LETTERS
OP
D.T.COLERIDGE
VOL i
LETTERS
OF
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
EDITED BY
ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE
IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. I
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN 1895
[All rights reserved.]
The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company.
INTRODUCTION
HITHERTO no attempt has been made to publish a collection of Coleridge's Letters. A few specimens were published in his lifetime, both in his own works and in magazines, and, shortly after his death in 1834, a large number appeared in print. Allsop's " Letters, Conversa- tions, and Recollections of S. T. Coleridge," which was issued in 1836, contains forty-five letters or parts of let- ters ; Cottle in his " Early Recollections " (1837) prints, for the most part incorrectly, and in piecemeal, some sixty in all, and Gillman, in his "Life of Coleridge" (1838), contributes, among others, some letters addressed to him- self, and one, of the greatest interest, to Charles Lamb. In 1847, a series of early letters to Thomas Poole ap- peared for the first time in the Biographical Supplement to the " Biographia Literaria," and in 1848, when Cottle reprinted his " Early Recollections," under the title of " Reminiscences of Coleridge and Southey," he included sixteen letters to Thomas and Josiah Wedgwood. In Southey's posthumous " Life of Dr. Bell," five letters of Coleridge lie imbedded, and in " Southey's Life and Correspondence " (1849-50), four of his letters find an appropriate place. An interesting series was published in 1858 in the " Fragmentary Remains of Sir H. Davy," edited by his brother, Dr. Davy ; and in the " Diary of H. C. Robinson," published in 1869, a few letters from Coleridge are interspersed. In 1870, the late Mr. W. Mark W. Call printed in the " Westminster Review " eleven letters from Coleridge to Dr. Brabant of Devizes,
iv INTRODUCTION
dated 1815 and 1816 ; and a series of early letters to Godwin, 1800-1811 (some of which had appeared in " Macmillan's Magazine " in 1864), was included by Mr. Kegan Paul in his " William Godwin" (1876). In 1874, a correspondence between Coleridge (1816-1818) and his publishers, Gale & Curtis, was contributed to " Lippin- cott's Magazine," and in 1878, a few letters to Matilda Betham were published in " Fraser's Magazine." During the last six years the vast store which still remained un- published has been drawn upon for various memoirs and biographies. The following works containing new letters are given in order of publication : Herr Brandl's " Samuel T. Coleridge and the English Romantic School," 1887 ; " Memorials of Coleorton," edited by Professor Knight, 1887; "Thomas Poole and his Friends," by Mrs. H. Sand- ford, 1888 ; " Life of Wordsworth," by Professor Knight, 1889 ; " Memoirs of John Murray," by Samuel Smiles, LL. D., 1891 ; " De Quincey Memorials," by Alex. Japp, LL. D., 1891 ; " Life of Washington Allston," 1893.
Notwithstanding these heavy draughts, more than half of the letters which have come under my notice remain unpublished. Of more than forty which Coleridge wrote to his wife, only one has been published. Of ninety letters to Southey which are extant, barely a tenth have seen the light. Of nineteen addressed to W. Sotheby, poet and patron of poets, fourteen to Lamb's friend John Rick- man, and four to Coleridge's old college friend, Arch- deacon Wrangham, none have been published. Of more than forty letters addressed to the Morgan family, which belong for the most part to the least known period of Coleridge's life, — the years which intervened between his residence in Grasmere and his final settlement at High- gate, — only two or three, preserved in the MSS. Depart- ment of the British Museum, have been published. Of numerous letters written in later life to his friend and amanuensis, Joseph Henry Green ; to Charles Augustus
INTRODUCTION v
Tulk, M. P. for Sudbury ; to his friends and hosts, the Gillmans ; to Gary, the translator of Dante, only a few have found their way into print. Of more than forty to his brother, the Rev. George Coleridge, which were acci- dentally discovered in 1876, only five have been printed. Of some fourscore letters addressed to his nephews, Wil- liam Hart Coleridge, John Taylor Coleridge, Henry Nel- son Coleridge, Edward Coleridge, and to his son Derwent, all but two, or at most three, remain in manuscript. Of the youthful letters to the Evans family, one letter has recently appeared in the " Illustrated London News," and of the many addressed to John Thelwall, but one was printed in the same series.
The letters to Poole, of which more than a hundred have been preserved, those addressed to his Bristol friend, Josiah Wade, and the letters to Wordsworth, which, though few in number, are of great length, have been largely used for biographical purposes, but much, of the highest inter- est, remains unpublished. Of smaller groups of letters, published and unpublished, I make no detailed mention, but in the latter category are two to Charles Lamb, one to John Sterling, five to George Cattermole, one to John Kenyon, and many others to more obscure correspondents. Some important letters to Lord Jeffrey, to John Murray, to De Quincey, to Hugh James Rose, and to J. H. B. Williams, have, in the last few years, been placed in my hands for transcription.
A series of letters written between the years 1796 and 1814 to the Rev. John Prior Estlin, minister of the Unitarian Chapel at Lewin's Mead, Bristol, was printed some years ago for the Philobiblon Society, with an in- troduction by Mr. Henry A. Bright. One other series of letters has also been printed for private circulation. In 1889, the late Miss Stuart placed in my hands transcrip- tions of eighty-seven letters addressed by Coleridge to her father, Daniel Stuart, editor of " The Morning Post " and
vi INTRODUCTION
" Courier," and these, together with letters from Words- worth and Southey, were printed in a single volume bear- ing the title, " Letters from the Lake Poets." Miss Stuart contributed a short account of her father's life, and also a reminiscence of Coleridge, headed " A Fare- well."
Coleridge's biographers, both of the past and present generations, have met with a generous response to their appeal for letters to be placed in their hands for reference and for publication, but it is probable that many are in existence which have been withheld, sometimes no doubt intentionally, but more often from inadvertence. From his boyhood the poet was a voluminous if an irregular correspondent, and many letters which he is known to have addressed to his earliest friends — to Middleton, to Robert Allen, to Valentine and Sam Le Grice, to Charles Lloyd, to his Stowey neighbour, John Cruikshank, to Dr. Beddoes, and others — may yet be forthcoming. It is certain that he corresponded with Mrs. Clarkson, but if any letters have been preserved they have not come under my notice. It is strange, too, that among the letters of the Highgate period, which were sent to Henry Nelson Coleridge for transcription, none to John Hookham Frere, to Blanco White, or to Edward Irving appear to have been forthcoming.
The foregoing summary of published and unpublished letters, though necessarily imperfect, will enable the reader to form some idea of the mass of material from which the present selection has been made. A complete edition of Coleridge's Letters must await the "coming of the milder day," a renewed long-suffering on the part of his old enemy, the " literary public." In the mean- while, a selection from some of the more important is here offered in the belief that many, if not all, will find a place in permanent literature. The letters are arranged in chronological order, and are intended rather to illus-
INTRODUCTION vii
trate the story of the writer's life than to embody his critical opinions, or to record the development of his phi- losophical and theological speculations. But letters of a purely literary character have not been excluded, and in selecting or rejecting a letter, the sole criterion has been, Is it interesting ? is it readable ?
In letter-writing perfection of style is its own recom- mendation, and long after the substance of a letter has lost its savour, the form retains its original or, it may be, an added charm. Or if the author be the founder of a sect or a school, his writings, in whatever form, are re- ceived by the initiated with unquestioning and insatiable delight. But Coleridge's letters lack style. The fastidi- ous critic who touched and retouched his exquisite lyrics, and always for the better, was at no pains to polish his letters. He writes to his friends as if he were talking to them, and he lets his periods take care of themselves. Nor is there any longer a school of reverent disciples to receive what the master gives and because he gives it. His influence as a teacher has passed into other channels, and he is no longer regarded as the oracular sage " ques- tionable " concerning all mysteries. But as a poet, as a great literary critic, and as a " master of sentences," he holds his own and appeals to the general ear ; and though, since his death, in 1834, a second generation has all but passed away, an unwonted interest in the man himself survives and must always survive. For not only, as Wordsworth declared, was he " a wonderful man," but the story of his life was a strange one, and as he tells it, we "cannot choose but hear." Coleridge, often to his own detriment, " wore his heart on his sleeve," and, now to one friend, now to another, sometimes to two or three friends on the same day, he would seek to unburthen himself of his hopes and fears, his thoughts and fancies, his bodily sufferings, and the keener pangs of the soul. It is, to quote his own words, these " profound touches of
viii INTRODUCTION
the human heart " which command our interest in Cole- ridge's Letters, and invest them with their peculiar charm.
At what period after death, and to what extent the pri- vate letters of a celebrated person should be given to the world, must always remain an open question both of taste and of morals. So far as Coleridge is concerned, the question was decided long age. Within a few years of his death, letters of the most private and even painful character were published without the sanction and in spite of the repeated remonstrances of his literary executor, and of all who had a right to be heard on the subject. Thence- forth, as the published writings of his immediate descend- ants testify, a fuller and therefore a fairer revelation was steadily contemplated. Letters collected for this purpose find a place in the present volume, but the selection has been made without reference to previous works or to any final presentation of the material at the editor's disposal.
My acknowledgments are due to many still living, and to others who have passed away, for their generous per- mission to print unpublished letters, which remained in their possession or had passed into their hands.
For the continued use of the long series of letters which Poole entrusted to Coleridge's literary executor in 1836, I have to thank Mrs. Henry Sandford and the Bishop of Gibraltar. For those addressed to the Evans family I am indebted to Mr. Alfred Morrison of Fonthill. The let- ters to Thelwall were placed in my hands by the late Mr. F. W. Cosens, who afforded me every facility for their transcription. For those to Wordsworth my thanks are due to the poet's grandsons, Mr. William and Mr. Gor- don Wordsworth. Those addressed to the Gillmans I owe to the great kindness of their granddaughter, Mrs. Henry Watson, who placed in my hands all the materials at her disposal. For the right to publish the letters to H. F. Gary I am indebted to my friend the Rev. Offley
INTRODUCTION ix
Gary, the grandson of the translator of Dante. My ac- knowledgments are further due to the late Mr. John Murray for the right to republish letters which appeared in the " Memoirs of John Murray," and two others which were not included in that work ; and to Mrs. Watt, the daughter of John Hunter of Craigcrook, for letters ad- dressed to Lord Jeffrey. From the late Lord Houghton I received permission to publish the letters to the Rev. J. P. Estlin, which were privately printed for the Philo- biblon Society. I have already mentioned my obligations to the late Miss Stuart of Harley Street.
For the use of letters addressed to his father and grand- father, and for constant and unwearying advice and as- sistance in this work I am indebted, more than I can well express, to the late Lord Coleridge. Alas! I can only record my gratitude.
To Mr. William Rennell Coleridge of Salston, Ottery St. Mary, my especial thanks are due for the interesting collection of unpublished letters, many of them relating to the " Army Episode," which the poet wrote to his brother, the Rev. George Coleridge.
I have also to thank Miss Edith Coleridge for the use of letters addressed to her father, Henry Nelson Cole- ridge ; my cousin, Mrs. Thomas W. Martyn of Torquay, for Coleridge's letter to his mother, the earliest known to exist ; and Mr. Arthur Duke Coleridge for one of the latest he ever wrote, that to Mrs. Aders.
During the preparation of this work I have received valuable assistance from men of letters and others. I trust that I may be permitted to mention the names of Mr. Leslie Stephen, Professor Knight, Mrs. Henry Sand- ford, Dr. Garnett of the British Museum, Professor Emile Legouis of Lyons, Mrs. Henry Watson, the Librarians of the Oxford and Cambridge Club, and of the Kensington Public Library, and Mrs. George Boyce of Chertsey.
Of my friend, Mr. Dykes Campbell, I can only say that
x INTRODUCTION
he has spared neither time nor trouble in my behalf. Not only during the progress of the work has he been ready to give me the benefit of his unrivalled knowledge of the correspondence and history of Coleridge and of his con- temporaries, but he has largely assisted me in seeing the work through the press. For the selection of the letters, or for the composition or accuracy of the notes, he must not be held in any way responsible ; but without his aid, and without his counsel, much, which I hope has been ac- complished, could never have been attempted at all. Of the invaluable assistance which I have received from his published works, the numerous references to his edition of Coleridge's " Poetical Works " (MacmiUan, 1893), and his " Samuel Taylor Coleridge, A Narrative " (1894), are sufficient evidence. Of my gratitude he needs no assur- ance.
ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE.
PRINCIPAL EVENTS IN THE LIFE OF S. T. COLERIDGE
Born, October 21, 1772.
Death of his father, October 4, 1781.
Entered at Christ's Hospital, July 18, 1782.
Elected a " Grecian," 1788.
Discharged from Christ's Hospital, September 7, 1791.
Went into residence at Jesus College, Cambridge, October, 1791.
Enlisted in King's Regiment of Light Dragoons, December 2, 1793.
Discharged from the army, April 10, 1794.
Visit to Oxford and introduction to Southey, June, 1794.
Proposal to emigrate to America — Pantisocracy — Autumn, 1794.
Final departure from Cambridge, December, 1794.
Settled at Bristol as public lecturer, January, 1795.
Married to Sarah Fricker, October 4, 1795.
Publication of " Conciones ad Populum," Clevedon, November 16, 1795.
Pantisocrats dissolve — Rupture with Southey — November, 1795.
Publication of first edition of Poems, April, 1796.
Issue of " The Watchman," March 1-May 13, 1796.
Birth of Hartley Coleridge, September 19, 1796.
Settled at Nether-Stowey, December 31, 1796.
Publication of second edition of Poems, June, 1797.
Settlement of Wordsworth at Alfoxden, July 14, 1797.
The " Ancient Mariner" begun, November 13, 1797.
First part of " Christabel," begun, 1797.
Acceptance of annuity of £150 from J. and T. Wedgwood, January, 1798.
Went to Germany, September 16, 1798.
Returned from Germany, July, 1799.
First visit to Lake Country, October-November, 1799.
Began to write for " Morning Post," December, 1799.
Translation of Schiller's " Wallenstein," Spring, 1800.
Settled at Greta Hall, Keswick, July 24, 1800.
Birth of Derwent Coleridge, September 14, 1800.
Wrote second part of " Christabel," Autumn, 1800.
Began study of German metaphysics, 1801.
Birth of Sara Coleridge, December 23, 1802.
Publication of third edition of Poems, Summer, 1803.
Set out on Scotch tour, August 14, 1803.
Settlement of Southey at Greta Hall, September, 1803.
Sailed for Malta in the Speedwell, April 9, 1804.
Arrived at Malta, May 18, 1804.
First tour in Sicily, August-November, 1804.
Left Malta for Syracuse, September 21, 1805.
xiv AUTHORITIES REFERRED TO
16. Diary, Reminiscences, and Correspondence of Henry Crabb Robin- son. Selected and Edited by Thomas Sadler, Ph. D. London. 1869.
17. A Group of Englishmen (1795-1815) : being records of the younger Wedgwoods and their Friends. By Eliza Meteyard. 1871.
18. Memoir and Letters of Sara Coleridge [Mrs. H. N. Coleridge]. Edited by her daughter. 2 vols. 1873.
19. Samuel Taylor Coleridge and the English Romantic School. By Alois Brandl. English Edition by Lady Eastlake. London. 1887.
