Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey

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

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My sisters having been educated by them, and myself having two intimate
friends, who were also the friends of the Misses More; the Rev. James
Newton,[11] and my old tutor, John Henderson, they introduced me to the
family in Park Street, and the acquaintance then commenced was
progressively ripened into respect that continued to the termination of
all their lives. Hannah More gave me unrestricted permission to bring
down to Barley-Wood, any literary or other friend of mine, at any time;
and of which privilege, on various occasions I availed myself.

Many years before, I had taken down, then by express, invitation, Mr.
Southey, to see these excellent ladies; and in the year 1814, I conducted
Mr. Coleridge to Barley Wood, and had the pleasure of introducing him to
Hannah More and her sisters. For two hours after our arrival, Mr. C.
displayed a good deal of his brilliant conversation, when he was listened
to with surprise and delight by the whole circle; but at this time,
unluckily, Lady--was announced, when Mrs. Hannah, from politeness,
devoted herself to her titled visitant, while the little folks retired to
a snug window with one or two of the Misses More, and there had their own
agreeable converse.

Hannah More's eminently useful life manifested itself in nothing more
than the effort she made to instruct the ignorant through the medium of
moral and religious _tracts_, and by the establishment of schools. These
were made blessings on a wide scale, whilst their good effects are
continued to this time, and are likely to be perpetuated.

It is here proper to mention that after superintending these various
schools, either personally or by proxy, for more than a quarter of a
century, and after the decease of her four benevolent and excellent
sisters, Hannah More found it necessary to leave Barley Wood, and to
remove to Clifton. Here her expenses were reduced one half, and her
comforts greatly increased. The house she occupied, No. 4, Windsor
Terrace, Clifton, was even more pleasant than the one she had left, and
the prospects from it much more enlivening. I remember to have called on
her with the late Robert Hall, when she discovered a cheerfulness which
showed that Barley Wood was no longer regretted. She brought us to the
windows of her spacious drawing room, and there, in the expanse beneath,
invited us to behold the new docks, and the merchants' numerous ships,
while the hill of Dundry appeared (at the distance of four miles) far
loftier than her own Mendip, and equally verdant. From the window of her
back room also, directly under her eye, a far more exquisite prospect
presented itself than any Barley Wood could boast; Leigh Woods, St.
Vincent's Rocks, Clifton Down, and, to crown the whole, the winding Avon,
with the continually shifting commerce of Bristol; and we left her with
the impression that the change in her abode was a great accession to her
happiness.

In a letter to Mr. Wilberforce, Hannah More thus rather pleasantly
writes:--

"4, Windsor Terrace, Oct. 29, 1828.

My Very Dear Friend,

... I am diminishing my worldly cares. I have sold Barley Wood. I have
exchanged the eight "pampered minions," for four sober servants. As I
have sold my carriage and horses, I want no coachman: as I have no
garden, I want no gardener. I have greatly lessened my house expenses,
which enables me to maintain my schools, and enlarge my charities. My
schools alone, with clothing, rents, &c., cost me L150 a year."

Mrs. H. More was sometimes liberally assisted in the support of these
schools (as I learned from Miss Martha More,) by three philanthropic
individuals, the late Mr. Henry Thornton, the late Mr. Wilberforce, and
the late Sir W. W. Pepys, Bart.

Mrs. H. More, in a letter to Sir W. W. Pepys, acknowledging the receipt
of one hundred pounds, says, "My most affectionate respects to Lady
Pepys. The young race, of course, have all forgotten me; but I have not
forgotten the energy with which your eldest son, at seven years old, ran
into the drawing room, and said to me, "After all, Ferdinand would never
have sent Columbus to find out America if it had not been for Isabella:
it was entirely her doing." How gratifying it would have been to H. More,
had she lived two or three years longer, to have found in the round of
human things, that this energetic boy of seven years, had become (1837)
the Lord High Chancellor of England! and now again in 1846.

All the paintings, drawings, and prints which covered the walls of the
parlour, on Hannah More's quitting Barley Wood, she gave to her friend,
Sir T. D. Ackland, Bart, with the exception of the portrait, by Palmer,
of John Henderson, which she kindly presented to myself.

