Grace S. Richmond - "On Christmas Day in the Morning"

Metta Victoria Full Victor - "The Blunders of a Bashful Man"

Various - "Ballads of Scottish Tradition and Romance"

Anonymous - "History of Steam on the Erie Canal"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey

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




On returning late to the Inn, I informed my companions, that there was at
no great distance a large iron foundry, never seen to perfection but at
night, and proposed our visiting it. Mr. Coleridge felt downright horror
at the thought of being again moved; considering that he had had quite
enough exercise for one day, and infinitely preferring the fire of his
host to the forge of the Cyclops. The ladies also rather shrunk from
encountering a second night expedition; but Mr. Southey cordially
approved the suggestion, and we ushered forth, in the dreariness of
midnight, to behold this real spectacle of sublimity! Our ardour indeed,
was a little cooled when, by the glimmering of the stars, we perceived a
dark expanse stretched by our path,--an ugly mill-pond, by the side of
which we groped, preserving, as well as we could, a respectful distance,
and entering into a mutual compact that if (after all) one should fall
in, the other should do all that in him lay to pull him out.

But I leave further extraneous impositions on the reader's
attention,--the Wye, and other etceteras, briefly to remark, that we
safely returned the next day, after an excursion where the reality
exceeded the promise: and it may be added, quite in time to enable Mr.
Southey to prepare for, and deliver his Lecture, "on the Rise, Fall, and
Decline of the Roman Empire." Mr. Coleridge was not present.

The publication of Mr. C.'s volume of Poems having been attended with
some rather peculiar circumstances, to detail them a little may amuse the
reader. On my expressing to him a wish to begin the printing as early as
he found it convenient, he sent me the following note.


"My dear friend,

The printer may depend on copy on Monday morning, and if he can work a
sheet a day, he shall have it.

S. T. C."


A day or two after, and before the receipt of the copy, I received from
Mr. C. the following cheerful note.


"Dear Cottle,

By the thick smoke that precedes the volcanic eruptions of Etna,
Vesuvius, and Hecla, I feel an impulse to fumigate, at [now] 25,
College-Street, one pair of stairs room; yea, with our Oronoko, and if
thou wilt send me by the bearer, four pipes, I will write a panegyrical
epic poem upon thee, with as many books as there are letters in thy name.
Moreover, if thou wilt send me "the copy book" I hereby bind myself, by
to-morrow morning, to write out enough copy for a sheet and a half.

God bless you!

July 31st, 1795.

S. T. C."


This promising commencement was soon interrupted by successive and
long-continued delays. The permission I had given to anticipate payment
was remembered and complied with, before the work went to the press.
These delays I little heeded, but they were not quite so acceptable to
the printer, who grievously complained that his types, and his leads, and
his forms, were locked up, week after week, to his great detriment.

Being importuned by the printer, I stated these circumstances to Mr.
Coleridge in a note, expressed in what I thought the mildest possible
way, but which excited, it appeared, uncomfortable feelings in his mind,
never in the least noticed to or by myself, but evidenced to my surprise,
by the following passage in a note to Mr. Wade.


"My very dear Friend,

... Mr. Cottle has ever conducted himself towards me with unbounded
kindness, and one unkind act, no, nor twenty, can obliterate the grateful
remembrance of it. By indolence, and frequent breach of promise, I had
deserved a severe reproof from him, although my present brain-crazing
circumstances, rendered this an improper time for it....

S. T. C."


I continued to see Mr. Coleridge every day, and occasionally said to him,
smiling, "Well, how much copy;" "None, to day," was the general reply,
"but to-morrow you shall have some." To-morrow produced, if any, perhaps
a dozen lines; and, in a favourable state of mind, so much, it might be,
as half a dozen pages: and here I think I can correctly state, that Mr.
C. had repeated to me at different times nearly all the poems contained
in his volume, except the "Religious Musings," which I understood to be
wholly a new poem. It may amuse the reader to receive one or two more of
Mr. C.'s little apologies.


"My dear Friend,

The Printer may depend on copy by to-morrow.

S. T. C."


"My dear Cottle,

The Religious Musings are finished, and you shall have them on Thursday.

S. T. C."


Sometimes sickness interfered.


"Dear Cottle,

A devil, a very devil, has got possession of my left temple, eye, cheek,
jaw, throat, and shoulder. I cannot see you this evening. I write in
agony.

Your affectionate Friend and Brother,

S. T. C."


Sometimes his other engagements were of a pressing nature.