20. The Letters of Charles Lamb. Edited by Alfred Ainger. 2 vols. 1888.
21. Thomas Poole and his Friends. By Mrs. Henry Sandford. 2 vols. 1888.
22. The Life and Correspondence of R. Southey. Edited by his son, the Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey. 6 vols. 1849-50.
23. Selections from the Letters of R. Southey. Edited by his son-in- law, John Wood Warter, B. D. 4 vols. 1856.
24. The Poetical Works of Robert Southey, Esq., LL. D. 9 vols. London. 1837.
25. Memoirs of William Wordsworth. By Christopher Wordsworth, D. D., Canon of Westminster [afterwards Bishop of Lincoln]. 2 vols. 1851.
26. The Life of William Wordsworth. By William Knight, LL. D. 3 vols. 1889.
27. The Complete Poetical Works of William Wordsworth. With an Introduction by John Morley. London and New York : Macmillan and Co. 1889.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I
NOTE. Where a letter has been printed previously to its appearance in this work, the name of the book or periodical containing it is added in parenthesis.
CHAPTER I. STUDENT LIFE, 1785-1794.
PAGE I. THOMAS POOLE, February, 1797. (Biographia Literaria, 1847,
ii. 313) 4
II. THOMAS POOLE, March, 1797. (Biographia Literaria, 1847,
ii. 315) 6
III. THOMAS POOLE, October 9, 1797. (Biographia Literaria,
1847, ii. 319) 10
IV. THOMAS POOLE, October 16, 1797. (Biographia Literaria,
1847. ii. 322) 13
V. THOMAS POOLE, February 19, 1798. (Biographia Literaria,
1847, ii. 326) 18
VI. MRS. COLERIDGE, Senior, February 4, 1785. (Illustrated
London News, April 1, 1893) 21
VII. KEV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, undated, before 1790. (Illus- trated London News, April 1, 1893) 22
VEIL REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, October 16, 1791. (Illustrated
London News, April 8, 1893) 22
IX. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, January 24, 1792 ... 23
X. MRS. EVANS, February 13, 1792 . . .• . . . 26
XI. MARY EVANS, February 13, 1792 . . . '^ ''•'•• *> - . 30
- XII. ANNE EVANS, February 19, 1792 . . . ' ' . . .37
XIII. MRS. EVANS, February 22 [1792] 39
XIV. MARY EVANS, February 22 [1792] 41
XV. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, April [1792]. (Illustrated Lon- don News, April 8, 1893) 42
XVI. MRS. EVANS, February 5, 1793 45
XVII. MARY EVANS, February 7, 1793. (Illustrated London
News, April 8, 1893) 47
XVIII. ANNE EVANS, February 10, 1793 52
XIX. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, July 28, 1793 .... 53
XX. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE [Postmark, August 5, 1793] . 55 XXI. G. L. TUCKETT, February 6 [1794], (Illustrated London
News, April 15, 1893) : 57
xvi CONTENTS
XXII. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, February 8, 1794 ... 59
XXIII. EEV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, February 11, 1794 . . 60
XXIV. CAPT. JAMES COLERIDGE, February 20, 1794. (Brandl'a
Life of Coleridge, 1887, p. 65) 61
XXV. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, March 12, 1794. (Illustrated
London News, April 15, 1893) 62
XXVI. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, March 21, 1794 ... 64 XXVII. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, end of March, 1794 . . 66 XXVIII. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, March 27, 1794 ... 66 XXIX. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, March 30, 1794 ... 68 XXX. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, April 7, 1794 ... 69 XXXI. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, May 1, 1794 ... 70 XXXII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, July 6, 1794. (Sixteen lines pub- lished, Southey's Life and Correspondence, 1849, i. 212) 72
XXXIII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, July 15, 1794. (Portions published
in Letter to H. Martin, July 22, 1794, Biographia Lit- eraria, 1847, ii. 338) 74
XXXIV. ROBERT SOUTHEY, September 18, 1794. (Eighteen lines
published, Southey's Life and Correspondence, 1849, i.
218) 81
XXXV. ROBERT SOUTHEY, September 19, 1794 ... . . 84
XXXVI. ROBERT SOUTHEY, September 26, 1794 .... 86
XXXVII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, October 21, 1794 .... 87
XXXVIII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, November, 1794 .... 95
XXXIX. ROBERT SOUTHEY, Autumn, 1794. (Illustrated London
News, April 15, 1893) . 101
XL. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, November 6, 1794 . . 103 XLI. ROBERT SOUTHEY, December 11, 1794 .... 106 XLII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, December 17, 1794 .... 114 XLIH. ROBERT SOUTHEY, December, 1794. (Eighteen lines pub- lished, Southey's Life and Correspondence, 1849, i. 227) 121 XLIV. MARY EVANS, (?) December, 1794. (Samuel Taylor Cole- ridge, A Narrative, 1894, p. 38) 122
XLV. MARY EVANS, December 24, 1794. (Samuel Taylor Cole- ridge, A Narrative, 1894, p. 40) 124
XL VI. ROBERT SOUTHEY, December, 1794 .... 125
CHAPTER II. EARLY PUBLIC LIFE, 1795-1796. XL VII. JOSEPH COTTLE, Spring, 1795. (Early Recollections,
1837, i. 16) 133
XLVIII. JOSEPH COTTLE, July 31, 1795. (Early Recollections,
1837, i. 52) 133
XLIX. JOSEPH COTTLE, 1795. (Early Recollections, 1837, i. 55) 134
L. ROBERT SOUTHEY, October, 1795 134
LI. THOMAS POOLE, October 7, 1795. (Biographia Lite-
raria, 1847, ii. 347) 136
LII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, November 13, 1795 .... 137
CONTENTS xvii
LIII. JOSIAH WADE, January 27, 1796. (Biographia Literaria,
1847, ii. 350) 151
LIV. JOSEPH COTTLE, February 22, 1796. (Early Recollec- tions, 1837, i. 141 ; Biographia Literaria, 1847, ii. 356) 154 LV. THOMAS POOLE, March 30, 1796. (Biographia Lite- raria, 1847, ii. 357) 155
LVL THOMAS POOLE, May 12, 1796. (Biographia Literaria, 1847, ii. 366; Thomas Poole and his Friends, 1887, i.
144) . 158
LVII. JOHN THELWALL, May 13, 1796 159
LVIII. THOMAS POOLE, May 29, 1796. (Biographia Literaria,
1847, ii. 368) 164
LIX. JOHN THELWALL, June 22, 1796 166
LX. THOMAS POOLE, September 24, 1796. (Biographia Lite- raria, 1847, ii. 373 ; Thomas Poole and his Friends,
1887, i. 155) 168
LXI. CHAKLES LAMB [September 28, 1796]. (Gillman's Life
of Coleridge, 1838, pp. 338-340) 171
LXII. THOMAS POOLE, November 5, 1796. (Biographia Lite- raria, 1847, ii. 379 ; Thomas Poole and his Friends,
1887, i. 175) 172
LXIII. THOMAS POOLE, November 7, 1796 . . . .176 LXIV. JOHN THELWALL, November 19 [1796]. (Twenty-six lines published, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, A Narrative,
1894, p. 58) 178
LXV. THOMAS POOLE, December 11, 1796. (Thomas Poole
and his Friends, 1887, i. 182) 183
LXVI. THOMAS POOLE, December 12, 1796. (Thomas Poole
and his Friends, 1887, i. 184) 184
LXVII. THOMAS POOLS, December 13, 1796. (Thomas Poole
and his Friends, 1887, i. 186) 187
LXVIII. JOHN THELWALL, December 17, 1796 . . . .193 LXIX. THOMAS POOLE [? December 18, 1796]. (Thomas Poole
and his Friends, 1887, i. 195) 208
LXX. JOHN THELWALL, December 31, 1796 . . . .210
CHAPTER III. THE STOWEY PERIOD, 1797-1798.
LXXI. REV. J. P. ESTLIN [1797]. (Privately printed, Philo-
biblon Society) 213
LXXII. JOHN THELWALL, February 6, 1797 . . . .214 LXXIII. JOSEPH COTTLE, June, 1797. (Early Recollections, 1837,
i. 250) . .220
LXXIV. ROBERT SOUTHET, July, 1797 221
LXXV. JOHN THELWALL [October 16], 1797 . . . .228
LXXVI. JOHN THELWALL [Autumn, 1797] 231
LXXVII. JOHN THELWALL [Autumn, 1797] 232
xviii CONTENTS
LXXVIII. WILUAM WORDSWORTH, January, 1798. (Ten lines
published, Life of Wordsworth, 1889, i. 128) . . 234 LXXIX. JOSEPH COTTLE, March 8, 1798. (Part published in- correctly, Early Recollections, 1837, i. 251) . . 238 LXXX. REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE, April, 1798 . . .239 LXXXI. REV. J. P. EsTLiN,May [? 1798], (Privately printed,
Philobiblon Society) 245
LXXXIL REV. J. P. ESTLIN, May 14, 1798. (Privately printed,
Philobiblon Society) 246
LXXXni. THOMAS POOLE, May 14, 1798. (Thirty-one lines pub- lished, Thomas Poole and his Friends, 1887, i. 268) . 248 LXXXIV. THOMAS POOLE [May 20, 1798]. (Eleven lines pub- lished, Thomas Poole and his Friends, 1887, i. 269) . 249 LXXXV. CHARLES LAMB [spring of 1798] .... 249
CHAPTER IV. A VISIT TO GERMANY, 1798-1799.
LXXXVI. THOMAS POOLE, September 15, 1798. (Thomas Poole
and his Friends, 1887, i. 273) 258
LXXXVII. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, September 19, 1798 , . .259
LXXXVIH. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, October 20, 1798 . . .262
LXXXIX. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, November 26, 1798 . . .265
XC. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, December 2, 1798 . . . ?66
XCI. REV. MR. ROSKILLY, December 3, 1798 . . .267
XCII. THOMAS POOLE, January 4, 1799 267
XCIII. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, January 14, 1799 . . .271 XCIV. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, March 12, 1799. (Illustrated
London News, April 29, 1893) 277
XCV. THOMAS POOLE, April 6, 1799 . 282
XCVI. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, April 8, 1799. (Thirty lines pub- lished, Thomas Poole and his Friends, 1887, i. 295) . 284 XCVn. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, April 23, 1799 . . .288 XCVIH. THOMAS POOLE, May 6, 1799. (Thomas Poole and his
Friends, 1887, i. 297) 295
CHAPTER V. FROM SOUTH TO NORTH, 1799-1800.
XCLX. ROBERT SOUTHEY, July 29, 1799 . . . .303
C. THOMAS POOLE, September 16, 1799 . . . .305
CI. ROBERT SOUTHEY, October 15, 1799 . . . .307
CII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, November 10, 1799 . . . 312
CHI. ROBERT SOUTHEY, December 9 [1799] . . .314
CIV. ROBERT SOUTHEY [December 24], 1799 . . .319
CV. ROBERT SOUTHEY, January 25, 1800 . . • .322
CVI. ROBERT SOUTHEY [early in 1800] .... 324
CVH. ROBERT SOUTHEY [Postmark, February 18], 1800 . 326
CVIII. ROBERT SOUTHEY [early in 1800] . . . .328
CIX. ROBERT SOUTHEY, February 28, 1800 . . . .331
CONTENTS xix
CHAPTER VI. A LAKE POET, 1800-1803.
CX. THOMAS POOLE, August 14, 1800. (Illustrated Lon- don News, May 27, 1893) 335
CXI. SDR H. DAVY, October 9, 1800. (Fragmentary Re- mains, 1858, p. 80) 336
CXII. SIB H. DAVY, October 18, 1800. (Fragmentary Re- mains, 1858, p. 79) 339
CXHI. Sm H. DAVY, December 2, 1800. (Fragmentary Re- mains, 1858, p. 83) 341
CXIV. THOMAS POOLE, December 5, 1800. (Eight lines pub- lished, Thomas Poole and his Friends, 1887, ii. 21) . 343 CXV. SIR H. DAVY, February 3, 1801. (Fragmentary Re- mains, 1858, p. 86) 345
CXVI. THOMAS POOLS, March 16, 1801 348
CXVII. THOMAS POOLE, March 23, 1801 350
CXVIII. ROBERT SOUTHEY [May 6, 1801] . . . .354
CXIX. ROBERT SOUTHEY, July 22, 1801 . . .356
CXX. ROBERT SOUTHEY, July 25, 1801 . . . .359
CXXI. ROBERT SOUTHEY, August 1, 1801 . . . .361
CXXII. THOMAS POOLE, September 19, 1801. (Thomas Poole
and his Friends, 1887, ii. 65) 364
CXXIII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, December 31, 1801 . . . 365 CXXIV. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE [February 24, 1802] . . .367
CXXV. W. SOTHEBY, July 13, 1802 369
CXXVI. W. SOTHEBY, July 19, 1802 376
CXXVII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, July 29, 1802 .... 384 CXXVIII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, August 9, 1802 . . . .393
CXXIX. W. SOTHEBY, August 26, 1802 396
CXXX. W. SOTHEBY, September 10, 1802 . . . .401 CXXXI. W. SOTHEBY, September 27, 1802 . . . .408 CXXXII. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, November 16, 1802 . . .410 CXXXIII. REV. J. P. ESTLIN, December 7, 1802. (Privately
printed, Philobiblon Society) 414
CXXXIV. ROBERT SOUTHEY, December 25, 1802 . . .415
CXXXV. THOMAS WEDGWOOD, January 9, 1803 . . .417
CXXXVI. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, April 4, 1803 . . . .420
CXXXVII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, July 2, 1803 422
CXXXVIII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, July, 1803 425
CXXXIX. ROBERT SOUTHEY, August 7, 1803 . . . .427
CXL. MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, September 1, 1803 . . .431
CXLI. ROBERT SOUTHEY, September 10, 1803 . . .434
CXLII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, September 13, 1803 . . .437
CXLIII. MATTHEW COATES, December 5, 1803 ... 441
LIST OF ILLUSTKATIONS
PAQB
SAMUEL TAYLOB COLERIDGE, aged forty-seven. From a pencil- sketch by C. R. Leslie, R. A., now in the possession of the editor.
Frontispiece
COLONEL JAMES COLERIDGE, of Heath's Court, Ottery St. Mary. From a pastel drawing now in the possession of the Right Honour- able Lord Coleridge 60
THE COTTAGE AT CLEVEDON, occupied by S. T. Coleridge, October- November, 1795. From a photograph 136
THE COTTAGE AT NETHER STOWEY, occupied by S. T. Coleridge, 1797-1800. From a photograph taken by the Honourable Stephen Coleridge 214
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, aged twenty-six. From a pastel sketch taken in Germany, now in the possession of Miss Ward of Marsh- mills, Over Stowey 262
ROBERT SOUTHEY, aged forty-one. From an etching on copper. Pri- vate plate 304
GRETA HALL, KESWICK. From a photograph 336
MRS. S. T. COLERIDGE, aged thirty-nine. From a miniature by Ma- tilda Betham, now in the possession of the editor 368
SARA COLERIDGE, aged six. From a miniature by Matilda Betham, now in the possession of the editor 416
CHAPTER I
STUDENT LIFE 1785-1794
LETTERS
OF
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
CHAPTER I
STUDENT LIFE 1785-1794
THE five autobiographical letters addressed to Thomas Poole were written at Nether Stowey, at irregular inter- vals during the years 1797-98. They are included in the first chapter of the " Biographical Supplement " to the " Biographia Literaria." The larger portion of this so-called Biographical Supplement was prepared for the press by Henry Nelson Coleridge, and consists of the opening chapters of a proposed "biographical sketch," and a selection from the correspondence of S. T. Coleridge. His widow, Sara Coleridge, when she brought out the second edition of the "Biographia Literaria" in 1847, published this fragment and added some matter of her own. This edition has never been reprinted in England, but is included in the American edition of Coleridge's Works, which was issued by Harper & Brothers in 1853.
