Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey

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

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The officers hastened into the room, and inquired of one and another,
about that "odd fish," at the door; when one of the mess, (it is
believed, the surgeon) told them, that he had his eye upon him, but he
would neither tell where he came from, nor anything about his family of
the Cumberbatches; "but," continued he, "instead of his being an 'odd
fish,' I suspect he must be a 'stray bird' from the Oxford or Cambridge
aviary." They learned also, the laughable fact, that he was bruised all
over, by frequent falls from his horse. "Ah," said one of the officers,
"we have had, at different times, two or three of these 'University
birds' in our regiment." This suspicion was confirmed by one of the
officers, Mr. Nathaniel Ogle, who observed that he had noticed a line of
Latin, chalked under one of the men's saddles, and was told, on inquiring
whose saddle it was, that it was "Cumberbatch's."

The officers now kindly took pity on the 'poor scholar' and had Mr. C.
removed to the medical department, where he was appointed assistant in
the regimental hospital. This change was a vast improvement in Mr. C.'s
condition; and happy was the day, also, on which it took place, for the
sake of the sick patients; for Silas Tomken Cumberbatch's amusing
stories, they said, did them more good than all the doctor's physic! Many
ludicrous dialogues sometimes occurred between Mr. C. and his new
disciples; particularly with one who was "the geographer." The following
are some of these dialogues.

If he began talking to one or two of his comrades; for they were all on a
perfect equality, except that those who went through their exercise the
best, stretched their necks a little above the "awkward squad;" in which
ignoble class Mr. C. was placed, as the preeminent member, almost by
acclamation; if he began to speak, notwithstanding, to one or two, others
drew near, increasing momently, till by-and-bye the sick-beds were
deserted, and Mr. C. formed the centre of a large circle.

On one occasion, he told them of the Peloponnesian war, which lasted
twenty-seven years, "There must have been famous promotion there," said
one poor fellow, haggard as a death's head. Another, tottering with
disease, ejaculated, "Can you tell, Silas, how many rose from the ranks?"

He now still more excited their wonderment, by recapitulating the feats
of Archimedes. As the narrative proceeded, one restrained his scepticism,
till he was almost ready to burst, and then vociferated, "Silas, that's a
lie!" "D'ye think so?" said Mr. C. smiling, and went on with his story.
The idea, however, got amongst them, that Silas's fancy was on the
stretch, when Mr. C. finding that this tact would not do, changed his
subject, and told them of a famous general, called Alexander the Great.
As by a magic spell, the flagging attention was revived, and several, at
the same moment, to testify their eagerness, called out, "The general!
The general!" "I'll tell you all about him," said Mr. C. when impatience
marked every countenance. He then told them whose son this Alexander the
Great was; no less than Philip of Macedon. "I never heard of him," said
one. "I think I have," said the "geographer," ashamed of being thought
ignorant, "Silas, was'nt he a Cornish man? I knew one of the Alexanders
at Truro!"

Mr. C. now went on describing to them, in glowing colours, the valour,
and the wars, and the conquests of this famous general. "Ah," said one
man, whose open mouth had complimented the speaker, for the preceding
half hour; "Ah," said he, "Silas, this Alexander must have been as great
a man as our Colonel!"

Mr. C. now told them of the "Retreat of the Ten Thousand." "I don't like
to hear of retreat," said one. "Nor I," said a second: "I'm for marching
on." Mr. C. now told of the incessant conflicts of these brave warriors,
and of the virtues of the "square." "They were a parcel of crack men,"
said one. "Yes," said another, "their bayonets fixed, and sleeping on
their arms day and night." "I should like to know," said a fourth, "what
rations were given with all that hard fighting;" on which an Irishman
replied, "to be sure, every time the sun rose, two pounds of good ox
beef, and plenty of whiskey."