"Dear Cottle,

Shall I trouble you (I being over the mouth and nose, in doing something
of importance, at Lovell's) to send your servant into the market, and buy
a pound of bacon, and two quarts of broad beans; and when he carries it
down to College St. to desire the maid to dress it for dinner, and tell
her I shall be home by three o'clock. Will you come and drink tea with
me, and I will endeavour to get the etc. ready for you.

Yours affectionately,

S. T. C."


Whatever disappointments arose, plausible reasons were always assigned
for them, but when ingenuity was fairly taxed with excuses, worn out, Mr.
C. would candidly admit, that he had very little "finger industry," but
then, he said, his mind was always on "full stretch."--The Herculean
labour now appeared drawing to a close; as will be clear from the
following letter.


"My dear, very dear Cottle,

I will be with you at half past six; if you will give me a dish of tea,
between that time and eleven o'clock at night, I will write out the whole
of the notes, and the preface, as I give you leave to turn the lock and
key upon me.

I am engaged to dine with Michael Castle, but I will not be one minute
past my time. If I am, I permit you to send a note to Michael Castle,
requesting him to send me home to fulfil engagements, like an honest man.

S. T. C."


Well knowing that it was Mr. Coleridge's intention to do all that was
right, but aware at the same time that, however prompt he might be in
resolving, he had to contend, in the fulfilment, with great
constitutional indecision, I had long resolved to leave the completion of
his work wholly to himself, and not to urge him to a speed which would
render that a toil, which was designed to be a pleasure.

But we must instantly leave, alike excuses, and printer, and copy, to
notice a subject of infinitely more importance!

It was now understood that Mr. Coleridge was about to be married. Aware
of his narrow circumstances, and not doubting the anxieties he must
necessarily feel, in the prospect of his altered condition, and to render
his mind as easy in pecuniary affairs, as the extreme case would admit; I
thought it would afford a small relief to tell him that I would give him
one guinea and a-half, (after his volume was completed,) for every
hundred lines he might present to me, whether rhyme or blank verse. This
offer appeared of more consequence in the estimation of Mr. C., than it
did in his who made it; for when a common friend familiarly asked him
"how he was to keep the pot boiling, when married?" he very promptly
answered, that Mr. Cottle had made him such an offer, that he felt no
solicitude on that subject.

Mr. Coleridge, in prospect of his marriage, had taken a cottage at
Clevedon, a village, happily on the banks not of the Susquehannah, but
the Severn. He was married to Miss Sarah Fricker, October the 4th, 1795,
and immediately after set off for his country abode.

The following is a copy of the certificate:--

"ST. MARY REDCLIFFE CHURCH, BRISTOL.

Married,

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, to Sarah Fricker, Oct. 4th, 1795.

Benj. Spry, Vicar.

Witnesses,--Martha Fricker, Josiah Wade."

It happened in this case, as it often does where a duty devolves equally
on two; both neglect it. The cottage at Clevedon, it appeared, had walls,
and doors, and windows; but only such furniture as became a philosopher
who was too well disciplined to covet inordinately, non-essentials.
Beside which there might have been more of system in this deliberate
renunciation of luxury. For would it have been consistent in those who
anticipated a speedy location on the marge of one of the great American
rivers, to intrench themselves in comforts that must so soon be exchanged
for little more than primeval supplies and the rugged privations of the
desert? (For even at this time Mr. C. still fondly dwelt on the joys of
the Susquehannah.)

Two days after his marriage, I received a letter from Mr. Coleridge
(which now lies before me) requesting the kindness of me to send him
down, with all dispatch, the following little articles.

"A riddle slice; a candle box; two ventilators; two glasses for the
wash-hand stand; one tin dust pan; one small tin tea kettle; one pair
of candlesticks; one carpet brush; one flower dredge; three tin
extinguishers; two mats; a pair of slippers; a cheese toaster; two
large tin spoons; a bible; a keg of porter; coffee; raisins;
currants; catsup; nutmegs; allspice; cinnamon; rice; ginger; and
mace."

With the aid of the grocer, and the shoemaker, and the brewer, and the
tinman, and the glassman, and the brazier, &c., I immediately sent him
all that he had required, and more; and the next day rode down to pay my
respects to the new-married couple; being greeted, not with the common,
and therefore vulgar, materials of cake and wine, but with that which
moved the spirit, hearty gratulations!

