Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey

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

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Heaven attracts not! On we dream;
Cast like wrecks upon the shore
Where perfection reigns supreme,
And adieus are heard no more.

What is life? a tale! a span!
Swifter than the eagle's flight;
What the boasted age of man?
Vanishing beneath the sight.

Yet, our ardours and desires
Centred, circumscribed by earth;
Whilst eternity retires--
As an object nothing worth!

Oh, the folly of the proud!
Oh, the madness of the vain!
After every toy to crowd,
And unwithering crowns disdain!

Mighty men in grand array,
Magnates of the ages past,
Kings and conquerors, where are they?
Once whose frown a world o'ercast?

Faded! yet by fame enroll'd,
With their busts entwined with bays;
But if God his smile withhold,
Pitiful is human praise.

With what sadness and surprise,
Must Immortals view our lot;--
Eager for the flower that dies,
And the Amaranth heeding not.

May we from our dreams awake,
Love the truth, the truth obey;
On our night let morning break--
Prelude of a nobler day.

Harmony prevails above,
Where all hearts together blend;
Let the concords sweet of love,
Now begin and never end.

Have we not one common sire?
Have we not one home in sight?
Let the sons of peace conspire
Not to sever, but unite.

Hence, forgetful of the past,
May we all as brethren own,
Whom we hope to meet at last--
Round the everlasting throne.

Father! source of blessedness,
In thy strength triumphant ride;
Let the world thy Son confess,
And thy name be magnified!

Let thy word of truth prevail,
Scattering darkness, errors, lies;
Let all lands the treasure hail--
Link that binds us to the skies.

Let thy spirit, rich and free,
Copious shed his power divine,
Till (Creation's Jubilee!)
All Earth's jarring realms are thine!

Saints who once on earth endured--
Beating storm and thorny way,
Have the prize they sought secured,
And have enter'd perfect day.

Wiser taught,--with vision clear,
(Kindled from the light above)
Now their bitterest woes appear--
Charged with blessings, fraught with love:--

For, as earthly scenes withdrew,
In their false, but flattering guise,
They, rejoicing, fix'd their view--
On the mansions in the skies.

Art thou fearful of the end?
Dread not Jordan's swelling tide;
With the Saviour for thy friend!
With the Spirit for thy guide!

Why these half subdued alarms--
At the prospect of thy flight?
Has thy Father's house no charms?--
There to join the Saints in Light?

Terrors banish from thy breast,
Hope must solace, faith sustain;
Thou art journeying on to rest,
And with God shalt live and reign.

Then, fruition, like the morn,
Will unlock her boundless store;--
Roses bloom without a thorn,
And the day-star set no more.

But, an ocean lies between--
Stormy, to be cross'd alone;
With no ray to intervene--
O'er the cold and dark unknown!

Lo! a soft and soothing voice
Steals like music on my ears;--
"Let the drooping heart rejoice;
See! a glorious dawn appears!"

"When thy parting hours draw near,
And thou trembling view'st the last;
Christ and only Christ can cheer,
And o'er death a radiance cast!"

Weary Pilgrim, dry thy tear,
Look beyond these shades of night;
Mourn not with Redemption near,
Faint not with the goal in sight.

J. C.

_Bristol, March 9, 1846._

Footnotes:

[1] The reader will bear in mind that the present work consists of
Autobiography, and therefore, however repugnant to the writer's feelings,
the apparent egotism has been unavoidable.

[2] Robert Lovell, himself was a poet, as will appear by the following
being one of his Sonnets.

STONEHENGE.

Was it a spirit on yon shapeless pile?
It wore, methought, a holy Druid's form,
Musing on ancient days! The dying storm
Moan'd in his lifted locks. Thou, night! the while
Dost listen to his sad harp's wild complaint,
Mother of shadows! as to thee he pours
The broken strain, and plaintively deplores
The fall of Druid fame! Hark! murmurs faint
Breathe on the wavy air! and now more loud
Swells the deep dirge; accustomed to complain
Of holy rites unpaid, and of the crowd
Whose ceaseless steps the sacred haunts profane.
O'er the wild plain the hurrying tempest flies,
And, mid the storm unheard, the song of sorrow dies.

[3] I had an opportunity of introducing Mr. Southey at this time, to the
eldest Mrs. More, who invited him down to spend some whole day with her
sister Hannah, at their then residence, Cowslip Green. On this occasion,
as requested, I accompanied him. The day was full of converse. On my
meeting one of the ladies soon after, I was gratified to learn that Mr.
S. equally pleased all five of the sisters. She said he was "brim full of
literature, and one of the most elegant, and intellectual young men they
had seen."

