comes every day through Boss; we can meet there. Let me
hear from you, and then I will fix the day, and we will see the rocks and
woods in all their beauty. God bless you.
Yours affectionately,
Robert Southey."
"Exeter, Sept. 22, 1799.
My dear Cottle,
... You will, I hope, soon have a cargo to send me of your own, for the
second volume of the 'Anthology' and some from Davy. If poor Mrs.
Yearsley were living I should like much to have her name there. As yet I
have only Coleridge's pieces, and my own, amounting to eighty or one
hundred pages. 'Thalaba, the Destroyer' is progressing.
There is a poem called 'Geber' of which I know not whether my review of
it, in the Critical' be yet printed, but in that review you will find
some of the most exquisite poetry in the language. The poem is such as
Gilbert, if he were only half as mad as he is, could have written. I
would go a hundred miles to see the (anonymous) author.[59]
There are some worthies in Exeter, with whom I have passed some pleasant
days, but the place is miserably bigoted. Would you believe that there
are persons here who still call the Americans 'the Rebels' Exeter is the
filthiest town in England; a gutter running down the middle of every
street and lane. We leave on Monday week. I shall rejoice to breathe
fresh air. Exeter, however, has the best collection of old books for
sale, of any town out of London.[60]
I have lately made up my mind to undertake one great historical work, the
'History of Portugal,' but for this, and for many other noble plans, I
want uninterrupted leisure; time wholly my own, and not frittered away by
little periodical employments. My working at such work is Columbus
serving before the mast. God bless you.
Yours affectionately,
Robert Southey."
"Falmouth, 1800.
My dear Cottle,
Our journey here was safe, but not without accidents. We found the
packet, by which we were to sail, detained by the wind, and we are
watching it with daily anxiety.[61]
A voyage is a serious thing, and particularly an outward-bound voyage.
The hope of departure is never an exhilarating hope. Inns are always
comfortless, and the wet weather that detains us at Falmouth, imprisons
us. Dirt, noise, restlessness, expectation, impatience,--fine cordials
for the spirits!
Devonshire is an ugly county. I have no patience with the cant of
travellers, who so bepraise it. They have surely slept all the way
through Somersetshire. Its rivers are beautiful, very beautiful, but
nothing else. High hills, all angled over with hedges, and no trees. Wide
views, and no object. I have heard a good story of our friend, Charles
Fox. When his house, at this place, was on fire, he found all effort to
save it useless, and being a good draughtsman, he went up the next hill
to make a drawing of the fire! the best instance of philosophy I ever
heard.
I have received letters from Rickman and Coleridge. Coleridge talks of
flaying Sir Herbert Croft. This may not be amiss. God bless you. I shake
you mentally by the hand, and when we shake hands bodily, trust that you
will find me a repaired animal, with a head fuller of knowledge, and a
trunk full of manuscripts. Tell Davy this Cornwall is such a vile county,
that nothing but its merit, as his birth-place, redeems it from utter
execration. I have found in it nothing but rogues, restive horses, and
wet weather; and neither Pilchards, White-ale, or Squab-pie, were to be
obtained! Last night I dreamt that Davy had killed himself by an
explosion. Once more, God bless you.
Yours affectionately,
Robert Southey.
Mr. Southey, in this second visit to Lisbon, sent me the following
poetical letter, which, for ease, vivacity, and vigorous description,
stands at the head of that class of compositions. A friendly vessel,
mistaken for a French privateer, adds to the interest. In one part, the
poet conspicuously bursts forth.
"Lisbon, May 9th, 1800.
Dear Cottle, d'ye see,
In writing to thee,
I do it in rhyme,
That I may save time,
Determin'd to say,
Without any delay,
Whatever comes first,
Whether best or worst.
Alack for me!
When I was at sea,
For I lay like a log,
As sick as a dog,
And whoever this readeth,
Will pity poor Edith:
Indeed it was shocking,
The vessel fast rocking,
The timbers all creaking,
And when we were speaking,
It was to deplore
That we were not on shore,
And to vow we would never go voyaging more.
The fear of our fighting,
Did put her a fright in,
And I had alarms
For my legs and my arms.