At another time he told them of the invasion of Xerxes, and his crossing
the _wide_ Hellespont. "Ah," said a young recruit, a native of an obscure
village in Kent, who had acquired a decent smattering of
geography,--knowing well that the world was round, and that the earth was
divided into land and water, and, furthermore, that there were more
countries on the globe than England, and who now wished to raise his
pretensions a little before his comrades; said this young man of Kent;
"Silas, I know where that 'Helspont' is. I think it must be the mouth of
the Thames, for _'tis_ very wide."

Mr. C. now told them of the herces of Thermopylae, when the geographer
interrupted him, by saying, "Silas, I think I know, too, where that
'Thermopple' is; isn't it somewhere up in the north?" "You are quite
right, Jack," said Mr. C. "it is to the north of the Line." A conscious
elevation marked his countenance, and he rose at once, five degrees in
the estimation of his friends.

In one of these interesting conversaziones, when Mr. C. was sitting at
the foot of a bed, surrounded by his gaping comrades, who were always
solicitous of, and never wearied with, his stories, the door suddenly
burst open, and in came two or three gentlemen, (his friends) looking for
some time, in vain, amid the uniform dresses, for their man. At length,
they pitched on Mr. C. and taking him by the arm, led him, in silence,
out of the room, (a picture indeed, for a Wilkie!) As the supposed
_deserter_ passed the threshold, one of the astonished auditors uttered,
with a sigh, "poor Silas! I wish they may let him off with a cool five
hundred!" Mr. C.'s ransom was soon joyfully adjusted by his friends, and
now the wide world once more lay before him.[78]

A very old friend of Mr. Coleridge has recently furnished me with the two
following anecdotes of Mr. C. which were also new to me.

The inspecting officer of his regiment, on one occasion, was examining
the guns of the men, and coming to one piece which was rusty, he called
out in an authoritative tone, "Whose rusty gun[79] is this?" when Mr.
Coleridge said, "is it _very_ rusty, Sir?" "Yes Cumberbatch, it _is_"
said the officer, sternly. "Then, Sir," replied Mr. C. "it must be mine!"
The oddity of the reply disarmed the officer, and the poor scholar
escaped without punishment.

Mr. Coleridge was a remarkably awkward horseman, so much so, as generally
to attract notice. Some years after this, he was riding along the
turnpike road, in the county of Durham, when a wag, approaching him,
noticed his peculiarity, and (quite mistaking his man) thought the rider
a fine subject for a little sport; when, as he drew near, he thus
accosted Mr. C. "I say, young man, did you meet a _tailor_ on the road?"
"Yes," replied Mr. C. (who was never at a loss for a rejoinder) "I did;
and he told me, if I went a little further I should meet a _goose!_" The
assailant was struck dumb, while the traveller jogged on.

Mr. C. gave me these, his translations from the German.

ON A BAD READER OF HIS OWN VERSES.

Hoarse Maevius reads his hobbling verse
To all, and at all times,
And deems them both divinely smooth,
His voice, as well as rhymes.

But folks say Maevius is no ass!
But Maevius makes it clear,
That he's a monster of an ass,
An ass without an ear.

* * * * *

If the guilt of all lying consists in deceit,
Lie on--'tis your duty, sweet youth!
For believe me, then only we find you a cheat,
When you cunningly tell us the truth.

"As Dick and I at Charing Cross were walking,
Whom should we see on t'other side pass by,
But INFORMATOR with a stranger talking,
So I exclaimed--"O, what a lie!"
Quoth Dick, "What, can you hear him?" Stuff!
I saw him open his mouth--an't that enough?"

* * * * *

ON OBSERVING A LADY LICKING HER LAP-DOG,

Thy Lap-dog Rufa, is a dainty beast;
It don't surprise me in the least,
To see thee lick so dainty clean a beast,
But that so dainty clean a beast licks thee--
Yes--that surprises me.

* * * * *

Jack writes his verses with more speed
Than the printer's boy can set 'em;
Quite as fast as we can read,
But only--not so fast as we forget 'em.

Mr. Coleridge accompanied these epigrams with the translation of one of
LESSING'S pieces, where the felicity of the expression, in its English
form, will excite in most readers a suspicion, that no German original,
could equal the poem in its new dress.