I was rejoiced to find that the cottage possessed every thing that heart
could desire. The situation also was peculiarly eligible. It was in the
western extremity, not in the centre of the village. It had the benefit
of being but one story high, and as the rent was only five pounds per
ann., and no taxes, Mr. Coleridge had the satisfaction of knowing, that
by fairly "mounting his Pegasus," he could write as many verses in a week
as would pay his rent for a year. There was also a small garden, with
several pretty flowers; and the "tallest rose tree," was not failed to be
pointed out, which "peeped at the chamber window," (and which has been
honoured with some beautiful lines). I observed, however, that the
parlour, from my perverted taste, looked rather awkward in being only
whitewashed, and the same effected in rather the "olden time;" to remedy
which fanciful inconvenience, on my return to Bristol, I sent an
upholsterer[8] down to this retired and happy abode with a few pieces of
sprightly paper, to tarnish the half immaculate sitting-room walls.

Mr. Coleridge being now comfortably settled at Clevedon, I shall there
for the present leave him to write verses on his beloved Sarah, while in
the mean time, I introduce the reader to an ingenious young barrister
whom I had known some years previously under the following peculiar
circumstances.

William Gilbert, author of the "Hurricane," was the son of the eminent
philanthropist, Nathaniel Gilbert, of Antigua, who is usually noticed as
"The excellent Gilbert who first set an example to the planters, of
giving religious instruction to the slaves." In the year 1787, a want of
self-control having become painfully evident, he was placed by his
friends in the Asylum of Mr. Richard Henderson at Hanham, near Bristol,
when I first knew him. He occasionally accompanied John Henderson into
Bristol, on one of which occasions he introduced him to my brother and
myself, as the "Young Counsellor!" I spent an afternoon with them, not
readily to be forgotten. Many and great talkers have I known, but William
Gilbert, at this time, exceeded them all. His brain seemed to be in a
state of boiling effervescence, and his tongue, with inconceivable
rapidity, passed from subject to subject, but with an incoherence that
was to me, at least, marvellous. For two hours he poured forth a verbal
torrent, which was only suspended by sheer physical exhaustion.

John Henderson must have perceived a thousand fallacies in his
impassioned harangue; but he allowed them all to pass uncommented upon,
for he knew there was no fighting with a vapour. He continued in the
Asylum about a year, when his mind being partially restored, his friends
removed him, and he wholly absented himself from Bristol, till the year
1796, when he re-appeared in that city.

Being so interesting a character, I felt pleasure in introducing him to
Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Southey, with whom he readily coalesced, and they,
I believe, truly respected him, soon however perceiving there was
"something unsound in Denmark;" but still there was so much general and
obvious talent about him, and his manners were so conciliating, that they
liked his company, and tolerated some few peculiarities for the sake of
the much that was good. The deference he paid Mr. C. and Mr. S. was some
evidence that reason had partly reassumed her seat in his mind, for when
before them, he withheld many of his most extravagant notions, and
maintained such a comparative restraint on his tongue, as evidently arose
from the respect with which he was impressed.

At one time he very gravely told me, that to his certain knowledge there
was in the centre of Africa, bordering on Abyssinia, a little to the
south-east, an extensive nation of the Gibberti, or Gilberti, and that
one day or other he intended to visit them, and claim kindred.[9]

One morning, information was brought to us that W. Gilbert, at an early
hour, had departed precipitately from Bristol, without speaking to any
one of his friends. We felt great concern at this unexpected movement,
and by comparing recent conversations, we thought it highly probable
that, in obedience to some astrological monition he had determined,
forthwith, to set off on a visit to his relatives in Africa. So convinced
was Mr. Southey that this long-cherished design had influenced poor
Gilbert in his sudden withdrawment, that he wrote to Mr. Roscoe, at
Liverpool, begging him to interfere, to prevent any African captain from
taking such a person as Mr. S. described. Mr. Roscoe appeared to have
taken much trouble; but after a vigilant inquiry, he replied, by saying
that no such person had sailed from, or appeared in Liverpool. So that we
remained in total uncertainty as to what was become of him; many years
afterwards it appeared he had gone to Charleston, United States, where he
died.

Mr. Southey thus refers to W. Gilbert in his "Life of Wesley."