The letters may be compared with an autobiographical note dated March 9. 1832, which was written at Gillman's request, and forms part of the first chapter of his " Life of Coleridge." 1 The text of the present issue of the auto- biographical letters is taken from the original MSS., and differs in many important particulars from that of 1847. 1 Pickering, 1838.
STUDENT LIFE
I. TO THOMAS POOLE.
Monday, February, 1797.
MY DEAR POOLE, — I could inform the dullest author how he might write an interesting book. Let .him relate the events of his own life with honesty, not disguising the feelings that accompanied them. I never yet read even a Methodist's Experience in the " Gospel Magazine " with- out receiving instruction and amusement; and I should almost despair of that man who could peruse the Life of John "Woolman l without an amelioration of heart. As to my Life, it has all the charms of variety, — high life and low life, vices and virtues, great folly and some wisdom. However, what I am depends on what I have been ; and you, my best Friend ! have a right to the narration. To me the task will be a useful one. It will 'renew and deepen my reflections on the past ; and it will perhaps make you behold with no unforgiving or impatient eye those weaknesses and defects in my character, which so many untoward circumstances have concurred to plant there.
My family on my mother's side can be traced up, I know not how far. The Bowdons inherited a small farm in the Exmoor country, in the reign of Elizabeth, as I have been told, and, to my own knowledge, they have inher- ited nothing better since that time. On my father's side I can rise no higher than my grandfather, who was born in the Hundred of Coleridge 2 in the county of Devon,
1 The Journal of John Woolman, pare, too, Essays of Elia, " A Qua-
the Quaker abolitionist, was pub- kers' Meeting." " Get the writings
lished in Philadelphia in 1774, and of John Woolman by heart; and
in London in 1775. From a letter love the early Quakers." Letters of
of Charles Lamb, dated January 5, Charles Lamb, 1888, i. 61 ; Prose
1797, we may conclude that Charles Works, 1836, ii. 106.
Lloyd had, in the first instance, 2 I have been unable to trace any
drawn Coleridge's attention to the connection between the family of
writings of John Woolman. Com- Coleridge and the Parish or Hun-
TO THOMAS POOLE 5
christened, educated, and apprenticed to the parish. He afterwards became a respectable woollen - draper in the town of South Molton.1 (I have mentioned these par- ticulars, as the time may come in which it will be useful to be able to prove myself a genuine sans-culotte, my veins uncontaminated with one drop of gentility.) My father received a better education than the others of his family, in consequence of his own exertions, not of his superior advantages. When he was not quite sixteen years old, my grandfather became bankrupt, and by a series of misfortunes was reduced to extreme poverty. My father received the half of his last crown and his blessing, and walked off to seek his fortune. After he had proceeded a few miles, he sat him down on the side of the road, so overwhelmed with painful thoughts that he wept audibly. A gentleman passed by, who knew him, and, inquiring into his distresses, took my father with him, and settled him in a neighbouring town as a schoolmas- ter. His school increased and he got money and know- ledge : for he commenced a severe and ardent student. Here, too, he married his first wife, by whom he had three daughters, all now alive. While his first wife lived, hav- ing scraped up money enough at the age of twenty 2 he
dred of Coleridge in North Devon, here, if anywhere, it must have been
Coldridges or Coleridges have been that the elder John Coleridge " be-
settled for more than two hundred came a respectable woollen-draper."
years in Doddiscombsleigh, Ashton, 2 John Coleridge, the younger,
and other, villages of the Upper was in his thirty-first year when he
Teign, and to the southwest of was matriculated as sizar at Sidney
Exeter the name is not uncommon. Sussex College, Cambridge, March
It is probable that at some period 18, 1748. He is entered in the col-
before the days of parish registers, lege books as filius Johannis textoris.
strangers from Coleridge who had On the 13th of June, 1749, he was
settled farther south were named appointed to the mastership of
after their birthplace. Squire's Endowed Grammar School
1 Probably a mistake for Crediton. at South Molton. It is strange that
It was at Crediton that John Cole- Coleridge forgot or failed to record
ridge, the poet's father, was bom this incident in his father's life. His
(Feb. 21, 1718) and educated ; and mother came from the neighbour-
6 STUDENT LIFE
walked to Cambridge, entered at Sidney College, distin- guished himself for Hebrew and Mathematics, and might have had a fellowship if he had not been married. He returned — his wife died. Judge Buller's father gave him the living of Ottery St. Mary, and put the present judge to school with him. He married my mother, by whom he had ten children, of whom I am the youngest,! born October 20, 1772.
These sketches I received from my mother and aunt, but I am utterly unable to fill them up by any particu- larity of times, or places, or names. Here I shall con- clude my first letter, because I cannot pledge myself for the accuracy of the accounts, and I will not therefore mingle them with those for the accuracy of which in the minutest parts I shall hold myself amenable to the Tri- bunal of Truth. You must regard this letter as the first chapter of an history which is devoted to dim traditions of times too remote to be pierced by the eye of investi- gation. Yours affectionately,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
II. TO THE SAME.
Sunday, March, 1797.
MY DEAR POOLE, — My father (Vicar of, and School- master at, Ottery St. Mary, Devon) was a profound mathematician, and well versed in the Latin, Greek, and Oriental Languages. He published, or rather attempted to publish, several works ; 1st, Miscellaneous Disserta- tions arising from the 17th and 18th Chapters of the Book of Judges ; 2d, Sententice excerptce, for the use of his own school ; and 3d, his best work, a Critical Latin Grammar ; in the preface to which he proposes a bold innovation in the names of the cases. My father's new
hood, and several of his father's judge, followed him from South scholars, among them Francis Bui- Molton to Ottery St. Mary, ler, afterwards the well - known
TO THOMAS POOLE 7
nomenclature was not likely to become popular, although it must be allowed to be both sonorous and expressive. Exempli gratia, he calls the ablative the quippe-quare- quale-quia-quidditive case ! My father made the world his confidant with respect to his learning and ingenuity, and the world seems to have kept the secret very faith- fully. His various works, uncut, unthumbed, have been preserved free from all pollution. This piece of good luck promises to be hereditary ; for all my compositions have the same amiable home-studying propensity. The truth is, my father was not a first-rate genius ; he was, how- ever, a first-rate Christian. I need not detain you with his character. In learning, good-heartedness, absentness of mind, and excessive ignorance of the world, he was a perfect Parson Adams.
My mother was an admirable economist, and managed exclusively. My eldest brother's name was John. He went over to the East Indies in the Company's service ; he was a successful officer and a brave one, I have heard. He died of a consumption there about eight years ago. My second brother was called William. He went to Pembroke College, Oxford, and afterwards was assistant to Mr. Newcome's School, at Hackney. He died of a putrid fever the year before my father's death, and just as he was on the eve of marriage with Miss Jane Hart, the eldest daughter of a very wealthy citizen of Exeter. My third brother, James, has been in the army since the age of sixteen, has married a woman of fortune, and now lives at Ottery St. Mary, a respectable man. My brother Edward, the wit of the family, went to Pembroke College, and afterwards to Salisbury, as assistant to Dr. Skinner. He married a woman twenty years older than his mother. She is dead, and he now lives at Ottery St. Mary. My fifth brother, George, was educated at Pembroke College, Oxford, and from there went to Mr. Newcome's, Hackney, on the death of William. He stayed there fourteen years,
8 STUDENT LIFE
when the living of Ottery St. Mary l was given him. There he has now a fine school, and has lately married Miss Jane Hart, who with beauty and wealth had remained a faithful widow to the memory of William for sixteen years. My brother George is a man of reflective mind and elegant genius. He possesses learning in a greater degree than any of the family, excepting myself. His manners are grave and hued over with a tender sadness. In his moral character he approaches every way nearer to perfection than any man I ever yet knew ; indeed, he is worth the whole family in a lump. My sixth brother, Luke (indeed, the seventh, for one brother, the second, died in his infancy, and I had forgot to mention him), was bred as a medical man. He married Miss Sara Hart, and died at the age of twenty-two, leaving one child, a lovely boy, still alive. My brother Luke was a man of uncom- mon genius, a severe student, and a good man. The eighth child was a sister, Anne.2 She died a little after my brother Luke, aged twenty-one ;
Rest, gentle Shade ! and wait thy Maker's will ; Then rise unchanged, and be an Angel still !
The ninth child was called Francis. He went out as a midshipman, under Admiral Graves. His ship lay on the Bengal coast, and he accidentally met his brother John, who took him to land, and procured him a commis- sion in the Army. He died from the effects of a delirious fever brought on by his excessive exertions at the siege of Seringapatam, at which his conduct had been so gallant, that Lord Cornwallis paid him a high compliment in the presence of the army, and presented him with a val-
1 George Coleridge was Chaplain and early death form the subject of Priest, and Master of the King's two of Coleridge's early sonnets. School, but never Vicar of Ottery Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor St. Mary. Coleridge, Macmillan, 1893, p. 13.
2 Anne (" Nancy ") Coleridge died See, also, " Lines to a Friend," p. 37, in her twenty-fifth year. Her illness and "Frost at Midnight," p. 127.
TO THOMAS POOLE , 9
uable gold watch, which my mother now has. All my brothers are remarkably handsome ; but they were as in- ferior to Francis as I am to them. He went by the name of " the handsome Coleridge." The tenth and Jast child was S. T. Coleridge, the subject of these epistles, born (as I told you in my last) October 20,1 1772. " From October 20, 1772, to October 20, 1773. Chris- tened Samuel Taylor Coleridge — my godfather's name being Samuel Taylor, Esq. I had another godfather (his name was Evans), and two godmothers, both called "Monday."2 From October 20, 1773, to October 20, 1774. In this year I was carelessly left by my nurse, ran to the fire, and pulled out a live coal — burnt my- self dreadfully. While my hand was being dressed by a Mr. Young, I spoke for the first time (so my mother informs me) and said, "nasty Doctor Young!" The snatching at fire, and the circumstance of my first words expressing hatred to professional men — are they at all ominous ? This year I went to school. My schoolmistress,
1 A mistake for October 21st. she had the barbarity to revenge by
2 Compare some doggerel verses striking me out of her Will."
" On Mrs. Monday's Beard " which The epigram is not worth quoting,
Coleridge wrote on a copy of but it is curious to observe that,
Southey's Omniana, under the head- even when scribbling for his own
ing of " Beards " (Omniana, 1812, amusement, and without any view
ii. 54). Southey records the legend to publication, Coleridge could not
of a female saint, St. Vuilgefortis, resist the temptation of devising an
who in answer to her prayers was " apologetic preface."
rewarded with a beard as a mark of The verses, etc., are printed in
divine favour. The story is told in Table Talk and Omniana, Bell, 1888,
some Latin elegiacs from the Annus p. 391. The editor, the late Thomas
Sacer Poeticus of the Jesuit Sautel Ashe, transcribed them from Gill-
which Southey quotes at length, man's copy of the Omniana, now in
Coleridge comments thus, " Pereant the British Museum. I have fol-
qui ante nos nostra dixere ! What ! lowed a transcript of the marginal
can nothing be one's own ? This is note made by Mrs. H. N. Coleridge
the more vexatious, for at the age of before the volume was cut in bind-
eighteen I lost a legacy of Fifty ing. Her version supplies one or
pounds for the following Epigram two omissions, on my Godmother's Beard, which
10 STUDENT LIFE
the very image of Shenstone's, was named Old Dame Key. She was nearly related to Sir Joshua Reynolds.
From October 20, 1774, to October 20, 1775. I was inoculated ; which I mention because I distinctly remem- ber it, and that my eyes were bound ; at which I mani- fested so much obstinate indignation, that at last they removed the bandage, and unaffrighted I looked at the lancet, and suffered the scratch. At the close of the year I could read a chapter in the Bible.
Here I shall end, because the remaining years of my life all assisted to form my particular mind ; — the three first years had nothing in them that seems to relate to it.
(Signature cut out.)
HI. TO THE SAME.
October 9, 1797.
MY DEAREST POOLE, — From March to October — a long silence ! But [as] it is possible that I may have been preparing materials for future letters,1 the time cannot be considered as altogether subtracted from you.
From October, 1775, to October, 1778. These three years I continued at the Reading School, because I was too little to be trusted among my father's schoolboys. After breakfast I had a halfpenny given me, with which I bought three cakes at the baker's close by the school of my old mistress ; and these were my dinner on every day except Saturday and Sunday, when I used to dine at home, and wallowed in a beef and pudding dinner. I am remarkably fond of beans and bacon ; and this fondness I attribute to my father having given me a penny for
1 The meaning is that the events Dorothy at Alf oxden, would hereaf-
which had taken place between ter be recorded in his autobiography.
March and October, 1797, the com- He had failed to complete the rec-
position, for instance, of his tragedy, ord of the past, only because he had
Osorio, the visit of Charles Lamb to been too much occupied with the
the cottage at Nether Stowey, the present, settling of Wordsworth and his sister
TO THOMAS POOLE 11
having eat a large quantity of beans on Saturday. For the other boys did not like them, and as it was an eco- nomic food, my father thought that my attachment and penchant for it ought to be encouraged. My father was very fond of me, and I was my mother's darling : in con- sequence I was very miserable. For Molly, who had nursed my brother Francis, and was immoderately fond of him, hated me because my mother took more notice of me than of Frank, and Frank hated me because my mother gave me now and then a bit of cake, when he had none, — quite forgetting that for one bit of cake which I had and he had not, he had twenty sops in the pan, and pieces of bread and butter with sugar on them from Molly, from whom I received only thumps and ill names.
So I became fretful and timorous, and a tell-tale ; and the schoolboys drove me from play, and were always tormenting me, and hence I took no pleasure in boyish sports, but read incessantly. My father's sister kept an everything shop at Crediton, and there I read through all the gilt-cover little books l that could be had at that time, and likewise all the uncovered tales of Tom Hicka- thrift, Jack the Giant-killer, etc., etc., etc., etc. And I
1 He records his timorous passion used to watch, till the sun shining
for fairy stories in a note to The on the bookcase approached, and,
Friend (ed. 1850, i. 192). Another glowing full upon it, gave me the
version of the same story is to be courage to take it from the shelf. I
found in some MS. notes (taken by heard of no little Billies, and sought
J. Tomalin) of the Lectures of 1811, no praise for giving to beggars, and
the only record of this and other I trust that my heart is not the
lectures : — worse, or the less inclined to feel
Lecture 5th, 1811. " Give me," sympathy for all men, because I
cried Coleridge, with enthusiasm, first learnt the powers of my nature,
"the works which delighted my and to reverence that nature — for
youth ! Give me the History of St. who can feel and reverence the na-
George, and the Seven Champions of ture of man and not feel deeply for
Christendom, which at every leisure the affliction of others possessing
moment I used to hide myself in a like powers and like nature ? "
corner to read ! Give me the Ara- Tomalin's Shorthand Report of Lec-
bian Nights'1 Entertainments, which I ture V.
