Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey

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

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Excuse the freedom with which I write. If at the first moment it should
offend, on reflection, you will approve at least of the motive, and,
perhaps, in a better state of mind, thank and bless me. If all the good
which I have prayed for, should not be effected by this letter, I have at
least discharged an imperious sense of duty. I wish my manner were less
exceptionable, as I do that the advice through the blessing of the
Almighty, might prove effectual. The tear which bedims my eye, is an
evidence of the sincerity with which I subscribe myself

Your affectionate friend,

Joseph Cottle."

The following is Mr. Coleridge's reply.

"April 26th, 1814.

You have poured oil in the raw and festering wound of an old friend's
conscience, Cottle! but it is _oil of vitriol!_ I but barely glanced at
the middle of the first page of your letter, and have seen no more of
it--not from resentment, God forbid! but from the state of my bodily and
mental sufferings, that scarcely permitted human fortitude to let in a
new visitor of affliction.

The object of my present reply, is, to state the case just as it
is--first, that for ten years the anguish of my spirit has been
indescribable, the sense of my danger staring, but the consciousness of
my GUILT worse--far worse than all! I have prayed, with drops of agony on
my brow; trembling, not only before the justice of my Maker, but even
before the mercy of my Redeemer. 'I gave thee so many talents, what hast
thou done with them?' Secondly overwhelmed as I am with a sense of my
direful infirmity, I have never attempted to disguise or conceal the
cause. On the contrary, not only to friends, have I stated the whole case
with tears, and the very bitterness of shame; but in two instances, I
have warned young men, mere acquaintances, who had spoken of having taken
laudanum, of the direful consequences, by an awful exposition of its
tremendous effects on myself.

Thirdly, though before God I cannot lift up my eyelids, and only do not
despair of his mercy, because to despair would be adding crime to crime,
yet to my fellow-men, I may say, that I was seduced into the ACCURSED
habit ignorantly. I had been almost bed-ridden for many months, with
swellings in my knees. In a medical Journal, I unhappily met with an
account of a cure performed in a similar case, or what appeared to me so,
by rubbing in of Laudanum, at the same time taking a given dose
internally. It acted like a charm, like a miracle! I recovered the use of
my limbs, of my appetite, of my spirits, and this continued for near a
fortnight. At length the unusual stimulus subsided, the complaint
returned,--the supposed remedy was recurred to--but I cannot go through
the dreary history.

Suffice it to say, that effects were produced which acted on me by terror
and cowardice, of pain and sudden death, not (so help me God!) by any
temptation of pleasure, or expectation, or desire of exciting pleasurable
sensations. On the very contrary, Mrs. Morgan and her sister will bear
witness so far, as to say, that the longer I abstained, the higher my
spirits were, the keener my enjoyments--till the moment, the direful
moment arrived, when my pulse began to fluctuate, my heart to palpitate,
and such falling abroad, as it were, of my whole frame, such intolerable
restlessness, and incipient bewilderment, that in the last of my several
attempts to abandon the dire poison, I exclaimed in agony, which I now
repeat in seriousness and solemnity, 'I am too poor to hazard this.' Had
I but a few hundred pounds, but L200,--half to send to Mrs. Coleridge,
and half to place myself in a private mad house, where I could procure
nothing but what a physician thought proper, and where a medical
attendant could be constantly with me for two or three months, (in less
than that time, life or death would be determined) then there might be
hope. Now there is none!! O God! how willingly would I place myself under
Dr. Fox, in his establishment; for my case is a species of madness, only
that it is a derangement, an utter impotence of the volition, and not of
the intellectual faculties. You bid me rouse myself: go bid a man
paralytic in both arms, to rub them briskly together, and that will cure
him. 'Alas!' he would reply, 'that I cannot move my arms, is my complaint
and my misery.' May God bless you, and

Your affectionate, but most afflicted,

S. T. Coleridge."

On receiving this full and mournful disclosure, I felt the deepest
compassion for Mr. C.'s state, and sent him the following letter.
(Necessary to be given, to understand Mr. Coleridge's reply.)

"Dear Coleridge,

I am afflicted to perceive that Satan is so busy with you, but God is
greater than Satan. Did you ever hear of Jesus Christ? That he came into
the world to save sinners? He does not demand, as a condition, any merit
of your own, he only says, 'Come and be healed!' Leave your idle
speculations: forget your vain philosophy. Come as you are. Come and be
healed. He only requires you to be sensible of your need of him, to give
him your heart, to abandon with penitence, every evil practice, and he
has promised that whosoever thus comes, he will in no wise cast out. To
such as you Christ ought to be precious, for you see the hopelessness of
every other refuge. He will add strength to your own ineffectual efforts.