MY LOVE.

I ask'd my love, one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay!
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece;
Iphigenia, Clelia, Chloris,
Laura, Lesbia, or Doris,
Dorimene, or Lucrece?
Ah! replied my gentle fair,
Beloved! what are names but air!
Take whatever suits the line:
Call me Clelia, call me Chloris,
Laura, Lesbia, or Doris,
Only, only, call me thine.

Mr. C. told me that he intended to translate the whole of Lessing. I
smiled. Mr. C. understood the symbol, and smiled in return.

The above poem is thus printed in the last edition of 1835, by which the
two may be compared, and the reader will perhaps think that the
alterations are not improvements.

NAMES.

I asked my fair one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay?
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece:
Lalage, Nesera, Chloris,
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,
Arethusa, or Lucrece.

Ah, replied my gentle fair,
Beloved, what are names but air?
Choose thou whatever suits the line;
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalage, or Doris,
Only, only, call me thine.

Some time after this, Mr. Coleridge being in an ill state of health,
recollected that a friend of his, Sir John Stoddart, was the Judge at
Malta,[80] and he determined to repair to that island. Here he was
introduced to Sir Alexander Ball, the Governor, who happened at that time
to be in want of a Secretary, and being greatly pleased with Mr.
Coleridge, he immediately engaged him in that capacity.[81]

* * * * *

I shall here for the present leave the narrative of Mr. C. in other and
better hands, and proceed to remark, that Mr. Davy and Mr. Coleridge
continued their friendly feeling toward each other, through life. Mr.
Davy, in a letter to Mr. Poole, (1804.) thus expresses himself:

"I have received a letter from Coleridge within the last three weeks. He
writes from Malta, in good spirits, and as usual, from the depth of his
being. God bless him! He was intended for a great man. I hope and trust
he will, at some period, appear such."

Mr. Davy, after a continuance in Bristol of more than two years, sent me
the following letter, with a copy of "Burns's Life and Works," by Dr.
Currie.

"Dear Cottle,

I have been for the last six weeks so much hurried by business, and the
prospect of a change of situation, that I have not had time to call on
you. I am now on the point of leaving the Hotwells, and had designed to
see you this morning, but engagements have unluckily prevented me. I am
going to the Royal Institution, where, if you come to London, it will
give me much pleasure to see you.

Will you be pleased to accept the copy of 'Burns's Life and Poems,' sent
with this, and when you are reading with delight the effusions of your
brother bard, occasionally think of one who is, with sincere regard and
affection, your friend,

H. Davy.

March 9th, 1801."

In a letter of Sir H. Davy, addressed to his friend Mr. Poole, 1803, he
thus writes of S. T. C.

"Coleridge has left London for Keswick. During his stay in town, I saw
him seldomer than usual; when I did see him, it was generally in the
midst of large companies, where he is the image of power and activity.
His eloquence is unimpaired; perhaps it is softer and stronger. His will
is less than ever commensurate with his ability. Brilliant images of
greatness float upon his mind, like images of the morning clouds on the
waters. Their forms are changed by the motion of the waves, they are
agitated by every breeze, and modified by every sun-beam. He talked in
the course of an hour, of beginning three works; and he recited the poem
of Christabel unfinished, and as I had before heard it. What talent does
he not waste in forming visions, sublime, but unconnected with the real
world! I have looked to his efforts, as to the efforts of a creating
being; but as yet he has not laid the foundation for the new world of
intellectual forms."

In the following letter received by me from Sir H. Davy, so late as June,
1823, he refers to Mr. Coleridge.

"My dear Sir,

... I have often thought on the subject of the early history of our
planet, and have some peculiar views, but I have some reserve in talking
here about it, as all our knowledge on such matter is little more than
ignorance.