[4] It might he intimated, that, for the establishment of these lectures,
there was, in Mr. Coleridge's mind, an interior spring of action. He
wanted to "build up" a provision for his speedy marriage with Miss Sarah
Fricker: and with these grand combined objects before him, no effort
appeared too vast to be accomplished by his invigorated faculties.

[5] Copied from his MS. as delivered, not from his "Conciones ad Populum"
as printed, where it will be found in a contracted state.

[6] Muir, Palmer, and Margarot.

[7] An eminent medical man in Bristol, who greatly admired Mr.
Coleridge's conversation and genius, on one occasion, invited Mr. C. to
dine with him, on a given day. The invitation was accepted, and this
gentleman, willing to gratify his friends with an introduction to Mr. C.
invited a large assemblage, for the express purpose of meeting him, and
made a splendid entertainment, anticipating the delight which would be
universally felt from Mr. C. a far-famed eloquence. It unfortunately
happened that Mr. Coleridge had forgotten all about it! and the
gentleman, [with his guests, after waiting till the hot became cold]
under his mortification consoled himself by the resolve, never again to
subject himself to a like disaster. No explanation or apology on my part
could soothe the choler of this disciple of Glen. A dozen subscribers to
his lectures fell off from this slip of his memory.

"Sloth jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand
Drop friendship's precious perls, like hour-glass sand.
I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,
A dreamy pang in morning's feverish doze,"

[8] This honest upholsterer, (a Mr. W. a good little weak man) attended
the preaching of the late eloquent Robert Hall. At one time an odd fancy
entered his mind, such as would have occurred to none other; namely, that
he possessed ministerial gifts; and with this notion uppermost in his
head, he was sorely perplexed, to determine whether he ought not to
forsake the shop, and ascend the pulpit.

In this uncertainty, he thought his discreetest plan would be to consult
his Minister; in conformity with which, one morning he called on Mr.
Hall, and thus began. "I call on you this morning, Sir, on a very
important business!" "Well Sir." "Why you must know, Sir--I can hardly
tell how to begin." "Let me hear, Sir." "Well Sir, if I must tell you,
for these two months past I have had a strong persuasion on my mind, that
I possess ministerial talents."--Mr. Hall (whose ideas were high of
ministerial requisites) saw his delusion, and determined at once to check
it. The Upholsterer continued: "Though a paper-hanger by trade, yet, sir,
I am now satisfied that I am called to give up my business, and attend to
something better; for you know, Mr. Hall, I should not bury my talents in
a napkin." "O Sir," said Mr. H. "you need not use a napkin, a
pocket-handkerchief will do."

This timely rebuke kept the good man to his paper-hangings for the
remainder of his days, for whenever he thought of the ministry, this same
image of the pocket-handkerchief, always damped his courage.

[9] Gilbert's derangement was owing to the loss of a naval cause at
Portsmouth, in which he was concerned as an Advocate. Among other
instances, one time when at his lodgings, he interpreted those words of
Christ personally, "Sell all that thou hast and distribute to the poor,"
when, without the formality of selling, he thought the precept might be
more summarily fulfilled, and therefore, one morning he tumbled every
thing he had in his room, through the window, into the street, that the
poor might help themselves; bed, bolsters, blankets, sheets, chairs! &c.,
&c, but unfortunately, it required at that season a higher exercise of
the clear reasoning process than he possessed, to distinguish accurately
between his own goods and chattels and those of his landlady!

He had all the volubility of a practised advocate, and seemed to delight
in nothing so much as discussion, whether on the unconfirmed parallactic
angle of Sirius, or the comparative weight of two straws. Amid the circle
in which he occasionally found himself, ample scope was often given him
for the exercise of this faculty. I once invited him, for the first time,
to meet the late Robert Hall. I had calculated on some interesting
discourse, aware that each was peculiarly susceptible of being aroused by
opposition. The anticipations entertained on this occasion were
abundantly realized. Their conversation, for some time, was mild and
pleasant, each, for each, receiving an instinctive feeling of respect;
but the subject happened to be started, of the contra-distinguishing
merits of Hannah More and Ann Yearsley. By an easy transition, this led
to the quarrel that some time before had taken place between these two
remarkable females; the one occupying the summit, and the other moving in
about the lowest grade of human society; but in genius, compeers. They at
once took opposite sides. One argument elicited another, till at length
each put forth his utmost strength, and such felicitous torrents of
eloquence could rarely have been surpassed; where on each side ardour was
repelled with fervency, and yet without the introduction of the least
indecorous expression.