For your encouragement, I express the conviction, that such exercises as
yours, are a conflict that must ultimately prove successful. You do not
cloak your sins. You confess and deplore them. I believe that you will
still be as 'a brand plucked from the burning,' and that you (with all
your wanderings) will be restored, and raised up, as a chosen instrument,
to spread a Saviour's name. Many a 'chief of sinners,' has been brought,
since the days of 'Saul of Tarsus,' to sit as a little child, at the
Redeemer's feet. To this state you, I am assured, will come. Pray! Pray
earnestly, and you will be heard by your Father, which is in Heaven. I
could say many things of duty and virtue, but I wish to direct your views
at once to Christ, in whom is the alone balm for afflicted souls.

May God ever bless you,

Joseph Cottle.

P. S. If my former letter appeared unkind, pardon me! It was not
intended. Shall I breathe in your ear?--I know one, who is a stranger to
these throes and conflicts, and who finds 'Wisdom's ways to be ways of
pleasantness, and her paths, paths of peace."

To this letter I received the following reply.

"O dear friend! I have too much to be forgiven, to feel any difficulty in
forgiving the cruellest enemy that ever trampled on me: and you I have
only to _thank!_ You have no conception of the dreadful hell of my mind,
and conscience, and body. You bid me pray. O, I do pray inwardly to be
able to pray; but indeed to pray, to pray with a faith to which a
blessing is promised, this is the reward of faith, this is the gift of
God to the elect. Oh! if to feel how infinitely worthless I am, how poor
a wretch, with just free-will enough to be deserving of wrath, and of my
own contempt, and of none to merit a moment's peace, can make a part of a
Christian's creed; so far I am a Christian.

April 26, 1814."

S. T. C.

At this time Mr. Coleridge was indeed in a pitiable condition. His
passion for opium had so completely subdued his _will_, that he seemed
carried away, without resistance, by an overwhelming flood. The
impression was fixed on his mind, that he should inevitably die, unless
he were placed under _constraint_, and that constraint he thought could
be alone effected in an _asylum!_ Dr. Fox, who presided over an
establishment of this description in the neighbourhood of Bristol,
appeared to Mr. C. the individual, to whose subjection he would most like
to submit. This idea still impressing his imagination, he addressed to me
the following letter.

"Dear Cottle,

I have resolved to place myself in any situation, in which I can remain
for a month or two, as a child, wholly in the power of others. But, alas!
I have no money! Will you invite Mr. Hood, a most dear and affectionate
friend to worthless me; and Mr. Le Breton, my old school-fellow, and,
likewise, a most affectionate friend: and Mr. Wade, who will return in a
few days: desire them to call on you, any evening after seven o'clock,
that they can make convenient, and consult with them whether any thing of
this kind can be done. Do you know Dr. Fox?

Affectionately,

S. T. C.

I have to prepare my lecture. Oh! with how blank a spirit!"[94]

I _did_ know the late Dr. Fox, who was an opulent and liberal-minded man;
and if I had applied to him, or any friend had so done, I cannot doubt
but that he would instantly have received Mr. Coleridge gratuitously; but
nothing could have induced me to make the application, but that extreme
case, which did not then appear fully to exist. My sympathy for Mr. C. at
this time, was so excited, that I should have withheld no effort, within
my power, to reclaim, or to cheer him; but this recurrence to an asylum,
I strenuously opposed.

Mr. Coleridge knew Dr. Fox himself, eighteen years before, and to the
honour of Dr. E. I think it right to name, that, to my knowledge, in the
year 1796, Dr. Fox, in admiration of Mr. C.'s talents, presented him with
FIFTY POUNDS!

It must here be, noticed, that, fearing I might have exceeded the point
of discretion, in my letter to Mr. C. and becoming alarmed, lest I had
raised a spirit that I could not lay, as well as to avoid an unnecessary
weight of responsibility, I thought it best to consult Mr. Southey, and
ask him, in these harassing circumstances, what I was to do; especially
as he knew more of Mr. C.'s latter habits than myself, and had proved his
friendship by evidences the most substantial.