12 STUDENT LIFE
used to lie by the wall and mope, and my spirits used to come upon me suddenly ; and in a flood of them I was accustomed to race up and down the churchyard, and act over all I had been reading, on the docks, the nettles, and the rank grass. At six years old I remember to have read Belisarius, Robinson Crusoe, and Philip Quarles ; and then I found the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, one tale of which (the tale of a man who was compelled to seek for a pure virgin) made so deep an impression on me (I had read it in the evening while my mother was mending stockings), that I was haunted by spectres, whenever I was in the dark : and I distinctly remember the anxious and fearful eagerness with which I used to watch the window in which the books lay, and whenever the sun lay upon them, I would seize it, carry it by the wall, and bask and read. My father found out the effect which these books had produced, and burnt them.
So I became a dreamer, and acquired an indisposition to all bodily activity ; and I was fretful, and inordinately passionate, and as I could not play at anything, and was slothful, I was despised and hated by the boys ; and be- cause I could read and spell and had, I may truly say, a memory and understanding forced into almost an unnat- ural ripeness, I was flattered and wondered at by all the old women. And so I became very vain, and despised most of the boys that were at all near my own age, and before I was eight years old I was a character. Sensi- bility, imagination, vanity, sloth, and feelings of deep and bitter contempt for all who traversed the orbit of my un- derstanding, were even then prominent and manifest.
From October, 1778, to 1779. That which I began to be from three to six I continued from six to nine. In this year [1778] I was admitted into the Grammar School, and soon outstripped all of my age. I had a dangerous putrid fever this year. My brother George lay ill of the same fever in the next room. My poor brother Francis, I
TO THOMAS POOLE 13
remember, stole up in spite of orders to the contrary, and sat by my bedside and read Pope's Homer to me. Frank had a violent love of beating me ; but whenever that was superseded by any humour or circumstances, he was always very fond of me, and used to regard me with a strange mixture of admiration and contempt. Strange it was not, for he hated books, and loved climbing, fighting, playing and robbing orchards, to distraction.
My mother relates a story of me, which- 1 repeat here, because it must be regarded as my first piece of wit. During my fever, I asked why Lady Northcote (our neighbour) did not come and see me. My mother said she was afraid of catching the fever. I was piqued, and answered, " Ah, Mamma ! the four Angels round my bed an't afraid of catching it ! " I suppose you know the prayer : —
" Matthew ! Mark ! Luke and John ! God bless the bed which I lie on. Four angels round me spread, Two at my foot, and two at my head."
This prayer I said nightly, and most firmly believed the truth of it. Frequently have I (half-awake and half- asleep, my body diseased and fevered by my imagination), seen armies of ugly things bursting in upon me, and these four angels keeping them off. In my next I shall carry on my life to my father's death.
God bless you, my dear Poole, and your affectionate
S. T. COLERIDGE.
IV. TO THE SAME.
October 16, 1797.
DEAR POOLE, — From October, 1779, to October, 1781. I had asked my mother one evening to cut my cheese entire, so that I might toast it. This was no easy matter, it being a crumbly cheese. My mother, however, did it. I went into the garden for something or other, and in
14 STUDENT LIFE
the mean time my brother Frank minced my cheese " to disappoint the favorite." I returned, saw the exploit, and in an agony of passion flew at Frank. He pretended to have been seriously hurt by my blow, flung himself on the ground, and there lay with outstretched limbs. I hung over him moaning, and in a great fright ; he leaped up, and with a horse-laugh gave me a severe blow in the face. I seized a knife, and was running at him, when my mother came in and took me by the arm. I expected a flogging, and struggling from her I ran away to a hill at the bottom of which the Otter flows, about one mile from Ottery. There I stayed ; iny rage died away, but my obstinacy vanquished my fears, and taking out a little shilling book which had, at the end, morning and evening prayers, I very devoutly repeated them — think- ing at the same time with inward and gloomy satisfaction how miserable my mother must be ! I distinctly remem- ber my feelings when I saw a Mr. Vaughan pass over the bridge, at about a furlong's distance, and how I watched the calves in the fields J beyond the river. It grew dark and I fell asleep. It was towards the latter end of Oc- tober, and it proved a dreadful stormy night. I felt the cold in my sleep, and dreamt that I was pulling the blan- ket over me, and actually pulled over me a dry thorn bush which lay on the hill. In my sleep I had rolled from the top of the hill to within three yards of the river, which flowed by the unfenced edge at the bottom. I awoke several times, and finding myself wet and stiff and cold, closed my eyes again that I might forget it.
In the mean time my mother waited about half an hour,
1 Compare a MS. note dated July calf bellowing. Instantly came on
19, 1803. " Intensely hot day, left my mind that night I slept out at
off a waistcoat, and for yarn wore Ottery, and the calf in the field
silk stockings. Before nine o'clock across the • river whose lowing so
had unpleasant dullness, heard a deeply impressed me. Chill and
noise which I thought Derwent's in child and calf lowing." sleep; listened and found it was a
TO THOMAS POOLE 15
expecting my return when the sulks had evaporated. I not returning, she sent into the churchyard and round the town. Not found ! Several men and all the boys were sent to ramble about and seek me. In vain ! My mother was almost distracted ; and at ten o'clock at night I was cried by the crier in Ottery, and in two villages near it, with a reward offered for me. No one went to bed ; indeed, I believe half the town were up all the night. To return to myself. About five in the morning, or a little after, I was broad awake, and attempted to get up and walk ; but I could not move. I saw the shepherds and workmen at a distance, and cried, but so faintly that it was impossible to hear me thirty yards off. And there I might have lain and died ; for I was now almost given over, the ponds and even the river, near where I was lying, having been dragged. But by good luck, Sir Stafford Northcote,1 who had been out all night, resolved to make one other trial, and came so near that he heard me crying. He carried me in his arms for near a quarter of a mile, when we met my father and Sir Stafford's servants. I remember and never shall forget my father's face as he looked upon me while I lay in the servant's arms — so calm, and the tears stealing down his face ; for I was the child of his old age. My mother, as you may suppose, was outrageous with joy. [Meantime] in rushed a young lady, crying out, " I hope you '11 whip him, Mrs. Coleridge ! " This woman still lives in Ottery ; and neither philosophy or religion have been able to conquer the antipathy which I feel towards her whenever I see her. I was put to bed and recovered in a day or so, but I was certainly injured. For I was weakly and subject to the ague for many years after.
1 Sir Stafford, the seventh baro- the list of scholars who were sub- net, grandfather of the first Lord scribers to the second edition of the Iddesleigh, was at that time a youth Critical Latin Grammar. of eighteen. His name occurs among
16 STUDENT LIFE
My father (who had so little of parental ambition in ,• him, that he had destined his children to be blacksmiths, etc., and had accomplished his intention but for my mo- ther's pride and spirit of aggrandizing her family) my
father had, however, resolved that I should be a parson. I read every book that came in my way without distinc- tion ; and my father was fond of me, and used to take me on his knee and hold long conversations with me. I remember that at eight years old I walked with him one winter evening from a farmer's house, a mile from Ottery, and he told me the names of the stars and how Jupiter was a thousand times larger than our world, and that the other twinkling stars were suns that had worlds rolling round them; and when I came home he shewed me how they rolled round. I heard him with a prof ound delight and admiration : but without the least mixture of wonder or incredulity. For from my early reading of fairy tales and genii, etc., etc., my mind had been habituated to the Vast, and I never regarded my senses in any way as the criteria of my belief. I regulated all my creeds by my conceptions, not by my sight, even at that age. Should children be permitted to read romances, and relations of giants and magicians and genii? I know all that has been said against it ; but I have formed my faith in the affirmative. I know no other way of giving the mind a love of the Great and the Whole. Those who have been led to the same truths step by step, through the constant testimony of their senses, seem to me to want a sense which I possess. They contemplate nothing but parts, and all parts are necessarily little. And the universe to them is but a mass of little things. It is true, that the mind may become credulous and prone to superstition by the former method ; but are not the experimentalists credulous even to madness in believing any absurdity, rather than believe the grandest truths, if they have not the testimony of their own senses in their favour? I have known some who have
TO THOMAS POOLE 17
been rationally educated, as it is styled. They were marked by a microscopic acuteness, but when they looked at great things, all became a blank and they saw no- thing, and denied (very illogically) that anything could be seen, and uniformly put the negation of a power for the possession of a power, and called the want of imagination judgment and the never being moved to rapture philo- sophy !
Towards the latter end of September, 1781, my father went to Plymouth with my brother Francis, who was to go as midshipman under Admiral Graves, who was a friend of my father's. My father settled my brother, and re- turned October 4, 1781. He arrived at Exeter about six o'clock, and was pressed to take a bed there at the Harts', but he refused, and, to avoid their entreaties, he told them, that he had never been superstitious, but that the night before he had had a dream which had made a deep im- pression. He dreamt that Death had appeared to him as he is commonly painted, and touched him with his dart. Well, he returned home, and all his family, I excepted, were up. He told my mother his dream ; 1 but he was in high health and good spirits, and there was a bowl of punch made, and my father gave a long and particular account of his travel, and that he had placed Frank under a religious captain, etc. At length he went to bed, very well and in high spirits. A short time after he had lain down he complained of a pain in his bowels. My mother got him some peppermint water, and, after a pause, he said, " I am much better now, my dear ! " and lay down again. In a minute my mother heard a noise in his throat, and spoke to him, but he did not answer ; and she spoke repeatedly in vain. Her shriek awaked me, and I said, " Papa is dead ! " I did not know of my father's return,
1 Compare a MS. note dated March cause of the coincidence of dreams 5, 1818. " Memory counterfeited with the event — 77 by present impressions. One great
18 STUDENT LIFE
but I knew that he was expected. How I came to think of his death I cannot tell ; but so it was. Dead he was. Some said it was the gout in the heart ; — probably it was a fit of apoplexy. He was an Israelite without guile, simple, gen- erous, and taking some Scripture texts in their literal sense, he was conscientiously indifferent to the good and the evil of this world.
God love you and S. T. COLERIDGE.
V. TO THE SAME.
February 19, 1798.
From October, 1781, to October, 1782.
After the death of my father, we of course changed houses, and I remained with my mother till the spring of 1782, and was a day-scholar to Parson Warren, my father's successor. He was not very deep, I believe ; and I used to delight my mother by relating little instances of his deficiency in grammar knowledge, — every detraction from his merits seemed an oblation to the memory of my father, especially as Parson Warren did certainly pulpit- ize much better. Somewhere I think about April, 1782, Judge Buller, who had been educated by my father, sent for me, having procured a Christ's Hospital Presentation. I accordingly went to London, and was received by my mother's brother, Mr. Bowdon, a tobacconist and (at the same time) clerk to an underwriter. My uncle lived at the corner of the Stock Exchange and carried on his shop by means of a confidential servant, who, I suppose, fleeced him most unmercifully. He was a widower and had one daughter who lived with a Miss Cabriere, an old maid of great sensibilities and a taste for literature. Betsy Bow- don had obtained an unlimited influence over her mind, which she still retains. Mrs. Holt (for this is her name now) was not the kindest of daughters — but, indeed, my poor uncle would have wearied the patience and affection of an Euphrasia. He received me with great affection,
and I stayed ten weeks at his house, during which time I went occasionally to Judge Buller's. My uncle was very proud of me, and used to carry me from coffee-house to coffee-house and tavern to tavern, where I drank and talked and disputed, as if I had been a man. Nothing was more common than for a large party to exclaim in my hearing that I was a prodigy, etc., etc., etc., so that while I remained at my uncle's I was most completely spoiled and pampered, both mind and body.
At length the time came, and I donned the blue coat J and yellow stockings and was sent down into Hertford, a town twenty miles from London, where there are about three hundred of the younger Blue-Coat boys. At Hert- ford I was very happy, on the whole, for I had plenty to eat and drink, and pudding and vegetables almost every day. I stayed there six weeks, and then was drafted up to the great school at London, where I arrived in Septem- ber, 1782, and was placed in the second ward, then called Jefferies' Ward, and in the under Grammar School. There are twelve wards or dormitories of unequal sizes, beside the sick ward, in the great school, and they contained all together seven hundred boys, of whom I think nearly one third were the sons of clergymen. There are five schools, — a mathematical, a grammar, a drawing, a reading and a writing school, — all very large buildings. When a boy is admitted, if he reads very badly, he is either sent to Hertford or the reading school. (N. B. Boys are admis- sible from seven to twelve years old.) If he learns to read tolerably well before nine, he is drafted into the Lower Grammar School ; if not, into the Writing School, as hav- ing given proof of unfitness for classical attainments. If before he is eleven he climbs up to the first form of the Lower Grammar School, he is drafted into the head Grammar School ; if not, at eleven years old, he is sent
1 The date of admission to Hert- later, September 12, he was sent up ford was July 18, 1782. Eight weeks to London to the great school.
20 STUDENT LIFE
into the Writing School, where he continues till fourteen or fifteen, and is then either apprenticed and articled as clerk, or whatever else his turn of mind or of fortune shall have provided for him. Two or three times a year the Mathematical Master beats up for recruits for the King's boys, as they are called ; and all who like the Navy are drafted into the Mathematical and Drawing Schools, where they continue till sixteen or seventeen, and go out as mid- shipmen and schoolmasters in the Navy. The boys, who are drafted into the Head Grammar School remain there till thirteen, and then, if not chosen for the University, go into the Writing School.
Each dormitory has a nurse, or matron, and there is a head matron to superintend all these nurses. The boys were, when I was admitted, under excessive subordination to each other, according to rank in school ; and every ward was governed by four Monitors (appointed by the Steward, who was the supreme Governor out of school, — our tem- poral lord}, and by four Markers, who wore silver medals and were appointed by the Head Grammar Master, who was our supreme spiritual lord. The same boys were com- monly both monitors and markers. We read in classes on Sundays to our Markers, and were catechized by them, and under their sole authority during prayers, etc. All other authority was in the monitors ; but, as I said, the same boys were ordinarily both the one and the other. Our diet was very scanty.1 Every morning, a bit of dry
1 Compare the autobiographical hunger and fancy." Lamb in his
note of 1832. " I was in a continual Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty
low fever. My whole being was, Years Ago, and Leigh Hunt in his
with eyes closed to every object of Autobiography, are in the same tale
present sense, to crumple myself up as to the insufficient and ill-cooked
in a sunny corner and read, read, meals of their Bluecoat days. Life
read ; fixing myself on Robinson of Coleridge, by James Gillman,
Crusoe's Island, finding a mountain 1838, p. 20 ; Lamb's Prose Works,
of plumb cake, and eating a room 1836, ii. 27; Autobiography of Leigh
for myself, and then eating it into Hunt, 1860, p. 60. the shapes of tables and chairs —
TO HIS MOTHER 21
bread and some bad small beer. Every evening, a larger piece of bread and cheese or butter, whichever we liked. For dinner, — on Sunday, boiled beef and broth ; Monday, bread and butter, and milk and water ; on Tuesday, roast mutton ; Wednesday, bread and butter, and rice milk ; Thursday, boiled beef and broth ; Saturday, bread and butter, and pease-porritch. Our food was portioned ; and, excepting on Wednesdays, I never had a .belly full. Our appetites were damped, never satisfied ; and we had no vegetables.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
VI. TO HIS MOTHER.
February 4, 1785 [London, Christ's Hospital].