What I stated to the Royal Society, in awarding the medal to Professor
Buckland, has not been correctly given in the Journals. I merely said
that the facts lately brought forward, proved the occurrence of that
great catastrophe which had been recorded in sacred and profane history,
and of which traditions were current, even amongst the most barbarous
nations. I did not say they proved the truth of the Mosaic account of the
deluge, that is to say, of the history of the Ark of Noah, and the
preservation of animal life. This is revelation; and no facts, that I
know of, have been discovered in science that bear upon this question,
and the sacred history of the race of Shem. My idea was to give to Caesar
what belonged to Caesar, &c. &c., and not to blend divine truths with the
fancies of men.

I met Coleridge this morning, looking very well. I had not seen him for
years. He has promised to dine with me on Monday....

Very sincerely yours,

H. Davy.

June 11th, 1823."

Sir H. Davy was the chief agent in prevailing on Mr. Coleridge to give a
course of lectures on Shakspeare, at the Royal Institution, which he did,
eighteen in number, in the year 1808. Sir H. D. in writing to Mr. Poole,
this year, thus refers to him.

"Coleridge, after disappointing his audience twice from illness, is
announced to lecture again this week. He has suffered greatly from
excessive sensibility, the disease of genius. His mind is a wilderness,
in which the cedar and the oak, which might aspire to the skies, are
stunted in their growth by underwood, thorns, briars, and parasitical
plants. With the most exalted genius, enlarged views, sensitive heart,
and enlightened mind, he will be the victim of want of order, precision,
and regularity. I cannot think of him without experiencing the mingled
feelings of admiration, regard, and pity."

To this testimony in confirmation of Mr. Coleridge's intellectual
eminence, some high and additional authorities will be added; such as to
entitle him to the name of the Great Conversationalist. Professor Wilson
thus writes:

"If there be any man of great and original genius alive at this
moment, in Europe, it is S. T. Coleridge. Nothing can surpass the
melodious richness of words, which he heaps around his images; images
that are not glaring in themselves, but which are always affecting to
the very verge of tears, because they have all been formed and
nourished in the recesses of one of the most deeply musing spirits,
that ever breathed forth its inspirations, in the majestic language
of England."

"Not less marvellously gifted, though in a far different manner, is
Coleridge, who by a strange error has usually been regarded of the
same (lake) school. Instead, like Wordsworth, of seeking the sources
of sublimity and beauty in the simplest elements of humanity, he
ranges through all history and science, investigating all that has
really existed, and all that has had foundation only in the wildest,
and strangest minds, combining, condensing, developing and
multiplying the rich products of his research with marvellous
facility and skill; now pondering fondly over some piece of exquisite
loveliness, brought from an unknown recess, now tracing out the
hidden germ of the eldest, and most barbaric theories, and now
calling fantastic spirits from the vasty deep, where they have slept
since the dawn of reason. The term 'myriad-minded' which he has
happily applied to Shakspeare, is truly descriptive of himself. He is
not one, but legion, 'rich with the spoils of time,' richer in his
own glorious imagination and sportive fantasy. There is nothing more
wonderful than the facile majesty of his images, or rather of his
world of imagery, which, whether in his poetry or his prose, start up
before us, self-raised, and all perfect, like the palace of Aladdin.
He ascends to the sublimest truths by a winding track of sparkling
glory, which can only be described in his own language.

'The spirit's ladder
That from this gross and visible world of dust,
Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds
Builds itself up; on which the unseen powers
Move up and down on heavenly ministries--
The circles in the circles, that approach
The central sun from ever narrowing orbit.'

In various beauty of versification he has never been exceeded.
Shakspeare doubtless in liquid sweetness and exquisite continuity,
and Milton in pure majesty and classic grace--but this, in one
species of verse only; and taking all his trials of various metres,
the swelling harmony of his blank verse, the sweet breathing of his
gentle odes, and the sybil-like flutter, with the murmuring of his
wizard spells, we doubt if even these great masters have so fully
developed the sources of the English tongue. He has yet completed no
adequate memorial of his Genius, yet it is most unjust to say he has
done little or nothing.