The years 1814 and 1815, were the darkest periods in Mr. Coleridge's
life. However painful the detail, it is presumed that the reader would
desire a knowledge of the undisguised truth. This cannot be obtained
without introducing the following letters of Mr. Southey, received from
him, after having sent him copies of the letters which passed between Mr.
Coleridge and myself.

"Keswick, April, 1814.

My dear Cottle,

You may imagine with what feelings I have read your correspondence with
Coleridge. Shocking as his letters are, perhaps the most mournful thing
they discover is, that while acknowledging the guilt of the habit, he
imputes it still to morbid bodily causes, whereas after every possible
allowance is made for these, every person who has witnessed his habits,
knows that for the greater, infinitely the greater part, inclination and
indulgence are its motives.

It seems dreadful to say this, with his expressions before me, but it is
so, and I know it to be so, from my own observation, and that of all with
whom he has lived. The Morgans, with great difficulty and perseverance,
_did_ break him of the habit, at a time when his ordinary consumption of
laudanum was, from _two quarts a week_, to _a pint a day!_ He suffered
dreadfully during the first abstinence, so much so, as to say it was
better for him to die than to endure his present feelings. Mrs. Morgan
resolutely replied, it was indeed better that he should die, than that he
should continue to live as he had been living. It angered him at the
time, but the effort was persevered in.

To what then was the relapse owing? I believe to this cause--that no use
was made of renewed health and spirits; that time passed on in idleness,
till the lapse of time brought with it a sense of neglected duties, and
then relief was again sought for _a self-accusing mind_;--in bodily
feelings, which when the stimulus ceased to act, added only to the load
of self-accusation. This Cottle, is an insanity which none but the soul's
physician can cure. Unquestionably, restraint would do as much for him as
it did when the Morgans tried it, but I do not see the slightest reason
for believing it would be more permanent. This too I ought to say, that
all the medical men to whom Coleridge has made his confession, have
uniformly ascribed the evil, not to bodily disease, but indulgence. The
restraint which alone could effectually cure, is that which no person can
impose upon him. Could he be compelled to a certain quantity of labour
every day, _for his family_, the pleasure of having done it would make
his heart glad, and the sane mind would make the body whole.

I see nothing so advisable for him, as that he should come here to Greta
Hall. My advice is, that he should visit T. Poole for two or three weeks,
to freshen himself and recover spirits, which new scenes never fail to
give him. When there, he may consult his friends at Birmingham and
Liverpool, on the fitness of lecturing at those two places, at each of
which he has friends, and would, I should think beyond all doubt be
successful. He must be very unfortunate if he did not raise from fifty to
one hundred pounds at the two places. But whether he can do this or not,
here it is that he ought to be. He knows in what manner he would be
received;--by his children with joy; by his wife, not with tears, if she
can control them--certainly not with reproaches;--by myself only with
encouragement.

He has sources of direct emolument open to him in the '_Courier_,' and in
the '_Eclectic Review_.'--These for his immediate wants, and for
everything else, his pen is more rapid than mine, and would be paid as
well. If you agree with me, you had better write to Poole, that he may
press him to make a visit, which I know he has promised. His great object
should be, to get out a play, and appropriate the whole produce to the
support of his son Hartley, at College. Three months' pleasurable
exertion would effect this. Of some such fit of industry I by no means
despair; of any thing more than fits, I am afraid I do. But this of
course I shall never say to him. From me he shall never hear ought but
cheerful encouragement, and the language of hope.

You ask me if you did wrong in writing to him. A man with your feelings
and principles never does wrong. There are parts which would have been
expunged had I been at your elbow, but in all, and in every part it is
strictly applicable.

I hope your next will tell me that he is going to T. Poole's--I have
communicated none of your letters to Mrs. Coleridge, who you know resides
with us. Her spirits and health are beginning to sink under it. God bless
you.

Yours affectionately,

Robert Southey."

After anxious consideration, I thought the only effectual way of
benefitting Mr. Coleridge, would be, to renew the object of an annuity,
by raising for him, amongst his friends, one hundred, or, if possible,
one hundred and fifty pounds a year; purposing through a committee of
three, to pay for his comfortable board, and all necessaries, but not of
giving him the disposition of any part, till it was hoped, the correction
of his bad habits, and the establishment of his better principles, might
qualify him for receiving it for his own distribution. It was difficult
to believe that his subjection to opium could much longer resist the
stings of his own conscience, and the solicitations of his friends, as
well as the pecuniary destitution to which his _opium habits_ had reduced
him. The proposed object was named to Mr. C. who reluctantly gave his
consent.