DEAR MOTHER,1 — I received your letter with pleasure on the second instant, and should have had it sooner, but that we had not a holiday before last Tuesday, when my brother delivered it me. I also with gratitude received the two handkerchiefs and the half-a-crown from Mr. Bad- cock, to whom I would be glad if you would give my thanks. I shall be more careful of the somme, as I now consider that were it not for my kind friends I should be as destitute of many little necessaries as some of my schoolfellows are ; and Thank God and my relations for them ! My brother Luke saw Mr. James Sorrel, who gave my brother a half- a-crown from Mrs. Smerdon, but mentioned not a word of the plumb cake, and said he would call again. Return my most respectful thanks to Mrs. Smerdon for her kind favour. My aunt was so kind as to accommodate me with a box. I suppose my sister Anna's beauty has many ad-
1 Coleridge's " letters home " were exception, preserve his letters. It
almost invariably addressed to his was, indeed, a sorrowful consequence
brother George. It may be gath- of his " long exile " at Christ's Hos-
ered from his correspondence that at pital, that he seems to have passed
rare intervals he wrote to his mother out of his mother's ken, that absence
as well, but, contrary to her usual led to something like indifference on
practice, she did not, with this one both sides.
22 STUDENT LIFE [JAN.
mirers. My brother Luke says that Burke's Art of Speak- ing would be of great use to me. If Master Sam and Harry Badcock are not gone out of (Ottery), give my kindest love to them. Give my compliments to Mr. Blake and Miss Atkinson, Mr. and Mrs. Smerdon, Mr. and Mrs. Clapp, and all other friends in the country. My uncle, aunt, and cousins join with myself and Brother in love to my sisters, and hope they are well, as I, your dutiful son,
S. COLERIDGE, am at present.
P. S. Give my kind love to Molly.
VII. TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE.
Undated, from Christ's Hospital, before 1790.
DEAR BROTHER, — You will excuse me for reminding you that, as our holidays commence next week, and I shall go out a good deal, a good pair of breeches will be no inconsiderable accession to my appearance. For though my present pair are excellent for the purposes of draw- ing mathematical figures on them, and though a walking thought, sonnet, or epigram would appear on them in very splendid type, yet they are not altogether so well adapted for a female eye — not to mention that I should have the charge of vanity brought against me for wearing a looking-glass. I hope you have got rid of your cold — and I am your affectionate brother,
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
P. S. Can you let me have them time enough for re- adaptation before Whitsunday ? I mean that they may be made up for me before that time.
VIII. TO THE SAME.
October 16, 1791.
DEAR BROTHER, — Here I am, videlicet, Jesus College. I had a tolerable journey, went by a night coach packed
1792] TO GEORGE COLERIDGE 23
up with five more, one of whom had a long, broad, red- hot face, four feet by three. I very luckily found Middle- ton at Pembroke College, who (after breakfast, etc.) con- ducted me to Jesus. Dr. Pearce is in Cornwall and not expected to return to Cambridge till the summer, and what is still more extraordinary (and, n. b., rather shame- ful) neither of the tutors are here. I keep (as the phrase is) in an absent member's rooms till one of the aforesaid duetto return to appoint me my own. Neither Lectures, Chapel, or anything is begun. The College is very thin, and Middleton has not the least acquaintance with- any of Jesus except a very blackguardly fellow whose physiog. I did not like. So I sit down to dinner in the Hall in silence, except the noise of suction which accompanies my eating, and rise up ditto. I then walk to Pembroke and sit with my friend Middleton. Pray let me hear from you. Le Grice will send a parcel in two or three days.
Believe me, with sincere affection and gratitude, yours ever,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
IX. TO THE SAME.
January 24, 1792.
DEAR BROTHER, — Happy am I, that the country air and exercise have operated with due effect on your health and spirits — and happy, too, that I can inform you, that my own corporealities are in a state of better health, than I ever recollect them to be. This indeed I owe in great measure to the care of Mrs. Evans,1 with whom I spent a fortnight at Christmas : the relaxation from study coop- erating with the cheerfulness and attention, which I met
1 Compare the autobiographical to me, and taught me what it was to
note of 1832 as quoted by Gillman. have a mother. I loved her as such.
About this time he became acquaint- She had three daughters, and of
ed with a widow lady, " whose son," course I fell in love with the eldest."
says he, " I, as upper boy, had pro- Life of Coleridge, p. 28. tected, and who therefore looked up
24 STUDENT LIFE [JAN.
there, proved very potently medicinal. I have indeed experienced from her. a tenderness scarcely inferior to the solicitude of maternal affection. I wish, my dear brother, that some time, when you walk into town, you would call at Villiers Street, and take a dinner or dish of tea there. Mrs. Evans has repeatedly expressed her wish, and I too have made a half promise that you would. I assure you, you will find them not only a very amiable, but a very sensible family.
I send a parcel to Le Grice on Friday morningx which (you may depend on it as a certainty^) will contain your sermon. I hope you will like it.
I am sincerely concerned at the state of Mr. Sparrow's health. Are his complaints consumptive? Present my respects to him and Mrs. Sparrow.
When the Scholarship falls, I do not know. It must be in the course of two or three months. I do not relax in my exertions, neither do I find it any impediment to my mental acquirements that prudence has obliged me to re- linquish the mediae pallescere nocti. We are examined as Rustats,1 on the Thursday in Easter "Week. The ex- amination for my year is " the last book of Homer and Horace's De Arte Poetica" The Master (i, e. Dr. Pearce) told me that he would do me a service by pushing my examination as deep as he possibly could. If ever hogs- lard is pleasing, it is when our superiors trowel it on. Mr. Frend's company 2 is by no means invidious. On the contrary, Pearce himself is very intimate with him. No !
1 Scholarship of Jesus College, alarm. He was deprived of his Fel- Cambridge, for sons of clergymen. lowship, April 17, and banished from
2 At this time Frend was still a the University, May 30, 1793. Cole- Fellow of Jesus College. Five years ridge's demeanour in the Senate had elapsed since he had resigned House on the occasion of Frend's trial from conscientious motives the living before the Vice-Chancellor forms the of Madingley in Cambridgeshire, but subject of various contradictory an- it was not until after the publication ecdotes. See Life of Coleridge, 1838, of his pamphlet Peace and Union, p. 55 ; Reminiscences of Cambridge, in 1793, that the authorities took Henry Gunning, 1855, i. 272-275.
1792] TO GEORGE COLERIDGE 25
Though I am not an Alderman, I have yet prudence enough to respect that gluttony of faith waggishly yclept orthodoxy.
Philanthropy generally keeps pace with health — my acquaintance becomes more general. I am intimate with an undergraduate of our College, his name Caldwell,1 who is pursuing the same line of study (nearly) as myself. Though a man of fortune, he is prudent ; nor does he lay claim to that right, which wealth confers on its possessor, of being a fool. Middleton is fourth senior optimate — an honourable place, but by no means so high as the whole University expected, or (I believe) his merits deserved. He desires his love to Stevens : 2 to which you will add mine.
At what time am I to receive my pecuniary assistance ? Quarterly or half yearly ? The Hospital issue their money half yearly, and we receive the products of our scholar- ship at once, a little after Easter. Whatever additional supply you and my brother may have thought necessary would be therefore more conducive to my comfort, if I received it quarterly — as there are a number of little things which require us to have some ready money in our pockets — particularly if we happen to be unwell. But this as well as everything of the pecuniary kind I leave entirely ad arbitrium tuum.
I have written my mother, of whose health I am rejoiced to hear. God send that she may long continue to recede
1 The Rev. George Caldwell was He was at this time Senior- Assistant afterwards Fellow and Tutor of Master at Newcome's Academy at Jesus College. His name occurs Clapton near Hackney, and a col- among the list of subscribers to the league of George Coleridge. The original issue of The Friend. Let- school, which belonged to three gen- ders of the Lake Poets, 1889, p. 452. erations of Newcomes, was of high
2 " First Grecian of my time was repute as a private academy, and Launcelot Pepys Stevens [Stephens], commanded the services of clever kindest of boys and men, since the young schoolmasters as assistants or Co -Grammar Master, and insepa- ushers. Mr. Sparrow, whose name rable companion of Dr. T[rollop]e." is mentioned in the letter, was head- Lamtfs Prose Works, 1835, ii. 45. master.
26 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
from old age, while she advances towards it ! Pray write me very soon.
Yours with gratitude and affection,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
X. TO MRS. EVANS.
February 13, 1792.
MY VERY DEAR, — What word shall I add sufficiently expressive of the warmth which I feel ? You covet to be near my heart. Believe me, that you and my sister have the very first row in the front box of my heart's little theatre — and — God knows ! you are not crowded. There, my dear spectators ! you shall see what you shall see — Farce, Comedy, and Tragedy — my laughter, my cheerfulness, and my melancholy. A thousand figures pass before you, shifting in perpetual succession ; these are my joys and my sorrows, my hopes and my fears, my good tempers and my peevishness/: you will, however, ob- ^$&f serve tafo that remain "unalterably&ced, and these are love i and gratitude. In short, my dear Mrs. Evans( my whole hear! shall be laid open like any sheep's heart ; my virtues, if I have any, shall not be more exposed to your view than my weaknesses. Indeed, I am of opinion that foibles are the cement of affection, and that, however we may admire a perfect character, we are seldom inclined to love and praise those whom we cannot sometimes blame. Come, ladies ! will you take your seats in this play-house ? Fool that I am ! Are you not already there ? Believe me, you are !
I am extremely anxious to be informed concerning your health. Have you not felt the kindly influence of this more than vernal weather, as well as the good effects of your own recommenced regularity ? I would I could trans- mit you a little of my superfluous good health ! I am indeed at present most wonderfully well, and if I continue so, I may soon be mistaken for one of your very children :
1792] TO MRS. EVANS 27
at least, in clearness of complexion and rosiness of cheek I am no contemptible likeness of them, though that ugly arrangement of features with which ^nature has dis- tinguished me will, I fear, long stand in the way of such honorable assimilation. You accuse me of evading the bet, and imagine that my silence proceeded from a con- sciousness of the charge. But you are mistaken. I not only read your letter first, but, on my sincerity ! I felt no inclination to do otherwise ; and I am confident, that if Mary had happened to have stood by me and had seen me take up Tier letter in preference to her mother's, with all that ease and energy which she can so gracefully exert upon proper occasions, she would have lifted up her beau- tiful little leg, and kicked me round the room. Had Anne indeed favoured me with a few lines, I confess I should have seized hold of them before either of your letters ; but then this would have arisen from my love of novelty, and not from any deficiency in filial respect. So much for your bet !
You can scarcely conceive what uneasiness poor Tom's accident has occasioned me ; in everything that relates to him I feel solicitude truly fraternal. Be particular concerning him in your next. I was going to write him an half -angry letter for the long intermission of his cor- respondence ; but I must change it to a consolatory one. You mention not a word of Bessy. Think you I do not love her ?
And so, my dear Mrs. Evans, you are to take your Wel^h journey in May? Now may the^ Goddess of Health, the rosy-cheeked .goddess that blows the breeze from the Cambrian mountains, renovate that dear old lady, and make her young again ! I always loved that old lady's looks. Yet do not flatter yourselves, that you shall take this journey tete-a-tete. You will have an un- seen companion at your side, one who will attend you in your jaunt, who will be present at your arrival ; one whose
28 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
heart will melt with unutterable tenderness at your ma- ternal transports, who will climb the Welj&i hills with you, who will feel himself happy in knowing you to be so. In i short, as St. Paul says, though absent in body, I shall be / present in mind. Disappointment ? You must not, you shall not be disappointed ; and if a poetical invocation can help you to drive off that ugly foe to Ijappiness here it is for you.
TO DISAPPOINTMENT.
Hence ! thou fiend of gloomy sway, Thou lov'st on withering blast to ride O'er fond Illusion's air-built pride.
Sullen Spirit ! Hence ! Away !
Where Avarice lurks in sordid cell, Or mad Ambition builds the dream, Or Pleasure plots th' unholy scheme
There with Guilt and Folly dwell !
But oh ! when Hope on Wisdom's wing Prophetic whispers pure delight, Be distant far thy cank'rous blight,
Demon of en venom 'd sting.
Then haste thee, Nymph of balmy gales ! Thy poet's prayer, sweet May ! attend ! Oh ! place my jsarent and my Jriend
'Mid her lovely native vales.
> Peace, that lists the woodlark's strains, Health, that breathes divinest treasures, Laughing Hours, and Social Pleasures Wait my friend in Cambria's plains.
Affection there with mingled ray Shall pour at once the raptures high
1792] TO MRS. EVANS. 29
Of Jilial andjmaternal Joy;
Haste thee then, delightful May !
And oh ! may Spring's fair flowerets fade, May Summer cease her limbs to lave In cooling stream, may Autumn grave
Yellow o'er the corn-cloath'd glade ;
Ere, from sweet retirement torn, She seek again the crowded mart : Nor thou, my selfish, selfish heart
Dare her slow return to mourn !
In what part of the country is my dear Anne to be ? Mary must and shall be with you. I want to know all your summer residences, that I may be on that very spot with all of you. It is not improbable that I may steal down from Cambridge about the beginning of April just to look at you, that when I see you again in jyitumn I may know how many years younger the Wel/h air has made jou./f I shall go into Devonshire on the 21st of May, unless my good fortune in a particular affair should detain me -tiH- the 4th of June.
I lately received the thanks of the College for a decla- mation l I spoke in public ; indeed, I meet with the most pointed marks of respect, which, as I neither flatter nor fiddle, I suppose to be sincere. I write these things not from vanity, but because I know they will please you.
I intend to leave off suppers, and two or three other little unnecessaries, and in conjunction with Caldwell hire a garden for the summer. It will be nice exercise — your advice. La ! it will be so charming to walk out in one's own garding, and sit and drink tea in an arbour, and
1 A Latin essay on Posthumous served at Jesus College, Cambridge.
Fame, described as a declamation Some extracts were printed in the
and stated to have been composed by College magazine, The Chanticleer,
S. T. Coleridge, March, 1792, is pre- Lent Term, 1886.
30 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
pick pretty nosegays. To plant and transplant, and be dirty and amused ! Then to look with contempt on your , * Londoners with your mock gardens ->nd your smoky ^M windows, making a beggarly show of withered flowers stuck in pint pots, and quart potsy menacing the heads of the passengers
Now suppoBe-f~conclude something in the manner with which Mary concludes all her letters to me, " Believe me your sincere friend," and dutiful humble servant to command !
Now I do hate that way of concluding a letter. 'T is as dry as a stick, as stiff as a poker, and as cold as a cucumber. It is not half so good as my old God bless you
and
Your affectionately grateful I^J S. T. COLERIDGE.
XI. TO MART EVANS. tA\fl ""nOVTv February 13, 11 o'clock.
y. . _— Fen of the most talkative young ladies now in London !