"In the year 1796, Mr. G. published the 'Hurricane, a Theosophical
and Western Eclogue,' and shortly afterwards placarded the walls of
London with the largest bills that had at that time been seen,
announcing 'the Law of Fire.' I knew him well and look back with a
melancholy pleasure to the hours which I have passed in his society,
when his mind was in ruins. His madness was of the most
incomprehensible kind, as may be seen in the notes to his
'Hurricane;' but the Poem possesses passages of exquisite beauty. I
have among my papers some memorials of this interesting man. They who
remember him (as some of my readers will,) will not be displeased at
seeing him thus mentioned, with the respect and regret which are due
to a noble mind."

Mr. Wordsworth, also at the end of his "Excursion," has quoted the
following note to the "Hurricane," with the remark that it "is one of the
finest passages of modern English prose."

"A man is supposed to improve by going out into the world, by
visiting London. Artificial man does, he extends with his sphere;
but, alas! that sphere is microscopic; it is formed of minutiae, and
he surrenders his genuine vision to the artist, in order to embrace
it in his ken. His bodily senses grow acute, even to barren and
inhuman pruriency; while his mental become proportionally obtuse. The
reverse is the man of mind. He who is placed in the sphere of nature
and of God, might be a mock at Tattersall's and Brookes's, and a
sneer at St. James's: he would certainly be swallowed alive by the
first Pizarro that crossed him; but when he walks along the river of
Amazons; when he rests his eye on the unrivalled Andes: when he
measures the long and watered savannah, or contemplates from a sudden
promontory, the distant, vast Pacific, and feels himself in this vast
theatre, and commanding each ready produced fruit of this wilderness,
and each progeny of this stream--his exaltation is not less than
imperial. He is as gentle too as he is great: his emotions of
tenderness keep pace with his elevation of sentiment; for he says,
'These were made by a good Being, who, unsought by me, placed me here
to enjoy them.' He becomes at once a child and a king. His mind is in
himself; from hence he argues and from hence he acts, and he argues
unerringly, and acts magisterially. His mind in himself is also in
his God; and therefore he loves, and therefore he soars.'"

As these pages are designed, by brief incidental notices, to furnish a
view of the Literature of Bristol during a particular portion of time;
and having introduced the name of Ann Yearsley, I here, in reference to
her, subjoin a few additional remarks.

* * * * *

I was well acquainted with Ann Yearsley, and my friendship for Hannah
More did not blind my eyes to the merits of her opponent. Candour exacts
the acknowledgment that the Bristol Milkwoman was a very extraordinary
individual. Her natural abilities were eminent, united with which, she
possessed an unusually sound masculine understanding; and altogether
evinced, even in her countenance, the unequivocal marks of genius. If her
education and early advantages had been favourable, there is no limiting
the distinction to which she might have attained; and the respect she did
acquire, proves what formidable barriers may be surmounted by native
talent when perseveringly exerted, even in the absence of those
preliminary assistances which are often merely the fret-work, the
entablature, of the Corinthian column.

Ann Yearsley's genius was discoverable in her Poems, but perhaps the
extent of her capacity chiefly appeared in her Novel, "The Man in the
Iron Mask;" in itself a bad subject, from the confined limit it gives to
the imagination; but there is a vigour in her style which scarcely
appeared compatible with a wholly uneducated woman. The late Mr. G.
Robinson, the bookseller, told me that he had given Ann Yearsley two
hundred pounds for the above work, and that he would give her one hundred
pounds for every volume she might produce. This sum, with the profits of
her Poems, enabled her to set up a circulating library, at the Hot Wells.
I remember, in the year 1793, an imposition was attempted to be practised
upon her, and she became also involved in temporary pecuniary
difficulties, when by timely interference and a little assistance I had
the happiness of placing her once more in a state of comfort. From a
grateful feeling she afterwards sent me a handsome copy of verses.

It has been too customary to charge her with ingratitude, (at which all
are ready to take fire,) but without sufficient cause, as the slight
services I rendered her were repaid with a superabundant expression of
thankfulness; what then must have been the feelings of her heart toward
Mrs. Hannah More, to whom her obligations were so surpassing?

The merits of the question involved in the dissension between Ann
Yearsley and Mrs. H. More, lay in a small compass, and they deserve to be
faithfully stated; the public are interested in the refutation of charges
of ingratitude, which, if substantiated, would tend to repress assistance
toward the humbler children of genius. The baneful effects arising from a
charge of ingratitude in Ann Yearsley towards her benefactress, might be
the proximate means of dooming to penury and death some unborn
Chatterton, or of eclipsing the sun of a future Burns.