I now drew up a letter, intending to send a copy to all Mr. Coleridge's
old and steady friends, (several of whom approved of the design) but
before any commencement was made, I transmitted a copy of my proposed
letter to Mr. Southey, to obtain his sanction. The following is his
reply.

"April 17, 1814.

Dear Cottle,

I have seldom in the course of my life felt it so difficult to answer a
letter, as on the present occasion. There is however no alternative. I
must sincerely express what I think, and be thankful that I am writing to
one who knows me thoroughly.

Of sorrow and humiliation I will say nothing. Let me come at once to the
point. On what grounds can such a subscription as you propose raising for
Coleridge be solicited? The annuity to which your intended letter refers,
(L150) _was_ given him by the Wedgewoods. Thomas, by his will, settled
his portion on Coleridge, for his life. Josiah withdrew his about three
years ago. The half still remaining amounts, when the Income Tax is
deducted, to L67 10s. That sum Mrs. C. receives at present, and it is all
which she receives for supporting herself, her daughter, and the two boys
at school:--the boys' expenses amounting to the whole. No part of
Coleridge's embarrassment arises from his wife and children,--except that
he has insured his life for a thousand pounds, and pays the annual
premium. He never writes to them, and never opens a letter from them![95]

In truth, Cottle, his embarrassments, and his miseries, of body and mind,
all arise from one accursed cause--excess in _opium_, of which he
habitually takes more than was ever known to be taken by any person
before him. The Morgans, with great effort, succeeded in making him leave
it off for a time, and he recovered in consequence _health_ and
_spirits_. He has now taken to it again. Of this indeed I was too sure
before I heard from you--that his looks bore testimony to it. Perhaps you
are not aware of the costliness of this drug. In the quantity which C.
takes, it would consume _more_ than the whole which you propose to raise.
A frightful consumption of _spirits_ is added. In this way bodily
ailments are produced; and the wonder is that he is still alive.

There are but two grounds on which a subscription of this nature can
proceed: either when the, object is disabled from exerting himself; or
when his exertions are unproductive. Coleridge is in neither of these
predicaments. Proposals after proposals have been made to him by the
booksellers, and he repeatedly closed with them. He is at this moment as
capable of exertion as I am, and would be paid as well for whatever he
might be pleased to do. There are two Reviews,--the 'Quarterly,' and the
'Eclectic,' in both of which he might have employment at ten guineas a
sheet. As to the former I could obtain it for him; in the latter, they
are urgently desirous of his assistance. _He promises, and does nothing._

I need not pursue this subject. What more can I say? He may have new
friends who would subscribe to this plan, but they cannot be many; but
among all those who know him, his habits are known also.

Do you as you think best. My own opinion is, that Coleridge ought to come
here, and employ himself, collecting money by the way by lecturing at
Birmingham and Liverpool. Should you proceed in your intention, my name
must not be mentioned. _I subscribe enough._ Here he may employ himself
without any disquietude about immediate subsistence. Nothing is wanting
to make him easy in circumstances, and happy in himself, but to leave off
opium, and to direct a certain portion of his time to the discharge of
_his duties_. Four hours a day would suffice. Believe me, my dear Cottle,
very affectionately

Your old friend,

Robert Southey."

The succeeding post brought me the following letter.

"Keswick, April 18, 1814.

My dear Cottle,

I ought to have slept upon your letter before I answered it. In thinking
over the subject (for you may be assured it was not in my power to get
rid of the thought) the exceeding probability occurred to me....

When you talked, in the proposed letter you sent me, of Coleridge
producing valuable works if his mind were relieved by the certainty of a
present income, you suffered your feelings to overpower your memory.
Coleridge _had_ that income for many years. It was given him expressly
that he might have leisure for literary productions; and to hold out the
expectation that he would perform the same conditions, if a like contract
were renewed, is what experience will not warrant.

You will probably write to Poole on this subject. In that case, state to
him distinctly what my opinion is: that Coleridge should return home to
Keswick, raising a supply for his present exigencies, by lecturing at
Birmingham, and Liverpool, and then, if there be a necessity, as I fear
there _will be_ (arising solely and wholly from his own most culpable
habits of sloth and self-indulgence) of calling on his friends to do that
which _he can_ and _ought to do_,--for _that_ time the humiliating
solicitation should be reserved....