\ Now by the most accurate calculation of the specific
" ' • quantities of sounds, a female tongue, when it exerts itself to the utmost, equals the noise of eighteen sign-posts, which the wind swings backwards and forwards in full creak. If then one equals eighteen, ten must equal one hundred and eighty ; consequently, the circle at Jermyn Street unitedly must have produced a noise equal to that of one hundred and eighty old crazy sign - posts, inharmoniously agitated as aforesaid. Well ! to be sure, there are few disagreeables for which the pleasure of Mary and Anne Evans' company would not amply com- pensate ; but faith ! I feel myself half inclined to thank God that I was fifty-two miles off during this clattering clapperation of tongues. Do you keep ale at Jermyn Street ? If so, I hope it is not soured.
1792] TO MARY EVANS 81
Such, my dear Mary, were the reflections that instantly suggested themselves to me on reading the former part of your letter. Believe me, however, that my gratitude keeps pace with my sense of your exertions, as I can most feelingly conceive the difficulty of writing amid that second edition of Babel with additions. That your health is restored gives me sincere delight. May the giver of all pleasure and pain preserve it so ! I am likewise glad to hear that your hand is re-whiten^ though I cannot help smiling at a certain young lady's effrontery in having boxed a young gentleman's ears~till her own hand became black and blue, and attributing those unseemly marks to the poor unfortunate object of her resentment. You are at liberty, certainly, to say what you please.
It has been confidently affirmed by most excellent judges (tho' the best may be mistaken) that I have grown very handsome lately. Pray that I may have grace not to be vain. Yet, ah ! who can read the stories of Pamela, or Joseph Andrews, or Susannah and the three Elders, and not perceive what a dangerous snare beauty is ? Beauty is like the grass, that groweth up in the morning and is withered before night. Mary ! Anne ! Do not be vain of your beauty ! ! ! ! !
I keep a cat. Amid the strange collection of strange animals with which I am surrounded, I think it necessary to have some meek well-looking being, that I may keep my social affections alive. Puss, like her master, is a very gentle brute, and I behave to her with all possible politeness. Indeed, a cat is a very worthy animal. To be sure, I have known some very malicious cats in my lifetime, but then they were old — and besides, they had not nearly so many legs as you, my sweet Pussy. I wish, Puss ! I could break you of that indecorous habit of turning your back front to the fire. It is not frosty weather now.
N. B. — If ever, Mary, you should feel yourself inclined
32 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
to visit me at Cambridge, pray do not suffer the consid- eration of my having a cat to deter you. Indeed, I will keep her chained up all the while you stay.
I was in company the other day with a very dashing literary lady. After my departure, a friend of mine asked her her opinion of me. She answered: " The best I can say of him is, that he is a very gentle _bear." What think you of this character ?
What a lovely anticipation offspring the last three or four days have afforded^ NatureTfas not been very profuse of her ornaments to the country about Cambridge ; yet the clear rivulet that runs through the grove adjacent to our College, and the numberless little birds (particularly robins) that are singing away, and above all, the little iambs, each by the side of its mother, recall the most ^pleasing ideas of pastoral simplicity, and almost soothe one's soul into congenial innocence. Amid these delight- ful scenes, of which the uncommon flow of health I at present possess permits me the full enjoyment, I should not deign to think of London, were it not for a little family, whom I trust I need not name. What bird of the air whispers, me that you too will soon enjoy the same and more delightful pleasures in a much more delightful country? What we strongly wish we are very apt to believe. At present, my presentiments on that head amount to confidence.
Last Sunday, Middleton and I set off at one o'clock on a ramble. We sauntered on, chatting and contemplating, till to our great surprise we came to a village seven miles from Cambridge. And here at a farmhouse we drank tea. The rusticity of the habitation and the inhabitants was charming ; we had cream to our tea, which though not brought in a lordly dish, Sisera would have jumped at. Being -here informed that we could return to Cambridge another way, over a common, for the sake of diversifying our walk, we chose this road, " if road it might be called,
1792] TO MARY EVANS 33
where road was none," though we were not unapprized of its difficulties. The fine weather deceived us. We forgot that it was a summer day in warmth only, and not in length ; but we were soon reminded of it. For on the pathless solitude of this common, the night overtook us — we must have been four miles-distant from Cambridge — the night, though calm, was as dark as the place was dreary: here steering our course by our imperfect con- ceptions of the point in which we conjectured Cambridge to lie, we wandered on " with cautious steps and slow." We feared the bog, the stump, and the fen : we feared the ghosts of the night — at least, those material and knock-me-down ghosts, the apprehension of which causes you, Mary (valorous girl that you are !), always to peep under your bed of a night. As we were thus creeping forward like the two children in the wood, we spy'd something white moving across the common. This we made up to, though contrary to our supposed destination. It proved to be a man with a white bundle. We enquired our way, and ^luckily\he] was going to Cambridge. He informed us that we hacTgone half a mile out of our way, and that in five minutes more we must have arrived at a deep quagmire grassed over. What an escape ! The man was as glad of our company as we of his — for, it seemed, the poor fellow was afraid of Jack o' Lanthorns — the superstition of this county attributing a kind of fascina- ' tion to those wandering vapours, so that whoever fixes his eyes on them is forced by some irresistible impulse to follow them. He entertained us with many a dreadful tale. By nine o'clock we arrived at Cambridge, betired and bemudded. I never recollect to have been so much fatigued.
Do you spell the word scarsely ? When Momus, the fault-finding God, endeavoured to discover some imper- fection in Venus, he could only censure the creaking of her slipper. I, too, Momuslike, can only fall foul on a
34
STUDENT LIFE
[FEB.
single s. Yet will not my dear Mary be angry with me, or think the remark trivial, when she considers that half a grain is of consequence in the weight of a diamond.
I had entertained hopes that you would really have sent me a piece of sticking plaister, which would have been very convenient at that time, I having cut my finger. I had to buy sticking plaister, etc. What is the use of a man's knowing you girls, if he cannot chouse you out of such little things as that ? Do not your fingers, Mary, feel an odd kind of titillation to be about my ears for my impudence ?
On Saturday night, as I was sitting by myself all alone, I heard a creaking sound, something like the noise which a crazy chair would make, if pressed by the tremendous weight of _Mr. Barlow's extremities. I cast my eyes around, and what should I behold but a Ghost rising out of the floor ! A deadly paleness instantly overspread my body, which retained no other symptom of life "bjit its violent trembling. My hair (as is usual in frights of this nature) stood upright by many degrees stiffer than the
oaks of the mountains, yea, stiffer than Mr. ; yet
was it rendered oily-pliant by the profuse perspiration that burst from every pore. This spirit advanced with a book in -feis hand, and having first dissipated my terrors, said as follows : " I am the Ghost of Gray. There lives a young lady " (then he mentioned your name), " of whose judgment I entertain so high an opinion, that her appro- bation of my works would make the turf lie lighter on me ; present her with this book, and transmit it to her as soon as possible, adding my jpve to her. And, as for you, O young man ! " (now he addressed himself to me) " write no more verses. In the first place your poetry is vile stuff ; and secondly " (here he sighed almost to bursting), " all poets go to — 11 ; we are so intolerably addicted to the vice of Jying ! " He vanished, and convinced me of the truth of his last dismal account by the sulphurous stink which he left behind him.
1792] TO MARY EVANS 35
first mandate I have obeyed, and, I hope you will receive safe your ghostly admirer's present. But so far have I been from obeying his second injunction, that I never had the scribble-mania stronger on me than for these- last three or four days : nay, not content with suffering it myself, I must pester those I love best with the blessed effects of my disorder.
Besides two things, which you will find in the next sheet, I cannot forbear filling the remainder of this sheet with an Odeling, though I know and approve your aversion to mere prettiness, and tfeettgh my tiny love ode possesses no other property in the world. Let then its shortness recommend it to your perusal — by the by, the only thing in which it resembles you, for wit, sense, elegance, or beauty it has none.
AN ODE IN THE MANNER OF ANACREON.i
As late in wreaths gay flowers I bound, Beneath some roses Love I found, And by his little frolic pinion As quick as thought I seiz'd the minion, Then in my cup the prisoner threw, And drank him in its sparkling dew : And sure I feel my angry guest Flutt'ring his wings within my breast !
Are you quite asleep, dear Mary ? Sleep on ; but when you awake, read the following productions, and then, I '11 be bound, you will sleep again sounder than ever.
A WISH WRITTEN IN JESUS WOOD, FEBRUARY 10,
1792.2
Lo ! through the dusky silence of the groves, Thro' vales irriguous, and thro' green retreats, With languid murmur creeps the placid stream And works its secret way.
1 Poetical Works, p. 19. 2 Ibid. p. 19.
36 . STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
Awhile meand'ring round its native fields, It rolls the playful wave and winds its flight : Then downward flowing with awaken'd speed Embosoms in the Deep !
Thus thro' its silent tenor may my Life
Smooth its meek stream by sordid wealth unclogg'd,
Alike unconscious of forensic storms,
And Glory's blood-stain'd palm !
And when dark Age shall close Life's little day, Satiate of sport, and weary of its toils, E'en thus may slumb'rous Death my decent limbs Compose with icy hand !
A LOVER'S COMPLAINT TO HIS MISTRESS
WHO DESERTED HIM IN QUEST OF A MORE WEALTHY HUSBAND IN THE EAST INDIES.1
The dubious light sad glimmers o'er the sky : . 'T is ^ilence all. By lonely anguish torn, With wandering feet to gloomy groves I fly, And wakeful Love still tracks my course forlorn.
And will you, cruel Julia ? will you go ? And trust you to the Ocean's dark dismay ? Shall the wide, wat'ry world between us flow-? And winds unpitying snatch my Hopes away ?
Thus could you sport with my too easy heart ? Yet tremble, lest not unaveng'd I grieve ! The winds may learn your own delusive art, And faithless Ocean smile — but to deceive !
'] /I have written too long a letter/ Give me a hint, and / 'I^will avoid a repetition of the offence.
«It-Is a compensation for the above - written rhymes
1 Poetical Works, p. 20.
1792] TO ANNE EVANS 37
(which if you ever condescend to read a second time, pray let it be by the light of their own flames) in my next let- ter I will send some delicious poetry lately published by the exquisite Bowles.
To-morrow morning I fill the rest of this sheet with a letter to Anne. And now, good-night, dear sister ! and peaceful slumbers await us both !
S. T. COLEKIDGE.
XII. TO ANNE EVANS.
February 19, 1792.
DEAR ANNE, — To be sure I felt myself rather disap- pointed at my not receiving a few lines from you ; but I am nevertheless greatly rejoiced at your amicable dispo- sitions towards me. Please to aecept two kisses, as the seals of reconciliation — you will find them on the word " Anne " at the beginning of the letter — at least, there I left them. I must, however, give you warning, that the next time you are affronted with Brother Coly, and show your resentment by that most cruel of all punishments, silence, I shall address a letter to you as long and as sor- rowful as Jeremiah's Lamentations, and somewhat in the style of your sister's favourite lover, beginning with, —
TO THE IRASCIBLE MISS.
DEAR Miss, &c.
My dear Anne, you are my Valentine. I dreamt of you this morning, and I have seen no female in the whole course of the day, except an old bedmaker belonging to the College, and I don't count her one, as the bristle of her beard makes me suspect her to be of the masculine gender. Some one of the genii must have conveyed your image to me so opportunely, nor will you think this im- possible, if you will read the little volumes which contain their exploits, and crave the honour of your acceptance.
38 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
If I could draw, I would have sent a pretty heart stuck through with arrows, with some such sweet posy under- neath it as this : —
" The rose is red, the violet blue ; The pink is sweet, and so are you."
But as the Gods have not made me a drawer (of anything but corks), you must accept the will for the deed.
You never wrote or desired your sister to write concern- ing the bodily health of the Barlowites, though you know my affection for that family. Do not forget this in your next.
Is Mr. Caleb Barlow recovered of the rheumatism? The quiet ugliness of Cambridge supplies me with very few communicables in the news way. The most important is, that Mr. Tim Grubskin, of this town, citizen, is dead. Poor man ! he loved fish too well. A violent commotion in his bowels carried him off. They say he made a very good end. There is his epitaph : —
" A loving friend and tender parent dear, Just in all actions, and he the Lord did fear, Hoping, that, when the day of Resurrection come,
He shall arise in glory like the Sun."
It was composed by a Mr. Thistle wait, the town crjer, and is much admired. We are all mortal ! !
His wife carries on the business. It is whispered about the town that a match between her and Mr. Coe, the shoe- maker, is not improbable. He certainly seems very assid- uous in consoling her, but as to anything matrimonial I do not write it as a well authenticated fact.
I went the other evening to the concert, and spent the time there much to my heart's content in cursing Mr. Hague, who played on the violin most piggishly, and a Miss (I forget her name) — Miss Humstrum, who sung most sowishly. O the Billington ! That I should be ab- sent during the oratorios ! The prince unable to conceal his pain ! Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! oh I oh ! oh ! oh ! oh !
1792] TO MRS. EVANS 39
To which house is Mrs. B. engaged this season ?
The mutton and winter cabbage are confoundedly tough here, though very venerable for their old age. Were you ever at Cambridge, Anne ? The river Cam is a handsome stream of a muddy complexion, somewhat like Miss Yates, to whom you will present my love (if you like).
In Cambridge there are sixteen colleges, that look like workhouses, and fourteen churches that look like little houses. The town is very fertile in alleys, and mud, and cats, and dogs, besides men, women, ravens, clergy, proc- tors, tutors, owls, and other two-legged cattle. It like- wise — but here I must interrupt my description to hurry to Mr. Costobadie's lectures on Euclid, who is as mathe- matical an author, nly dear Anne, as you would wish to read on a long summer's day. Addio ! God bless you, ma chere soeur, and your affectionate frere,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
P. S. I add a postscript on purpose to communicate a joke to you. A party of us had been drinking wine to- gether, and three or four freshmen were most deplorably intoxicated. (I have too great a respect for delicacy to say cjrunk.) As we were returning homewards, two of them fell into the gutter (or kennel). We ran to assist one of them, who very generously stuttered out, as he lay sprawling in the mud : " N-n-n-no — n-n-no ! — save my f-fr-fr-friend there ; n-never mind me, 1^ can swim."
Won't you write me a long letter now, Anne ?
P. S. Give my respectful compliments to Betty, and say that I enquired after her health with the most em- phatic energy of impassioned avidity.
XIII. TO MRS. EVANS.
February 22 [? 1792].
DEAR MADAM, — The incongruity of the dates in these letters you will immediately perceive. The truth is that
40 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
I had written the foregoing heap of nothingness six or seven days ago, but I was prevented from sending it by a variety of disagreeable little impediments.
Mr. Massy must be arrived in Cambridge by this time ; but to call on an utter stranger just arrived with so trivial a message as yours and his uncle's love to him, when I myself had been in Cambridge five or six weeks, would appear rather awkward, not to say ludicrous. If, however, I meet him at any wine party (which is by no means im- probable) I shall take the opportunity of mentioning it en passant. As to Mr. M.'s debts, the most intimate friends in college are perfect strangers to each other's' affairs ; consequently it is little likely that I should pro- cure any information of this kind.