Gilbert was an astrologer; and at the time of a person's birth, he would
with undoubting confidence predict all the leading events of his future
life, and sometimes (if he knew anything of his personal history) even
venture to declare the past. The caution with which he usually touched
the second subject, formed a striking contrast with the positive
declarations concerning the first.

I was acquainted at this time with a medical man of enlarged mind and
considerable scientific attainments; and accidentally mentioning to him
that a friend of mine was a great advocate for this sublime science, he
remarked, "I should like to see him, and one half hour would be
sufficient to despoil him of his weapons, and lay him prostrate in the
dust." I said, "if you will sup with me I will introduce you to the
astrologer, and if you can beat this nonsense out of his head, you will
benefit him and all his friends." When the evening arrived, it appeared
fair to apprise William Gilbert that I was going to introduce him to a
doctor, who had kindly and gratuitously undertaken to cure him of all his
astrological maladies. "Will he?" said Gilbert. "The malady is on his
side. Perhaps I may cure him."

Each having a specific business before him, there was no hesitation or
skirmishing, but at first sight they both, like tried veterans, in good
earnest addressed themselves to war. On one side, there was a
manifestation of sound sense and cogent argument; on the other, a
familiarity with all those arguments, combined with great subtlety in
evading them; and this sustained by new and ingenious sophisms. My
medical friend, for some time stood his ground manfully, till, at length,
he began to quail, apparently from the verbal torrent with which he was
so unexpectedly assailed. Encountered thus by so fearful and consummate a
disputant, whose eyes flashed fire in unison with his oracular tones and
empassioned language, the doctor's quiver unaccountably became exhausted,
and his spirit subdued. He seemed to look around for some mantle in which
to hide the mortification of defeat; and the more so from his previous
confidence. Never was a more triumphant victory, as it would
superficially appear, achieved by ingenious volubility in a bad cause,
over arguments, sound, but inefficiently wielded in a cause that was
good. A fresh instance of the man of sense vanquished by the man of
words.

[10] I would here subjoin, that when money, in future, may thus be
collected for ingenious individuals, it might be the wisest procedure to
transfer the full amount, at once, to the beneficiary, (unless under very
peculiar circumstances.) This is felt to be both handsome and generous,
and the obligation is permanently impressed on the mind. If the money
then be improvidently dissipated, he who acts thus ungratefully to his
benefactors, and cruelly to himself, reflects on his own folly alone. But
when active and benevolent agents, who have raised subscriptions, will
entail trouble on themselves, and with a feeling almost paternal, charge
themselves with a disinterested solicitude for future generations,
without a strong effort of the reasoning power, the favour is reduced to
a fraction. Dissatisfaction almost necessarily ensues, and the accusation
of ingratitude is seldom far behind.

[11] The Rev. James Newton, was Classical Tutor at the Bristol Baptist
Academy, in conjunction with the late Dr. Caleb Evans, and, for a short
season, the late Robert Hall. He was my most revered and honoured friend,
who lived for twenty years an inmate in my Father's family, and to whom I
am indebted in various ways, beyond my ability to express. His learning
was his least recommendation. His taste for elegant literature; his fine
natural understanding, his sincerity, and conciliating manners justified
the eulogium expressed by Dr. Evans in preaching his Funeral Sermon,
1789, when he said (to a weeping congregation), that "He never made an
enemy, nor lost a friend."

Mr. Newton was on intimate terms with the late Dean Tucker, and the Rev.
Sir James Stonehouse, the latter of whom introduced him to Hannah More,
who contracted for him, as his worth and talents became more and more
manifest, a sincere and abiding friendship. Mr. Newton had the honour of
teaching Hannah More Latin. The time of his instructing her did not
exceed ten months. She devoted to this one subject the whole of her time,
and all the energies of her mind. Mr. Newton spoke of her to me as
exemplifying how much might be attained in a short time by talent and
determination combined; and he said, for the limited period of his
instruction, she surpassed in her progress all others whom he had ever
known. H. More was in the habit of submitting her MSS. to Mr. N.'s
judicious remarks, and by this means, from living in the same house with
him, I preceded the public in inspecting some of her productions;
particularly her MS. Poem on the "Slave Trade," and her "Bas Bleu." When
a boy, many an evening do I recollect to have listened in wonderment to
colloquisms and disputations carried on in Latin between Mr. Newton and
John Henderson. It gives me pleasure to have borne this brief testimony
of respect toward one on whom memory so often and so fondly reposes! Best
of men, and kindest of friends, "farewell till we do meet
again!"-(Bowles.)