When the matches were smoking,
I thought 'twas no joking,
And though honour and glory
And fame were before me,
'Twas a great satisfaction,
That we had not an action,
And I felt somewhat bolder,
When I knew that my head might remain on my shoulder.
But O! 'twas a pleasure,
Exceeding all measure,
On the deck to stand,
And look at the land;
And when I got there,
I vow and declare,
The pleasure was even
Like getting to heaven!
I could eat and drink,
As you may think;
I could sleep at ease,
Except for the fleas,
But still the sea-feeling,--
The drunken reeling,
Did not go away
For more than a day:
Like a cradle, the bed
Seemed to rock my head,
And the room and the town,
Went up and down.
My Edith here,
Thinks all things queer,
And some things she likes well;
But then the street
She thinks not neat,
And does not like the smell.
Nor do the fleas
Her fancy please
Although the fleas like her;
They at first vie w
Fell merrily too,
For they made no demur.
But, O, the sight!
The great delight!
From this my window, west!
This view so fine,
This scene divine!
The joy that I love best!
The Tagus here,
So broad and clear,
Blue, in the clear blue noon--
And it lies light,
All silver white,
Under the silver moon!
Adieu, adieu,
Farewell to you,
Farewell, my friend so dear,
Write when you may,
I need not say,
How gladly we shall hear.
I leave off rhyme,
And so next time,
Prose writing you shall see;
But in rhyme or prose,
Dear Joseph knows
The same old friend in me,
Robert Southey."
* * * * *
[Illustration: Portrait of Robert Southey, Esq. Poet Laurate.]
* * * * *
"Portugal, Cintra, July, 1800.
My dear Cottle,
I write at a five minutes' notice. The unforeseen and unlucky departure
of my only friend gives me occasion for this letter, and opportunity to
send it. It is Miss Barker Congreve. She is a woman of uncommon talents,
with whom we have been wandering over these magnificent mountains, till
she made the greatest enjoyment of the place. I feel a heavier depression
of spirits at losing her than I have known since Tom left me at Liskard.
We are at Cintra: I am well and active, in better health than I have long
known, and till to-day, in uninterrupted gaiety at heart. I am finishing
the eleventh book of 'Thalaba' and shall certainly have written the last
before this reaches you. My Bristol friends have neglected me. Danvers
has not written, and Edith is without a line from either of her sisters.
My desk is full of materials for the literary history which will require
only the labour of arrangement and translation, on my return. I shall
have the knowledge for the great work; and my miscellaneous notes will
certainly swell into a volume of much odd and curious matter. Pray write
to me. You know not how I hunger and thirst for Bristol news. I long to
be among you. If I could bring this climate to Bristol, it would make me
a new being: but I am in utter solitude of all rational society; in a
state of mental famine, save that I feed on rocks and woods, and the
richest banquet nature can possibly offer to her worshippers. God bless
you.
Abuse Danvers for me. Remember me to Davy, and all friendly inquirers.
Yours affectionately,
Robert Southey.
P. S.--.... The zeal of the Methodists and their itinerant preachers, has
reprieved for half a century the system; but you must be aware, that
sooner or later, the Church of England will absorb all those sects that
differ only in discipline. The comfortable latitude that takes in the
Calvinist and the Arminian, must triumph. The Catholic system will
perhaps, last the longest; and bids fair to continue as a political
establishment, when all its professors shall laugh at its absurdity.
Destroy its monastic orders, and marry the priests, and the rest is a
pretty puppet-show, with the idols, and the incense, and the polytheism,
and the pomp of paganism. God bless you.
R. S."
"Bristol, Aug. 1802.
Dear Cottle,
Well done good and faithful editor. I suspect that it is fortunate for
the edition of Chatterton, that its care has devolved upon you.
The note with which you preface 'Burgum's Pedigree' need not come to me,
as the M.S. is yours, whatever inferences may be drawn from it, will be
by you. Add your name at the end to give it the proper authority. I shall
know how to say enough, in the preface, about all other aiders and
abetters, but it will not be easy to mention such a ringleader as
yourself in words of adequate acknowledgment.
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