Hannah More discovered that the woman who supplied her family daily with
milk, was a really respectable poetess. She collected her productions,
and published them for her benefit, with a recommendatory address. The
Poems, as they deserved, became popular; doubtless, in a great degree,
through the generous and influential support of Mrs. H. More, and the
profits of the sale amounted to some hundreds of pounds.

The money, thus obtained, the milkwoman wished, to receive herself: for
the promotion of herself in life, and the assistance of her two promising
sons, who inherited much of their mother's talent. Hannah More on the
contrary, in conjunction with Mrs. Montague, thought it most advisable to
place the money in the Funds, in the joint names of herself and Mrs. M.
as trustees for Ann Yearsley, so that she might receive a small permanent
support through life. In this, Hannah More acted with the purest
intention. If any judicious friend had stated to her that Ann Yearsley,
whom she had so greatly served, was a discreet woman and would not be
likely to squander her little all: that she wanted to educate her two
sons, and to open for herself a circulating library, neither of which
objects could be accomplished without trenching on her capital, no doubt
could have been entertained of her instantly acceding to it.

The great error on the part of the milkwoman, was in not prevailing on
some friend thus to interfere, and calmly to state her case; instead of
which, in a disastrous moment, she undertook to plead her own cause; and,
without the slightest intention of giving offence, called on her
patroness. Both parties meant well, but from the constitution of the
human mind, it was hardly possible for one who had greatly obliged
another in a subordinate station to experience the least opposition
without at least an uncomfortable feeling. There must have existed a
predisposition to misconstrue motives, as well as a susceptibility, in
the closest alliance with offence. And now the experiment commenced.

Here was a strong-minded illiterate woman on one side, impressed with a
conviction of the justice of her cause; and further stimulated by a deep
consciousness of the importance of success to herself and family; and on
the other side, a refined mind, delicately alive to the least
approximation to indecorum, and, not unreasonably, requiring deference
and conciliation. Could such incongruous materials coalesce? Ann
Yearsley's suit, no doubt was urged with a zeal approaching to
impetuosity, and not expressed in that measured language which propriety
might have dictated; and any deficiency in which could not fail to offend
her polished and powerful patroness.

Ann Yearsley obtained her object, but she lost her friend. Her name, from
that moment, was branded with ingratitude; and severe indeed was the
penalty entailed on her by this act of indiscretion! Her good name, with
the rapidity of the eagle's pinion, was forfeited! Her talents, in a
large circle at once became questionable, or vanished away. Her assumed
criminality also was magnified into audacity, in daring to question the
honour, or oppose the wishes of two such women as Mrs. H. More, and Mrs.
Montague! and thus, through this disastrous turn of affairs, a dark veil
was suddenly thrown over prospects, so late the most unsullied and
exhilarating; and the favorite of fortune sunk to rise no more!

Gloom and perplexities in quick succession oppressed the Bristol
milkwoman, and her fall became more rapid than her ascent! The eldest of
her sons, William Cromartie Yearsley, who had bidden fair to be the prop
of her age; and whom she had apprenticed to an eminent engraver, with a
premium of one hundred guineas, prematurely died; and his surviving
brother soon followed him to the grave! Ann Yearsley, now a childless and
desolate widow, retired, heart-broken from the world, on the produce of
her library; and died many years after, in a state of almost total
seclusion, at Melksham. An inhabitant of the town lately informed me that
she was never seen, except when she took her solitary walk in the dusk of
the evening! She lies buried in Clifton church-yard.

In this passing notice of the Bristol milkwoman, my design has been to
rescue her name from unmerited obloquy, and not in the remotest degree to
criminate Hannah More, whose views and impressions in this affair may
have been somewhat erroneous, but whose intentions it would be impossible
for one moment to question.[10]

The reader will not be displeased with some further remarks on Mrs.
Hannah More, whose long residence near Bristol identified her so much
with that city.

Mrs. H. More lived with her four sisters, Mary, Elizabeth, Sarah, and
Martha, after they quitted their school in Park-Street, Bristol, at a
small neat cottage in Somersetshire, called Cowslip Green. The Misses M.
some years afterward built a better house, and called it Barley Wood, on
the side of a hill, about a mile from Wrington. Here they all lived, in
the highest degree respected and beloved: their house the seat of piety,
cheerfulness, literature, and hospitality; and they themselves receiving
the honour of more visits from bishops, nobles, and persons of
distinction, than, perhaps, any private family in the kingdom.

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