[12] From his natural unassumed dignity, Mr. Foster used to call Mr. Hall
"_Jupiter_."

[13] Mr. Hall broke down all distinction of sects and parties. On one of
his visits to Bristol, when preaching at the chapel in Broadmead, a
competent individual noticed in the thronged assembly an Irish Bishop, a
Dean, and thirteen Clergymen. The late Dr. Parr was an enthusiastic
admirer of Mr. Hall. He said to a friend of the writer, after a warm
eulogium on the eloquence of Mr. H. "In short, sir, the man is inspired."
Hannah More has more than once said to the writer, "There was no man in
the church, nor out of it, comparable in talents to Robert Hall."

[14] I presented Mr. C. with the three guineas, but forbore the
publication.

[15] I received a note, at this time, from Mr. Coleridge, evidently
written in a moment of perturbation, apologising for not accepting an
invitation of a more congenial nature, on account of his "Watch
drudgery." At another time, he was reluctantly made a prisoner from the
same cause, as will appear by the following note.

"April, 1796.

My dear Cottle,

My eye is so inflamed that I cannot stir out. It is alarmingly inflamed.
In addition to this, the Debates which Burnet undertook to abridge for
me, he has abridged in such a careless, slovenly manner, that I was
obliged to throw them into the fire, and am now doing them myself!...

S. T. C."

[16] This "sheet" of Sonnets never arrived.

[17] A late worthy bookseller of Bristol, who by his exertions obtained
one hundred and twenty subscribers for Mr. C.

[18] "My Bristol printer of the Watchman refused to wait a month for his
money, and threatened to throw me into jail for between _eighty_ and
_ninety_ pounds; when the money was paid by a friend."--_Biographia
Literaria_. Mr. C.'s memory was here grievously defective. The fact is,
Biggs the printer (a worthy man) never threatened nor even importuned for
his Money. Instead also of _nine_ numbers of the Watchman, there were
_ten_; and the printing of these ten numbers, came but to _thirty five_
pounds. The whole of the Paper (which cost more than the Printing) was
paid for by the Writer.

[19] It is evident Mr. C. must have had cause of complaint against one or
more of the booksellers before named. It could not apply to myself, as I
invariably adhered to a promise I had at the commencement given Mr.
Coleridge, not to receive any allowance for what copies of the 'Watchman'
I might be so happy as to sell for him.

[20] In all Mr. Coleridge's lectures, he was a steady opposer of Mr.
Pitt, and the then existing war; and also an enthusiastic admirer of Pox,
Sheridan, Grey, &c., &c., but his opposition to the reigning politics
discovered little asperity; it chiefly appeared by wit and sarcasm, and
commonly ended in that which was the speaker's chief object, a laugh.

Few attended Mr. C.'s lectures but those whose political views were
similar to his own; but on one occasion, some gentlemen of the opposite
party came into the lecture-room, and at one sentiment they heard,
testified their disapprobation by the only easy and safe way in their
power; namely, by a hiss. The auditors were startled at so unusual a
sound, not knowing to what it might conduct; but their noble leader soon
quieted their fears, by instantly remarking with great coolness, "I am
not at all surprised, when the red-hot prejudices of aristocrats are
suddenly plunged iuto the cool water of reason, that they should go off
with a hiss!" The words were electric. The assailants felt as well as
testified, their confusion, and the whole company confirmed it by immense
applause! There was no more hissing.

[21] A law just then passed.

[22] It is this general absence of the dates to Mr. C.'s letters, which
may have occasioned me, in one or two instances, to err in the
arrangement.

[23] Mr. Wordsworth, at this time resided at Allfoxden House, two or
three miles from Stowey.

[24] How much is it to be deplored, that one whose views were so enlarged
as those of Mr. Coleridge, and his conceptions so Miltonic, should have
been satisfied with theorizing merely; and that he did not, like his
great Prototype, concentrate all his energies, so as to produce some one
august poetical work, which should become the glory of his country.

[25] Sister of the Premier.

[26] It appears from Sir James Macintosh's Life, published by his son,
that a diminution of respect towards Sir James was entertained by Mr.
For, arising from the above two letters of Mr. Coleridge, which appeared
in the Morning Post. Some enemy of Sir James had informed Mr. Fox that
these two letters were written by Macintosh, and which exceedingly
wounded his mind. Before the error could be corrected, Mr. Fox died. This
occurrence was deplored by Sir James, in a way that showed his deep
feeling of regret, but which, as might be supposed, did not prevent him
from bearing the amplest testimony to the social worth and surpassing
talents of that great statesman.