* * * * *

As I purposed, in projecting the present work, to allow myself a certain
latitude in commenting on persons of talent connected recently with
Bristol, and with whom Mr. C. and Mr. S. were acquainted, and especially
when those persons are dead, I shall here in addition briefly refer to
the late Robert Hall.

Mr. Hall is universally admitted to have possessed a mind of the first
order. He united qualities, rarely combined, each of which would have
constituted greatness; being a writer of pre-eminent excellence, and a
sacred orator that exceeded all competition.

Posterity will judge of Robert Hall's capacity by his writings alone, but
all who knew him as a preacher, unhesitatingly admit that in his pulpit
exercises (when the absorption of his mind in his subject rendered him
but half sensible to the agony of internal maladies which scarcely knew
cessation, and which would have prostrated a spirit less firm) that in
these exercises, the superiority of his intellect became more undeniably
manifest than even in his deliberate compositions. Here some might
approach, who could not surpass; but, as a preacher, he stood, collected,
in solitary grandeur.

Let the reader who was never privileged to see or hear this extraordinary
man, present to his imagination a dignified figure[12] that secured the
deference which was never exacted; a capacious forehead; an eye, in the
absence of excitement, dark, yet placid, but when warmed with argument,
flashing almost coruscations of light, as the harmonious accompaniments
of his powerful language.

But the pulpit presented a wider field for the display of this
constitutional ardour. Here, the eye, that always awed, progressively
advanced in expression; till warmed with his immortal subject it kindled
into absolute radiance, that with its piercing beams penetrated the very
heart, and so absorbed the spirit that the preacher himself was forgotten
in the magnificent and almost overpowering array of impassioned thoughts
and images. With this exterior, let the reader associate a voice, though
not strong, eminently flexible and harmonious; a mind that felt, and
therefore never erred in its emphasis; alternately touching the chord of
pathos, or advancing with equal ease into the region of argument or
passion; and then let him remember that every sentiment he uttered was
clothed in expressions as mellifluous as perhaps ever fell from the
tongue of man.

Few would dispute the testimony of Dugald Stewart on subjects of
composition; and still fewer would question his authority in ascribing,
as he does, to Robert Hall, the excellencies of Addison, Johnson, and
Burke, without their defects: and to the works of Mr. H. reference will
hereafter doubtless be made, as exhibiting some of the finest specimens
that can be adduced, of the harmony, the elegance, the energy, and
compass of the English tongue.

After noticing the excellencies of Mr. Hall as a Christian advocate, it
appears almost bordering on the anti-climax, to name, that a great
accession to this his distinction as a writer arose from his exquisite
taste in composition, sedulously cultivated through life; and which (as
the reward of so chastened a judgment, attained with such labour) at
length superseded toil in the arrangement of his words,'since every
thought, as it arose in his mind, when expression was given to it,
appeared spontaneously, clothed in the most appropriate language.

Often has Mr. H. expatiated to me on the subject of style, so as to
manifest the depth and acuteness of his criticisms; as well as to leave a
firm conviction that the superiority he had acquired arose from no lax
endeavour and happy casualty, but from severe and permanent effort,
founded on the best models; at least, in that period of his life when the
structure of his mind was formed, or forming. He said that _Cicero_ had
been his chief model.

This habit of minute and general analysis, combined as it was with his
fine luminous intellect, enabled him with almost intuitive discernment,
to perceive promptly whatever was valuable or defective in the
productions of others; and this faculty being conjoined with solid
learning, extensive reading, a retentive memory, a vast |tore of
diversified knowledge, together with a creative fancy and a logical mind,
gave him at all times, an unobtrusive reliance on himself; with an
inexhaustible mental treasury that qualified him alike to shine in the
friendly circle, or to charm, and astonish, and edify, in the crowded
assembly.

That the same individual should so far excel both as a preacher and a
writer, and at the same time be equally distinguished for his brilliant
conversational talent, is scarcely conceivable, and would be too much
reputation for any man, unless tempered, as it was in Mr. Hall, by no
ordinary measure of Christian humility, and a preference ever expressed,
for the moral over the intellectual character.

It is not meant to imply that Mr. Hall was perfect, (a condition reserved
for another state) but he made gigantic strides towards that point, at
which all should aim. That such rare talents should have been devoted,
through a long and consistent life, to the cause of his Redeemer, must
excite thankfulness in the breast of every Christian, and at the same
time deepen the hue with which he contemplates some others, whose talents
and influences, were, and are, all banefully exercised, from what might
appear a design to corrupt man, and madly to oppose and defy the Supreme
himself!