To refute this assertion, there are his 'Wallenstein;' his love poems
of intensest beauty; his 'Ancient Mariner,' with his touches of
profoundest tenderness amidst the wildest and most bewildering
terrors; his holy and sweet tale of 'Christabel,' with its
enchantments, and richer humanities; the depths, the sublimities, and
the pensive sweetness of his 'Tragedy;' the heart-dilating sentiments
scattered through his 'Friend;' and the stately imagery which breaks
upon us at every turn of the golden paths of his metaphysical
labyrinth. And if he has a power within him mightier than that which
even these glorious creations indicate, shall he be censured because
he has deviated from the ordinary course of the age in its
development, and instead of committing his imaginative wisdom to the
press, has delivered it from his living lips? He has gone about in
the true spirit of an old Greek bard, with a noble carelessness of
self, giving fit utterance to the divine spirit within, him. Who that
has ever heard can forget him? His mild benignity, the unbounded
variety of his knowledge, the fast succeeding products of his
imagination, the child-like simplicity with which he rises from the
dryest and commonest theme into the wildest magnificence of thought,
pouring on the soul a stream of beauty and wisdom to mellow and
enrich it for ever? The seeds of poetry, the materials for thinking,
which he has thus scattered will not perish. The records of his fame
are not in books only, but on the fleshly tablets of young hearts,
who will not suffer it to die even in the general ear, however base
and unfeeling criticism may deride their gratitude."--_Mr. Sergeant
Talfourd._

Dr. Dibdin has given an animated description of Coleridge's lecturing and
conversation, which concurs with the universal opinion.

"I once came from Kensington in a snow-storm to hear Mr. Coleridge
lecture on Shakspeare, I might have sat as wisely, and more
comfortably by my own fire-side--for no Coleridge appeared.----I
shall never forget the effect his conversation made upon me at the
first meeting, at a dinner party. It struck me as something not only
quite out of the ordinary course of things, but an intellectual
exhibition altogether matchless. The viands were unusually costly,
and the banquet was at once rich and varied; but there seemed to be
no dish like Coleridge's conversation to feed upon--and no
information so instructive as his own. The orator rolled himself up
as it were in his chair, and gave the most unrestrained indulgence to
his speech; and how fraught with acuteness and originality was that
speech, and in what copious and eloquent periods did it flow. The
auditors seemed to be wrapt in wonder and delight, as one
conversation, more profound or clothed in more forcible language than
another, fell from his tongue. He spoke nearly for two hours with
unhesitating and uninterrupted fluency. As I returned homewards, to
Kensington, I thought a second Johnson had visited the earth, to make
wise the sons of men; and regretted that I could not exercise the
powers of a second Boswell to record the wisdom and the eloquence
that fell from the orator's lips.

The manner of Coleridge was emphatic rather than dogmatic, and thus
he was generally and satisfactorily listened to. It might be said of
Coleridge, as Cowper has so happily said of Sir Philip Sidney, that
he was 'the warbler of poetic prose.' There was always this
characteristic feature in his multifarious conversation,--it was
always delicate, reverend, and courteous. The chastest ear could
drink in no startling sound; the most serious believer never had his
bosom ruffled by one sceptical or reckless assertion. Coleridge was
eminently simple in his manner. Thinking and speaking were his
delight; and he would sometimes seem, during the more fervid
movements of discourse, to be abstracted from all, and everything
around and about him, and to be basking in the sunny warmth of his
own radiant imagination."--_Dr. Dibdin_.