God bless you,

Robert Southey."

No advantage would arise from recording dialogues with Mr. Coleridge, it
is sufficient to state that Mr. C.'s repugnance to visit Greta Hall, and
to apply his talents in the way suggested by Mr. Southey, was invincible;
neither would he visit T. Poole, nor lecture at Birmingham nor Liverpool.

Just at this time I was afflicted with the bursting of a blood vessel,
occasioned, probably, by present agitations of mind, which reduced me to
the point of death; when the intercourse of friends, and even speaking,
were wholly prohibited.

During my illness, Mr. Coleridge sent my sister the following letter; and
the succeeding one to myself.

"13th May, 1814.

Dear Madam,

I am uneasy to know how my friend, J. Cottle, goes on. The walk I took
last Monday to enquire, in person, proved too much for my strength, and
shortly after my return, I was in such a swooning way, that I was
directed to go to bed, and orders were given that no one should interrupt
me. Indeed I cannot be sufficiently grateful for the skill with which
_the surgeon treats me._ But it must be a slow, and occasionally, an
interrupted progress, after a sad retrogress of nearly twelve years. To
God all things are possible. I intreat your prayers, your brother has a
share in mine.

What an astonishing privilege, that a sinner should be permitted to cry,
'Our Father!' Oh, still more stupendous mercy, that this poor ungrateful
sinner should be exhorted, invited, nay, commanded, to pray--to pray
importunately. That which great men most detest, namely, importunacy; to
_this_ the GIVER and the FORGIVER ENCOURAGES _his_ sick petitioners!

I will not trouble you except for one verbal answer to this note. How is
your brother?

With affectionate respects to yourself and your sister,

S. T. Coleridge.

To Miss Cottle, Brunswick Square."

"Friday, 27th May, 1814.

My dear Cottle,

Gladness be with you, for your convalescence, and equally so, at the hope
which has sustained and tranquillized you through your imminent peril.
Far otherwise is, and hath been, my state; yet I too am grateful; yet I
cannot rejoice. I feel, with an intensity, unfathomable by words, my
utter nothingness, impotence, and worthlessness, in and for myself. I
have learned what a sin is, against an infinite imperishable being, such
as is the soul of man.

I have had more than a glimpse of what is meant by death and outer
darkness, and the worm that dieth not--and that all the _hell_ of the
reprobate, is no more inconsistent with the love of God, than the
blindness of one who has occasioned loathsome and guilty diseases to eat
out his eyes, is inconsistent with the light of the sun. But the
consolations, at least, the sensible sweetness of hope, I do not possess.
On the contrary, the temptation which I have constantly to fight up
against, is a fear, that if _annihilation_ and the _possibility_ of
_heaven_, were offered to my choice, I should choose the former.

This is, perhaps, in part, a constitutional idiosyncracy, for when a mere
boy, I wrote these lines:

Oh, what a wonder seems the fear of death,
Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep;
Babes, children, youths and men,
Night following night, for three-score years and ten.[96]

And in my early manhood, in lines descriptive of a gloomy solitude, I
disguised my own sensations in the following words:

Here wisdom might abide, and here remorse!
Here too, the woe-worn man, who weak in soul,
And of this busy human heart aweary,
Worships the spirit of _unconscious life_,
In tree, or wild-flower. Gentle lunatic!
If so he might not wholly cease to BE,
He would far rather not be that he is;
But would be something that he knows not of,
In woods, or waters, or among the rocks.'

My main comfort, therefore, consists in what the divines call the faith
of adherence, and no spiritual effort appears to benefit me so much as
the one earnest, importunate, and often, for hours, momently repeated
prayer: 'I believe, Lord help my unbelief! Give me faith, but as a
mustard seed, and I shall remove this mountain! Faith, faith, faith! I
believe, O give me faith! O, for my Redeemer's sake, give me faith in my
Redeemer.'

In all this I justify God, for I was accustomed to oppose the preaching
of the terrors of the gospel, and to represent it as debasing virtue, by
the admixture of slaving selfishness.

I now see that what is spiritual, can only be spiritually apprehended.
Comprehended it cannot.

Mr. Eden gave you a too flattering account of me. It is true, I am
restored, as much beyond my expectations almost, as my deserts; but I am
exceedingly weak. I need for myself, solace and refocillation of animal
spirits, instead of being in a condition of offering it to others. Yet,
as soon as I may see you, I will call on you.

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