Some of Mr. Hall's later admirers may resist the idea that there ever was
a period when his ministerial exercises were more eloquent than at the
last; but without hesitation, I adopt a different opinion. The estimate
formed of him in this place is chiefly founded on the earlier part of
life, when, without any opposing influences, a more unbridled range was
given to his imagination; when there was an energy in his manner, and a
felicity and copiousness in his language, which vibrated on the very
verge of human capability.

It is incredible to suppose that intense and almost unceasing pain,
should not partially have unnerved his mind; that he should not have
directed a more undiverted concentration of thought, and revelled with
more freedom and luxuriance of expression, before, rather than during the
ravages of that insidious and fatal disease, under which he laboured for
so many years, and which never allowed him, except when in the pulpit, to
deviate from a recumbent posture. However combated by mental firmness,
such perpetual suffering must have tended in some degree to repress the
vehemence of his intellectual fire; and the astonishment prevails, that
he possessed fortitude enough to contend so long with antagonists so
potent. Except for the power of religion, and the sustaining influence of
faith, nothing could have restrained him from falling back on despondency
or despair. Yet even to his final sermon, he maintained his preeminence;
and in no one discourse of his last years, did he decline into
mediocrity, or fail to remind the elder part of his audience of a period
when his eloquence was almost superhuman.[13]

After allowing, that many humble but sincere preachers of the gospel of
Christ may be as accepted of God, and be made as useful to their
fellow-men as the most prodigally endowed, yet the possession of great
and well-directed talents must not be underrated. Different soils require
different culture, and that which is inoperative on one man may be
beneficial to another, and it is hardly possible for any one to form a
due estimate of the elevation of which pulpit oratory is susceptible who
never heard Robert Hall. This character of his preaching refers more
particularly to the period when his talents were in their most vigorous
exercise; a little before the time when he published his celebrated
sermon on "Infidelity."

This sermon I was so happy as to hear delivered, and have no hesitation
in expressing an opinion that the oral was not only very different from
the printed discourse, but greatly its superior. In the one case he
expressed the sentiments of a mind fully charged with matter the most
invigorating, and solemnly important; but, discarding notes, (which he
once told me always "hampered him") it was not in his power to display
the same language, or to record the same evanescent trains of thought; so
that in preparing a sermon for the press, no other than a general
resemblance could be preserved. In trusting alone to his recollection,
when the stimulus was withdrawn of a crowded and most attentive auditory,
the ardent feeling; the thought that "burned," was liable, in some
measure, to become deteriorated by the substitution of cool philosophical
arrangement and accuracy for the spontaneous effusions of his overflowing
heart; so that what was gained by one course was more than lost by the
other.

During Mr. Hall's last visit to Bristol, (prior to his final settlement
there) I conducted him to view the beautiful scenery in the
neighbourhood, and no one could be more alive to the picturesque than Mr.
H. On former occasions, when beholding the expanse of water before him,
he has said, with a pensive ejaculation, "We have no water in
Cambridgeshire;" and subsequently, in noticing the spreading foliage of
Lord de Clifford's park, he has observed with the same mournful accent;
"Ah, sir, we have no such trees as these in Leicestershire." And when at
this time he arrived at a point which presented the grandest assemblage
of beauty, he paused in silence to gaze on the rocks of St. Vincent, and
the Avon, and the dense woods, and the distant Severn, and the dim blue
mountains of Wales, when with that devotional spirit which accorded with
the general current of his feelings, in an ecstacy he exclaimed; "Oh, if
these outskirts of the Almighty's dominion can, with one glance, so
oppress the heart with gladness, what will be the disclosures of
eternity, when the full revelation shall be made of the things not seen,
and the river of the city of God!"

But "Recollections" of Mr. Hall are not intended, although it may be
named, he stated, in one of these rides, that he had arisen from his bed
two or three times in the course of the night, when projecting his
"Sermon on the Death of the Princess Charlotte" to record thoughts, or to
write down passages that he feared might otherwise escape his memory.
This, at least, showed the intensity of the interest he felt, though a
superabundance of the choicest matter was ever at his command; and if one
idea happened accidentally to be lost, one that was better immediately
supplied its place.