I hope and trust that neither yourself nor my sisters have experienced any ill effects from this wonderful change of weather. A very slight cold is the only favour with which it has honoured me. I feel myself apprehensive for all of you, but more particularly for Anne, whose frame I think most susceptible of cold.
Yesterday a Frenchman came dancing into my room, of which he made but three steps, and presented me with a card. I had scarcely collected, by glancing my eye over it, that he was a tooth-monger, before he seized hold of my muzzle, and, baring my teeth (as they do a jjorse's, in order to know his age), he exclaimed, as if in violent agitation : " Mon Dieu ! Monsieur, all your teeth will fall out in a day or two, unless you permit me the honour of scaling them ! " This ineffable piece of assurance discov- ered such a genius for Jmpudence, that I could not suffer it to go unFewarded. So, after a hearty laugh, I sat down, and let the rascal chouse me out of half a guinea by scraping my grinders — the more readily, indeed, as I recollected the great penchant which all your family have for delicate teeth.
1792] TO MAEY EVANS 41
So (I hear) Allen 1 will be most precipitately emanci- pated. Good luck have thou of thy emancipation, Bob- bee ! Tell him from me that if he does not kick Eichards' 2 fame out of doors by the superiority of his own, I will never forgive him.
If you will send me a box of Mr. Stringer's tooth powder, mamma ! we will accept of it.
And now, Right Reverend Mother in God, let me claim your permission to subscribe myself with all observance and gratitude, your most obedient humble servant, and lowly slave,
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,
Reverend in the future tense, and scholar of Jesus Col- lege in the present time.
XIV. TO MARY EVANS. JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, February 22 [1792].
DEAR MARY, — Writing long letters is not the fault into which I am most apt to fall, but whenever I do, by
1 Robert Allen, Coleridge's ear- ii. 47, and Leigh Hunt's Autobiogra-
liest friend, and almost his exact phy, 1860, p. 74. See, also, Letters to
contemporary (born October 18, Allsop, 1864, p. 170.
1772), was admitted to University 2 George Richards, a contempo-
College, Oxford, as an exhibitioner, rary of Stephens, and, though some-
in the spring of 1792. He enter- what senior, of Middleton, was a
tained Coleridge and his compagnon University prize-man and Fellow of
de voyage, Joseph Hucks, on the oc- Oriel. He was " author," says Lamb,
casion of the memorable visit to Ox- "of the 'Aboriginal Britons,' the
ford in June, 1794, and introduced most spirited of Oxford prize poems."
them to his friend, Robert Southey In after life he made his mark as
of Balliol. He is mentioned in let- a clergyman, as Bampton Lecturer
ters of Lamb to Coleridge, June 10, (in 1800), and as Vicar of St. Martin-
1796, and October 11, 1802. In both in-the-Fields. He was appointed
instances his name is connected with Governor of Christ's Hospital in
that of Stoddart, and it is proba- 1822, and founded an annual prize,
ble that it was through Allen that the " Richards' Gold Medal,' ' for
Coleridge and Stoddart became ac- the best copy of Latin hexameters,
quainted. For anecdotes concerning Christ's Hospital. List of Exhibi-
Allen, see Lamb's Essay, "Christ's tioners,from 1566-1885, compiled by
Hospital," etc., Prose Works, 1836, A. M. Lockhart.
42
STUDENT LIFE
[APRIL
some inexplicable ill luck, my prolixity is always directed to those whom I would yet least of all wish to torment. You think, and think rightly, that I had no occasion to increase the preceding accumulations of wearisomeness, but I wished to inform you that I have sent the poem, of •> Bowles, which I mentioned in a former sheet ; though I dare say you would have discovered this without my infor- mation. If the pleasure which you receive from the peru- sal of it prove equal to that which I have received, it will make you some small return for the exertions of friend- ship, which you must have found necessary in order to travel through my long, long, long letter.
Though it may be a little effrontery to point out beau- ties, which would be obvious to a far less sensible heart than yours, yet I cannot forbear the self-indulgence of remarking to you the exquisite description of Hope in the third page and of Fortitude in the sixth ; but the poem s " On leaving a place of residence " appears to me to be almost superior to any of Bowles's compositions.
I hope that the Jermyn Street ledgers are well. How can they be otherwise in such lovely keeping ?
Your Jessamine Pomatum, I trust, is as strong and as odorous as ever, and the roasted turkeys at Villiers Street honoured, as usual, with a thick crust of your Mille (what do you call it ?) powder.
I had a variety of other interesting /nquiries to make, but time and memory fail me.
Without a swanskin waistcoat, what is man ? I have got a swanskin waistcoat, — a most attractive external. Yours with sincerity of friendship,
SAMUEL TAYLOR C.
XV. TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE.
Monday night, April [1792].
DEAR BROTHER, — You would have heard from me long since had I not been entangled in such various busi-
1792]
TO GEORGE COLERIDGE
43
nesses as have occupied my whole time. Besides my ordi- nary business, which, as I look forward to a smart contest some time this year, is not an indolent one, I have been writing for all the prizes, namely, the Greek Ode, the Latin Ode, and the Epigrams. I have little or no expec- tation of success, as a Mr. Smith,1 a man of immense gen- ius, author of some papers in the " Microcosm," is among my numerous competitors. The prize medals will be ad- judged about the beginning of June. If you can think of a good thought for the beginning of the Latin Ode upon the miseries of the W. India slaves, communicate. My Greek Ode 2 is, I think, my chef d'ceuvre in poetical com- position. I have sent you a sermon metamorphosed from an obscure publication by vamping, transposition, etc. If you like it, I can send you two more of the same kidney. Our examination as Rustats comes [off] on the Thursday
1 Robert Percy (Bobus) Smith, 1770-1845, the younger brother of Sydney Smith, was Browne Medalist in 1791. His Eton and Cambridge prize poems, in Lucretian metre, are among the most finished specimens of modern Latinity. The principal contributors to the Microcosm were George Canning, John and Robert Smith, Hookham Frere, and Charles Ellis. Gentleman'1 s Magazine, N. S., xxiii. 440.
2 For complete text of the Greek Sapphic Ode, " On the Slave Trade," which obtained the Browne gold medal for 1792, see Appendix B, p. 476, to Coleridge's Poetical Works, Macmillan, 1893. See, also, Mr. Dykes Campbell's note on the style and composition of the ode, p. 653. I possess a transcript of the Ode, taken, I believe, by Sara Coleridge in 1823, on the occasion of her visit to Ottery St. Mary. The following note is appended : —
" Upon the receipt of the above poem, Mr. George Coleridge, being vastly pleased by the composition, thinking it would be a sort of com- pliment to the superior genius of his brother the author, composed the following lines : —
IBI HMC INCONDITA SOLUS.
Say Holy Genius — Heaven - descended
Beam,
Why interdicted is the sacred Fire That flows spontaneous from thy golden
Lyre?
Why Genius like the emaiiative Ray That issuing from the dazzling Fount of
Light
Wakes all creative Nature into Bay, Art thou not all-diffusive, all benign ? Thy partial hand I blarfe. For Pity oft In Supplication's Vest — a weeping child That meets me pensive on the barren wild, And pours into my soul Compassion soft, The never-dying strain commands to flow — Man sure is vain, nor sacred Genius hears, Now speak in melody — now weep in Tears. G. C."
44 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
in Easter week. After it a man of our college has offered to take me to town in his gig, and, if he can bring me back, I think I shall accept his offer, as the expense, at all events, will not be more than 12 shillings, and my very commons, and tea, etc., would amount to more than that in the week which I intend to stay in town. Almost all the men are out of college, and I am most villainously vapoured. I wrote the following the other day under the title of " A Fragment found in a Lecture-Room : " —
Where deep in mud Cam rolls his slumbrous stream, And bog and desolation reign supreme ; Where all Bceotia clouds the misty brain, The owl Mathesis pipes her loathsome strain. Far, far aloof the frighted Muses fly, Indignant Genius scowls and passes by : The frolic Pleasures start amid their dance, And Wit congealed stands fix'd in wintry trance. But to the sounds with duteous haste repair Cold Industry, and wary-footed Care ; And Dulness, dosing on a couch of lead, Pleas'd with the song uplifts her heavy head, The sympathetic numbers lists awhile, Then yawns propitiously a frosty smile. . . . [Gaetera desunt.]
This morning I went for the first time with a party on the river. The clumsy dog to whom we had entrusted the sail was fool enough to fasten it. A gust of wind em- braced the opportunity of turning over the boat, and bap- tizing all that were in it. We swam to shore, and walked dripping home, like so many river gods. Thank God ! I do not feel as if I should be the worse for it.
I was matriculated on Saturday.1 Oath-taking is very healthy in spring, I should suppose. I am grown very fat. We have two men at our college, great cronies,
1 He was matriculated as pen- been in residence since September, sioner March 31, 1792. He had 1791.
1793] TO MRS. EVANS 45
their names Head and Bones ; the first an unlicked cub of a Yorkshireman, the second a very fierce buck. I call them Raw Head and Bloody Bones.
As soon as you can make it convenient I should feel thankful if you could transmit me ten or five pounds, as I am at present cashless.
Pray, was the bible clerk's place accounted a disrep- utable one at Oxford in your time ? Poor Allen, who is just settled there, complains of the great distance with which the men treat him. 'Tis a childish University! Thank God ! I am at Cambridge. Pray let me hear from you soon, and whether your health has held out this long campaign. I hope, however, soon to see you, till when believe me, with gratitude and affection, yours ever,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
XVI. TO MRS. EVANS.
February 5, 1793.
MY DEAR MRS. EVANS, — This is the third day of my resurrection from the cpuch, or rather, the sofa of sick- ness. About a fortnight ago, a quantity of matter took it into its head to form in my left gum, and was attended with such violent pain, inflammation, and swelling, that it threw me into a fever. However, God be praised, my gum has at last been opened, a villainous tooth extracted, and all is well. I am still very weak, as well I may, since for seven days together I was incapable of swallowing anything but spoon meat, so that in point of spirits I am but the jjregs of my former self — a decaying flame ago- nizing in the snuff of a tallow candle — a kind of hobgob- lin, clouted and bagged up in the most contemptible ^hreds, rags, and yellow relics of threadbare mortality. The event of our examination1 was such as surpassed
1 For the Craven Scholarship. In portions of which are printed in Gill- an article contributed to the Gentle- man's Life of Coleridge, C. V. Le man's Magazine of December, 1834, Grice, a co-Grecian -with Coleridge
46 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
my expectations, and perfectly accorded with my wishes. After a very severe trial of six days' continuance, the number of the competitors was reduced from seventeen to four, and after a further process of c>rdeal we, the sur- vivors, were declared equal each to tne other, and the Scholarship, according to the will of its founder, awarded to the youngest of us, who was found to be a Mr. Butler of St. John's College. I am just two months older than he is, and though I would doubtless have rather had it myself, I am yet not at all sorry at his success ; for he is sensible and unassuming, and besides, from his circum- stances, such an accession to his annual income must have been very acceptable to him. So much for myself.
I am greatly rejoiced at your brother's recovery; in proportion, indeed, to the anxiety and fears I felt on your account during his illness. I recollected, my most dear Mrs. Evans, that you are frequently troubled with a strange forgetfulness of yourself, and/too apt to go iar beyond your strength, if by any means you may alle- ' viate the sufferings of others. Ah ! how different from the majority of others whom we courteously dignify with the name of human — a vile herd, who sit still in the severest distresses of their friends, and cry out, There is a lion in the way ! animals, who walk with leaden sandals in the paths of charity, yet to gratify their own inclinations will run a mile in a breath. Oh ! I do know a set of little, dirty, pimping, petty-fogging, ambidextrous fellows, who would set your house on fire, though it were but to roast an egg for themselves ! Yet surely, consider- ing it were a selfish view, the pleasures that arise from whispering peace to those who are in trouble, and healing the broken in heart, are far superior to all the unfeeling can enjoy.
and Allen, gives the names of the wards Head Master of Shrewsbury four competitors. The successful and Bishop of Lichfield. Life of candidate was Samuel Butler, after- Coleridge, 1838, p. 50.
(Jwt/
- /
I have Enclosed a little work of that great and good man Archdeacon Paley ; it is entitled Motives of Contentment, addressed to the poorer part of our fellow men. The twelfth page I particularly admire, and the twentieth. The reasoning has been of some service to me, who am of the race of the Grumbletonians. My dear friend Allen has a resource against most misfortunes in the natural gajety of his temper, whereas my hypochondriac, gloomy spirit amid blessings too frequently warbles out the hoarse gruntings of discontent ! Nor have all the lectures that Divines and philosophers have given us for these three thousand years Tpast, on the vanity of riches, and the cares of greatness, etc., prevented me from sincerely regretting that Nature had not put it into the head of some rich man to beget me for his y£rs£-born, whereas now I am likely to get bread just when I shall have no teeth left to chew it. Cheer up, my little one (thus I answer I) ! better late than never. Hath literature been thy choice, and hast thou food and raiment ? Be thankful, be amazed at thy good fortune ! Art thou dissatisfied and desirous of other things ? Go, and make twelve votes at an election ; it shall do thee more service and procure thee greater pre- ferment than to have made twelve Commentaries on the twelve prophets. /j My dear Mrs. Evans ! excuse the wan- derings" of my castle building imagination. I have not a thought which I conceal from you. I write to others, but \ my pen talks to you. Convey my softest affections to Betty, and believe me,
Your grateful and affectionate boy,
S. T. COLEKIDGE.
XVII. TO MARY EVANS.
JESDS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, February 7, 1793. I would to Heaven, my dear Miss Evans, that the jjpd of wit, or news, or politics would whisper in my ear something that might be worth sending fifty-four miles — but alas I I
48 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
am so closely blocked by an army of misfortunes that really there is no passage left open for mirth or anything else. Now, just to give you a few articles in the large Jnventory of my calamities. Imprimis, a gloomy, uncomfortable mornings Item, my head aches. Item, the Dean has set me a swinging imposition for missing -mornmg chapel. Item, of the two only coats which I am worth in the world, both have holes in the elbows. Item, Mr. Newton, our mathematical lecturer, has recovered from an illness. But the story is rather a laughable one, so I must tell it you. rt/jJ(J Mr. Newton (a/tall, thin man with a little, tiny, blushing •** face) is a great ootanist. Last Sunday, as he was stroll- ing out with a friend of his, some curious plant suddenly caught his eye. He turned round his head with great "tJM^/ eagerness to call his companion to a participation of /dis- covery, and unfortunately continuing to walk forward he fell into a pool, deep, muddy, and full of chickweed. I was lucky enough to meet him as he was entering thejgol- lege gates on his return (a sight I would not have lost for the Indies), his best black clothes all green with duck- weed, he shivering and dripping, in short a perfect jnver god. I went up to him (you must understand we hate ^each other most cordially) and sympathized with him in <X7 all the tenderness of condolence. The consequence of his misadventure was a violent cold attended with fever, which confined him to his room, prevented him from giving lec- tures, and freed me from the necessity of attending them ; but this misfortune I supported with truly Christian_fpr- titude. However, I constantly asked after his health with "4^4 filial anxiety, and this morning, making my usual /inquir- ies, I was informed, to my infinite astonishment and vexa- tion, that he was perfectly recovered and intended to give lectures this very day ! ! ! Verily, I swear that six of his duteous pupils — myself as their general — sallied forth to the Apothecary's house with affixed determination to thrash him for having performed so speedy a cure, but,
1793]
TO MARY EVANS
49
luckily for himself, the rascal was not at home. But here comes my fiddling master, for (but this is a secret) I am learning to play on the vjolin. Twit, twat, twat, twit ! " Pray, M. de la Penche, do you think I shall ever make anything of this violin ? Do you think I have an ear for music? " " Un magnifique ! Un superbe ! Par honneur, "Sir, you be a ver great genius in de music. Good morn- ing, monsieur ! " This M. de la Penche is a better judge than I thought for.