Mr. Coleridge's Bristol friends will remember that once Mr. Fox was
idolized by him as the paragon of political excellence; and Mr. Pitt
depressed in the same proportion.

[27] The following is the Sonnet to Lord Stanhope, in the first edition,
now omitted.

"Not STANHOPE! with the _patriot's_ doubtful name
I mock thy worth, FRIEND OF THE HUMAN RACE!
Since, scorning faction's low and partial aim,
Aloof thou wendest in thy stately pace,
Thyself redeeming from that leprous stain--
NOBILITY! and, aye unterrified,
Pourest thy Abdiel warnings on the train
That sit complotting with rebellious pride
'Gainst her, who from th' Almighty's bosom leapt,
With whirlwind arm, fierce minister of love!
Wherefore, ere virtue o'er thy tomb hath wept.
Angels shall lead thee to the throne above,
And thou from forth its clouds shalt hear the voice--
Champion of FREEDOM, and her God, rejoice!

[28] The Skylark.

[29] It is to be regretted that Mr. C. in his emendations, should have
excluded from the second verse of the first poem, the two best lines in
the piece.

"And thy inmost soul confesses
Chaste Affection's majesty."

[30] Mr. C. afterward requested that the "allegorical lines" might alone
be printed in his second edition, with this title: "To an Unfortunate
Woman, whom the Author had known in the days of her innocence." The first
Poem, "Maiden, that with sullen brow," &c. he meant to re-write, and
which he will be found to have done, with considerable effect.

[31] Mr. Wordsworth lived at Racedown, before he removed to Allfoxden.

[32] Mr. C. after much hesitation, had intended to begin his second
edition with this Poem from the "Joan of Arc," in its enlarged, but
imperfect state, and even sent it to the press; but the discouraging
remarks, which he remembered, of one and another, at the last moment,
shook his resolution, and occasioned him to withdraw it wholly. He
commenced his volume with the "Ode to the Departing Year."

[33] WRITTEN, (1793) WITH A PENCIL, ON THE WALL OP THE ROOM IN BRISTOL
NEWGATE, WHERE SAVAGE DIED.

Here Savage lingered long, and here expired!
The mean--the proud--the censored--the admired!

If, wandering o'er misfortune's sad retreat,
Stranger! these lines arrest thy passing feet,
And recollection urge the deeds of shame
That tarnish'd once an unblest Poet's fame;
Judge not another till thyself art free,
And hear the gentle voice of charity.
"No friend received him, and no mother's care
Sheltered his infant innocence with prayer;
No father's guardian hand his youth maintained,
Call'd forth his virtues, or from vice restrain'd."
Reader! hadst thou been to neglect consign'd,
And cast upon the mercy of mankind;
Through the wide world, like Savage, forced to stray,
And find, like him, one long and stormy day;
Objects less noble might thy soul have swayed,
Or crimes around thee cast a deeper shade.
While poring o'er another's mad career,
Drop for thyself the penitential tear;
Though prized by friends, and nurs'd in innocence,
How oft has folly wrong'd thy better sense:
But if some virtues in thy breast there be,
Ask, if they sprang from _circumstance_, or _thee!_
And ever to thy heart the precept bear,
When thine own conscience smites, a wayward brother spare!

J. C.

[34] My brother, when at Cambridge, had written a Latin poem for the
prize: the subject, "Italia, Vastata," and sent it to Mr. Coleridge, with
whom he was on friendly terms, in MS. requesting the favor of his
remarks; and this he did about six weeks before it was necessary to
deliver it in. Mr. C. in an immediate letter, expressed his approbation
of the Poem, and cheerfully undertook the task; but with a little of his
procrastination, he returned the MS. with his remarks, just one day after
it was too late to deliver the poem in!

[35] Verbatim, from Burns's dedication of his Poems to the nobility and
gentry of the Caledonian Hunt.

[36] It appears that Mr. Burnet had been prevailed upon by smugglers to
buy some prime cheap brandy, but which Mr. Coleridge affirmed to be a
compound of Hellebore, kitchen grease, and Assafoetida! or something as
bad.

[37] Mr. George Burnet died at the age of thirty-two, 1807.

[38] The reader will have observed a peculiarity in most of Mr.
Coleridge's conclusions to his letters. He generally says, "God bless
you, and, or eke, S. T. C." so as to involve a compound blessing.

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