Perhaps this notice may be deemed, by some, too extended, if not
misplaced; but if the present occasion of referring to Mr. Hall, had been
neglected, no other might have occurred. The man whose name is recorded
on high stands in no need of human praise; yet survivors have a debt to
pay, and whilst I disclaim every undue bias on my mind in estimating the
character of one who so ennobled human nature, none can feel surprise
that I should take a favorable retrospect of Mr. H. after an intercourse
and friendship of more than forty years. Inadequate as is the present
offering, some satisfaction is felt at the opportunity presented of
bestowing this small tribute to the memory of one whom I ever venerated,
and, in so doing, of adding another attestation to the merits of so good
and great a man.

* * * * *

The reader after this long digression, will have his attention directed
once more, to Mr. Coleridge, who was left at Clevedon in the possession
of domestic comfort, and with the hope, if not the prospect, of
uninterrupted happiness. It could hardly be supposed, that in the element
of so much excitement, the spirit of inspiration should remain
slumbering. On my next seeing Mr. C. he read me, with more than his
accustomed enthusiasm, those tenderly affectionate lines to his "Sara,"
beginning

"My pensive Sara, thy soft cheek reclined." &c,

Mr. Coleridge now began to console himself with the suspicion, not only
that felicity might be found on this side the Atlantic, but that Clevedon
concentrated the sum of all that Earth had to bestow. He was now even
satisfied that the Susquehannah itself retired into shade before the
superior attractions of his own native Severn. He had, in good truth,
discovered the grand secret; the abode of happiness, after which all are
so sedulously inquiring; and this accompanied with the cheering
assurance, that, by a merely pleasurable intellectual exertion, he would
be able to provide for his moderate expenses, and experience the
tranquillizing joys of seclusion, while the whole country and Europe were
convulsed with war and changes.

Alas, repose was not made for man, nor man for repose! Mr. Coleridge at
this time little thought of the joys and sorrows, the vicissitudes of
life, and revolutions of feeling, with which he was ordained ere long to
contend! Inconveniences connected with his residence at Clevedon, not at
first taken into the calculation, now gradually unfolded themselves. The
place was too far from Bristol. It was difficult of access to friends;
and the neighbours were a little too tattling and inquisitive. And then
again, Mr. Coleridge could not well dispense with his literary
associates, and particularly with his access to that fine institution,
the Bristol City Library; and, in addition, as he was necessitated to
submit to frugal restraints, a walk to Bristol was rather a serious
undertaking; and a return the same day hardly to be accomplished, in the
failure of which, his "Sara," was lonely and uneasy; so that his friends
urged him to return once more to the place he had left; which he did,
forsaking, with reluctance, his rose-bound cottage, and taking up his
abode on Redcliff-hill. There was now some prospect that the printer's
types would be again set in motion, although it was quite proper that
they should remain in abeyance while so many grand events were
transpiring in the region of the domestic hearth. This was late in the
year 1795.

After Mr. Coleridge had been some little time settled in Bristol, he
experienced another removal. To exchange the country, and all the
beauties of nature, for pent-up rooms on Redcliff-hill, demanded from a
poet, sacrifices for which a few advantages would but ill compensate. In
this uneasy state of mind, Mr. C. received an invitation from his friend,
Mr. T. Poole, of Stowey, Somersetshire, to come and visit him in that
retired town, and to which place Mr. and Mrs. Coleridge repaired.

The volume of poems, that, in the presence of so many more important
affairs, had retired into shade, was now about to reappear, as will be
found by the following letter.

"Stowey,

My dear Cottle,

I feel it much, and very uncomfortable, that, loving you as a brother,
and feeling pleasure in pouring out my heart to you, I should so seldom
be able to write a letter to you, unconnected with business, and
uncontaminated with excuses and apologies. I give every moment I can
spare from my garden and the Reviews (i. e.) from my potatoes and meat to
the poem, (Religious Musings) but I go on slowly, for I torture the poem
and myself with corrections; and what I write in an hour, I sometimes
take two or three days in correcting. You may depend on it, the poem and
prefaces will take up exactly the number of pages I mentioned, and I am
extremely anxious to have the work as perfect as possible, and which I
cannot do, if it be finished immediately. The "Religious Musings" I have
altered monstrously, since I read them to you and received your
criticisms. I shall send them to you in my next. The Sonnets I will send
you with the Musings. God love you!