"Last Thursday, my Uncle, S. T. C. dined with us; and ---- and ----
came to meet him. I have heard him more brilliant, but he was very
fine, and delighted both, ---- and ---- very much. It is impossible
to carry off, or commit to paper, his long trains of argument; indeed
it is not possible to understand them, he lays the foundation so
deep, and views every question in so original a manner. Nothing can
be finer than the principles which he lays down in morals and
religion. His deep study of scripture is very astonishing; ---- and
---- were but as children in his hands, not merely in general views
of theology, but in minute criticism.... Afterwards in the
drawing-room, he sat down by Professor Rigaud, with whom he entered
into a discussion of 'Kant's system of Metaphysics.' The little knots
of the company were speedily silent. Mr. Coleridge's voice grew
louder; and, abstruse as the subject was, yet his language was so
ready, so energetic, and eloquent, and his illustrations so very apt
and apposite, that the ladies even paid him the most solicitous, and
respectful attention.... This is nearly all I recollect of our
meeting with this most interesting, most wonderful man. Some of his
topics and arguments I have enumerated, but the connexion and the
words are lost. And nothing that I can say can give any notion of his
eloquence and manner."--_Mr. Justice Coleridge.--Table Talk_.

"To the honoured memory of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the Christian
Philosopher, who through dark and winding paths of speculation was
led to the light, in order that others by his guidance might reach
that light, without passing through the darkness, these sermons on
the work of the spirit are dedicated with deep thankfulness and
reverence by one of the many pupils whom his writings have helped to
discern the sacred concord and unity of human and Divine truth.

"Of recent English writers, the one with whose sanction I have
chiefly desired whenever I could, to strengthen my opinions, is the
great religious philosopher to whom the mind of our generation in
England owes more than to any other man. My gratitude to him I have
endeavoured to express by dedicating the following sermons to his
memory; and the offering is so far at least appropriate, in that the
main work of his life was to spiritualize, not only our philosophy,
but our theology; to raise them both above the empiricism into which
they had long been dwindling, and to set them free from the technical
trammels of logical systems. Whether he is as much studied by the
genial young men of the present day, as he was twenty or thirty years
ago, I have no adequate means of judging: but our theological
literature teems with errors, such as could hardly have been
committed by persons whose minds had been disciplined by his
philosophical method, and had rightly appropriated his principles. So
far too as my observation has extended, the third and fourth volumes
of his 'Remains,' though they were hailed with delight by Arnold on
their first appearance, have not yet produced their proper effect on
the intellect of the age. It may be that the rich store of profound
and beautiful thought contained in them has been weighed down, from
being mixed with a few opinions on points of Biblical criticism,
likely to be very offensive to persons who know nothing about the
history of the Canon. Some of these opinions, to which Coleridge
himself ascribed a good deal of importance, seem to me of little
worth; some to be decidedly erroneous. Philological criticism, indeed
all matters requiring a laborious and accurate investigation of
details were alien from the bent and habits of his mind; and his
exegetical studies, such as they were, took place at a period when he
had little better than the meagre Rationalism of Eichhorn and
Bertholdt to help him. Of the opinions which he imbibed from them,
some abode with him through life. These however, along with
everything else that can justly be objected to in the 'Remains,' do
not form a twentieth part of the whole, and may easily be separated
from the remainder. Nor do they detract in any way from the sterling
sense, the clear and far-sighted discernment, the power of tracing
principles in their remotest operations, and of referring all things
to their first principles, which are manifested in almost every page,
and from which we might learn so much. There may be some indeed, who
fancy that Coleridge's day is gone by, and that we have advanced
beyond him. I have seen him numbered, along with other persons who
would have been no less surprised at their position and company,
among the pioneers who prepared the way for our new theological
school. This fathering of Tractarianism, as it is termed, upon
Coleridge, well deserves to rank beside the folly which would father
Rationalism upon Luther. Coleridge's far-reaching vision did indeed
discern the best part of the speculative truths which our new school
has laid hold on, and exaggerated and perverted. But in Coleridge's
field of view they were comprised along with the complimental truths
which limit them, and in their conjunction and co-ordination with
which alone they retain the beneficent power of truth. He saw what
our modern theologians see, though it was latent from the vulgar eyes
in his days; but he also saw what they do not see, what they have
closed their eyes on; and he saw far beyond them, because he saw
things in their universal principles and laws."--_Rev. Archdeacon
Charles Hare's "Mission of the Comforter."--Preface, pp. 13, 15. Two
Vols. 8vo_.

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