From your affectionate friend,

S. T. Coleridge."

Mr. Coleridge at this time meditated the printing of two volumes of his
poems. He thus expresses his intention.

"I mean to have none but large poems in the second volume; none under
three hundred lines; therefore I have crowded all my little pieces into
this."

He speaks in the same letter, of two poems which I never saw. Perhaps
they were composed in his own mind, but never recorded on paper; a
practice which Mr. C. sometimes adopted. He thus writes. "The 'Nativity'
is not quite three hundred lines. It has cost me much labour in
polishing; more than any poem I ever wrote, and I believe deserves it
more. The epistle to Tom. Poole, which will come with the 'Nativity,' is
I think one of my most pleasing compositions."

In a letter of Mr. C. dated from Stowey, Mr. Coleridge also says, "I have
written a Ballad of three hundred lines, and also a plan of general
study." It appeared right to make these statements, and it is hoped the
productions named may still be in existence.

Mr. Coleridge now finding it difficult to superintend the press at so
great a distance as Stowey, and that it interfered also with his other
literary engagements, he resolved once more to remove to Bristol, the
residence of so many friends; and to that city he repaired, the beginning
of 1796. A conviction now also rested on his mind, as there was the
prospect of an increase in his family, that he must bestir himself, and
effectually call his resolutions into exercise. Soon after he was fairly
settled, he sent me the following letter.

"My dear Cottle,

I have this night and to-morrow for you, being alone, and my spirits
calm. I shall consult my poetic honour, and of course your interest, more
by staying at home, than by drinking tea with you. I should be happy to
see my poems out even by next week, and I shall continue in stirrups,
that is, shall not dismount my Pegasus, till Monday morning, at which
time you will have to thank God for having done with

Your affectionate friend always, but author evanescent.

S. T. C."

Except for the serious effect, unintentionally produced, a rather
ludicrous circumstance some time after this occurred, that is, after Mr.
C. had "mounted his Pegasus" for the last time, and, permitted, so long
ago, "the lock and key to be turned upon him."

The promised notes, preface, and some of the text, not having been
furnished, I had determined to make no further application, but to allow
Mr. C. to consult his own inclination and convenience. Having a friend
who wanted an introduction to Mr. Coleridge, I invited him to dinner, and
sent Mr. C. a note, to name the time, and to solicit his company. The
bearer of the note was simply requested to give it to Mr. C. and not
finding him at home, inconsiderately brought it back. Mr. Coleridge
returning home soon after, and learning that I had sent a letter, which
was taken back, in the supposition that it could relate but to _one
subject_, addressed to me the following astounding letter.

"Redcliff-hill, Feb. 22, 1796.

My dear Sir,

It is my duty and business to thank God for all his dispensations, and to
believe them the best possible; but, indeed, I think I should have been
more thankful, if he had made me a journeyman shoemaker, instead of an
author by trade. I have left my friends: I have left plenty; I have left
that ease which would have secured a literary immortality, and have
enabled me to give the public, works conceived in moments of inspiration,
and polished with leisurely solicitude, and alas! for what have I left
them? for--who deserted me in the hour of distress, and for a scheme of
virtue impracticable and romantic! So I am forced to write for bread!
write the flights of poetic enthusiasm, when every minute I am hearing a
groan from my wife. Groans, and complaints, and sickness! The present
hour I am in a quick-set hedge of embarrassment, and whichever way I
turn, a thorn runs into me! The future is cloud, and thick darkness!
Poverty, perhaps, and the thin faces of them that want bread, looking up
to me! Nor is this all. My happiest moments for composition are broken in
upon by the reflection that I must make haste. I am too late! I am
already months behind! I have received my pay beforehand! Oh, wayward and
desultory spirit of genius! Ill canst thou brook a taskmaster! The
tenderest touch from the hand of obligation, wounds thee like a scourge
of scorpions.

I have been composing in the fields this morning, and came home to write
down the first rude sheet of my preface, when I heard that your man had
brought a note from you. I have not seen it, but I guess its contents. I
am writing as fast as I can. Depend on it you shall not be out of pocket
for me! I feel what I owe you, and independently of this, I love you as a
friend; indeed, so much, that I regret, seriously regret, that you have
been my copyholder.

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