This new whim of mine is partly a scheme of self- defence. Three neighbours have run music-mad lately — two of them fiddle-scrapers, the third a flute-tooter — and are perpetually annoying me with their vile performances, compared with which the gruntings of a whole herd of sows would be seraphic melody. Now I hope, by fre- quently playing myself, t<r render my ear callous^ Be- sides, the evils of life are crowding upon me, and music is "the sweetest assuager of cares." It helps to relieve and soothe the mind, and is a sort of refuge from calamity, from slights and neglects and censures and insults and dis- appointments ; from the warmth of real enemies and the coldness of pretended friends ; from your well wishers (as they are justly called, in opposition, I suppose, to well doers'), men whose inclinations to serve you always de- crease in a most mathematical proportion as their oppor- tunities to do it increase ; from the
" Proud man's contumely, and the spurns Which patient merit of th' unworthy takes ; "
from grievances that are the growth of all times and places and not peculiar to this age, which authors call this critical age, and divines this sinful age, and politicians this age of Devolutions. An acquaintance of mine calls it this learned age in due reverence to his own abilities, and like Monsieur Whatd'yecallhim, who used to pull off his hat when he spoke of himself. The goet laureate calls it " this golden age" and with good reason,-1-
50 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
For him the fountains with Canary flow, And, best of fruit, spontaneous guineas grow.
Pope, in his " Dunciad," makes it this leaden age, but I choose to call it without an epithet, this age. Many things we must expect to meet with which it would be hard to bear, if a compensation were not found in honest en- deavours to do well, in virtuous affections and connections, and in harmless and reasonable amusements. And why should not a man amuse himself sometimes? Vive la bagatelle !
I received a letter this morning from my friend Allen. He is up to his ears in business, and I sincerely congratu- late him upon it — occupation, I am convinced, being the great secret of happiness. " Nothing makes the temper so fretful as indolence," said a young _lady who, beneath the soft surface of feminine delicacy, possesses a mind acute by nature, and strengthened by habits of Deflection. 'Pon my word, Miss Evans, I beg your pardon a thousand times for bepraising you to your face, but, really, I have written so long that I had forgot to whom I was writing.
Have you read Mr. Fox's letter to the Westminster electors ? It is quite the political go at Cambridge, and converted many souls to the Foxite faith.
Have you seen the Siddons this season ? or the Jordan ? An acquaintance of mine has a Jjragedy coming out early in the next season, the principaPcharacter of which Mrs. Siddons will act. He has importuned me to write the pro- logue and ^pilogue, but, conscious of my inability, I have excused myself with a jest, and told him I was too good a Christian to be accessory to the damnation of anything
There is an old proverb of a river of words and a spoon-^ ful of sense, and I think this letter has been a pretty good proof of it. But as nonsense is better than blank paper, I will fill this side with a song I wrote lately. My friend, Charles Hague J the composer, will set it to wild music.
1 Musical glee composer, 1769-1821. Biographical Dictionary.
n i •
**
I /
.^1 *•
1793] TO MARY EVANS 51
I shall sing it, and accompany myself on the violin. £7a ira !
Cathloma, who reigned in the Highlands of Scotland about two hundred years after the birth of our Saviour, was defeated and killed in a war with a neighbouring g prince, and Nina-^homa his daughter (according to the custom of those times and that country) was imprisoned in a cave by the seaside. This is supposed to be her com- plaint : —
How long will ye round me be swelling,
O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea ? »
Not always in caves was my dwelling, Nor beneath the cold blast of the Tree ;
Thro' the high sounding Hall of Cathloma
In the steps of my beauty I strayed, The warriors beheld Nina^Thoma,
And they blessed the dark-tressed Maid !
By my Friends, by my Lovers discarded, Like the Flower of the Rock now I waste,
That lifts its fair head unregarded, And scatters its leaves on the blast.
A Ghost ! by my cavern it darted !
In moonbeams the spirit was drest — For lovely appear the Departed,
When they visit the dreams of my rest !
But dispersed by the tempest's commotion,
Fleet the shadowy forms of Delight ; Ah ! cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean !
To howl thro' my Cavern by night.1
Are you asleep, my dear Mary? I have administered rather a strong dose of opium ; however, if in the course
1 Poetical Works, p. 20.
52 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
of your nap you should chance to dream that I am, with ardor of eternal friendship, your affectionate
S. T. COLERIDGE, you will never have dreamt a truer dream in all your/days.
XVIII. TO ANNE EVANS.
JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, February 10, 1793. MY DEAR ANNE, — A little before I had received your .mamma's letter, a bird of the air had informed me of your illness — and sure never did owl or night-raven (" those mournful messengers of heavy things ") pipe a more loathsome song. But I flatter myself that ere you have received this scrawl of mine, by care and attention you will have lured back the rosy-lipped fugitive, Health. I know of no misfortune so little susceptible of consolation as sickness : it is indeed easy to offer comfort, when we ourselves are well ; then we can be full of grave saws upon the duty of resignation, etc. ; but alas ! when the sore visitations of pain come home, all our philosophy vanishes, and nothing remains to be seen. T speak of myself, but a mere sensitive animal, with little wisdom and no patience. Yet if anything can throw a melancholy smile over the pale, wan face of illness, it must be the sight and attentions of those we love. There are one or two beings, in this planet of ours, whom God has formed in so kindly a mould that I could almost consent to be ill in order to be nursed by them.
O turtle-eyed affection ! If thou be present — who can be distrest ? Pain seems to smile, and Borrow is at rest : No more the j;houghts in^wUd repinings roll, And tender murmurs hush the soften'd soul.
But I will not proceed at this rate, for I am writing and thinking myself fast into the spleen, and feel very obligingly disposed to communicate the same doleful fit to you, my dear sister. Yet permit me to say, it is almost
1793] TO GEORGE COLERIDGE 53
your own fault. You were half angry at my writing laughing nonsense to you, and see what you have got in exchange — pale-faced, solemn, stiff-starched stupidity. I must confess, indeed, that the latter is rather more in unison with my present feelings, which from one untoward freak of fortune or other are not of the most comfortable kind. Within this last month I have lost a brother l and a friend ! But I struggle for cheerfulness — and some- times, when the sun shines out, I succeed in the effort. This at least I endeavour, not to infect the cheerfulness of others, and not to write my vexations upon my fore- head. I read a story lately of an old Greek philosopher, who once harangued so movingly on the miseries of life, that his audience went home and hanged themselves ; but he himself (my author adds) lived many years afterwards in very sleek condition.
God love you, my dear Anne ! and receive as from a brother the warmest affections of your
S. T. COLERIDGE.
XIX. TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE.
Wednesday morning, July 28, 1793.
MY DEAR BROTHER, — I left Salisbury on Tuesday morning — should have stayed there longer, but that Ned, ignorant of my coming, had preengaged himself on a journey to Portsmouth with Skinner. I left Ned well and merry, as likewise his wife, who, by all the Cupids, is a very worthy old lady.2
Monday afternoon, Ned, Tatum, and myself sat from four till ten drinking ! and then arose as cool as three undressed cucumbers. Edward and I (O ! the wonders
1 Francis Syndercombe Coleridge, Salisbury. Hia marriage with an who died shortly after the fall of elderly widow who was supposed to Seringapatam, February 6, 1792. have a large income was a source of
2 Edward Coleridge, the Vicar of perennial amusement to his family. Ottery's fourth son, was then assist- Some years after her death he mar- ant master in Dr. Skinner's school at ried his first cousin, Anne Bowdon.
54 STUDENT LIFE [Auo.
of this life) disputed with great coolness and forbearance the whole time. We neither of us were convinced, though now and then Ned was convicted. Tatum umpire sat,
And by decision more embroiled the fray.
I found all well in Exeter, to which place I proceeded directly, as my mother might have been unprepared from the supposition I meant to stay longer in Salisbury. I shall dine with James to-day at brother Phillips'.1
My ideas are so discomposed by the jolting of the coach that I can write no more at present.
A piece of gallantry !
I presented a moss rose to a lady. Dick Hart2 asked her if she was not afraid to put it in her bosom, as per- haps there might be love in it. I immediately wrote the following little ode or song or what you please to call it.3 It is of the namby-pamby genus.
THE ROSE.
As late each flower that sweetest blows I plucked, the Garden's pride ! Within the petals of a Rose A sleeping Love I spied.
Around his brows a beaming wreath Of many a lucent hue ; All purple glowed his cheek beneath, Inebriate with dew.
1 The husband of Coleridge's half s A note to the Poems of Samuel sister Elizabeth, the youngest of the Taylor Coleridge, Moxon, 1852, gives vicar's first family, " who alone was a somewhat different version of the bred up with us after my birth, and origin of this poem, first printed in who alone of the three I was wont to the edition of 1796 as Effusion 27, think of as a sister." See Autobio- and of the lines included in Letter graphical Notes of 1832. Life of XX., there headed " Cupid turned Coleridge, 1838, p. 9. Chymist," but afterwards known as
2 The brother of Mrs. Luke and ' ' Kisses." of Mrs. George Coleridge.
1793] TO GEORGE COLERIDGE 55
I softly seized the unguarded Power, Nor scared Ms balmy rest ; And placed him, caged within the flower, On Angelina's breast.
But when unweeting of the guile Awoke the prisoner sweet, He struggled to escape awhile And stamped his faery feet.
Ah ! soon the soul-entrancing sight Subdued the impatient boy ! He gazed ! he thrilled with deep delight ! Then clapped his wings for joy.
" And O ! " he cried, " of magic kind What charms this Throne endear ! Some other Love let Venus find — I '11 fix my empire here."
An extempore ! Ned during the dispute, thinking he had got me down, said, " Ah ! Sam ! you blush ! " " Sir," answered I,
Ten thousand Blushes Flutter round me drest like little Loves, And veil my visage with their crimson wings.
There is no meaning in the lines, but we both agreed they were very pretty. If you see Mr. Hussy, you will not forget to present my respects to him, and to his accom- plished daughter, who certes is a very sweet young lady. God bless you and your grateful and affectionate
S. T. COLEEIDGE.
XX. TO THE SAME.
[Postmark, August 5, 1793.]
MY DEAR BROTHER, — Since my arrival in the country I have been anxiously expecting a letter from you, nor can I divine the reason of your silence. From the letter
56 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
to my brother James, a few lines of which he read to me, I am fearful that your silence proceeds from displeasure. If so, what is left for me to do but to grieve ? The past is not in my power. For the follies of which I may have been guilty, I have been greatly disgusted ; and I trust the memory of them will operate to future consistency of conduct.
My mother is very well, — indeed, better for her illness. Her complexion and eye, the truest indications of health, are much clearer. Little William and his mother are well. My brother James is at Sidmouth. I was there yesterday. He, his wife, and children are well. Freder- ick is a charming child. Little James had a most provi- dential escape the day before yesterday. As my brother was in the field contiguous to his place he heard two men scream, and turning round saw a horse leap over little James, and then kick at him. He ran up ; found him un- hurt. The men said that the horse was feeding with his tail toward the child, and looking round ran at him open- mouthed, pushed him down and leaped over him, and then kicked back at him. Their screaming, my brother sup- poses, prevented the horse from repeating the blow. Brother was greatly agitated, as you may suppose. I stayed at Tiverton about ten days, and got no small kudos among the young belles by complimentary effusions in the poetic way.
A specimen : —
CUPID TURNED CHYMIST. Cupid, if storying Legends tell aright, Once framed a rich Elixir of Delight. A chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd, And in it Nectar and Ambrosia mix'd : With these the magic dews which Evening brings, Brush'd from the Idalian star by faery wings : Each tender pledge of sacred Faith he join'd, Each gentler Pleasure of th' unspotted mind —
1794] TO G. L. TUCKETT 57
Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow,
And Hope, the blameless parasite of Woe.
The eyeless Chymist heard the process rise,
The steamy chalice bubbled up in sighs ;
Sweet sounds transpired, as when the enamor'd dove
Pours the soft murmuring of responsive Love.
The finished work might Envy vainly blame,
And " Kisses " was the precious Compound's name.
With half the God his Cyprian Mother blest,
And breath'd on Nesbitt's lovelier lips the rest.
Do you know Fanny Nesbitt ? She was my fellow-trav- eler in the Tiverton diligence from Exeter. [She is], I think, a very pretty girl. The orders for tea are : Impri- mis, five pounds of ten shillings green ; Item, four pounds of eight shillings green ; in all nine pounds of tea.
God bless you and your obliged
S. T. COLERIDGE.
XXI. TO G. L. TUCKETT.1
HENLEY, Thursday night, February 6 [1794].
DEAR TUCKETT, — I have this moment received your long letter ! The Tuesday before last, an accident of the Reading Fair, our regiment was disposed of for the week in and about the towns within ten miles of Reading, and, as it was not known before we set off to what places we
1 G. L. Tuckett, to whom this let- ary, 1796, there is an amusing refer- ter was addressed, was the first to ence to this kindly Deus ex Machina. disclose to Coleridge's family the un- " I called upon Tuckett, who thus welcome fact that he had enlisted in prophesied : ' You know how subject the army. He seems to have guessed Coleridge is to fits of idleness. Now, that the runaway would take his old I '11 lay any wager, Allen, that after schoolfellows into his confidence, and three or four numbers (of the Watch- that they might be induced to reveal man) the sheets will contain nothing the secret. He was, I presume, a but parliamentary debates, and college acquaintance, — possibly an Coleridge will add a note at the hot- old Blue, who had left the Univer- torn of the page : " I should think sity and was reading for the bar. myself deficient in my duty to the In an unpublished letter from Rob- Public if I did not give these inter- ert Allen to Coleridge, dated Febru- esting debates at full length." ' "
58 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
would go, my letters were kept at the Reading post-office till our return. I was conveyed to Henley-upon-Thames, which place our regiment left last Tuesday ; but I am ordered to remain on account of these dreadfully trouble- some eruptions, and that I might nurse my comrade, who last Friday sickened of the confluent smallpox. So here I am, videlicet the Henley workhouse.1 It is a little house of one apartment situated in the midst of a large garden, about a hundred yards from the house. It is four strides in length and three in .breadth ; has four windows, which look to all the winds. The almost jtotal want of sleep, the putrid smell, and the fatiguing struggles , with my poor comrade during his delirium are nearly too much for me in my present state. In return I enjoy external peace, and kind and respectful behaviour from the people of the workhouse. Tuckett, your motives must have been excei- lent ones; how could they be otherwise*' As an agent, therefore, you are blameless, but your efforts in my behalf demand my gratitude — that my heart will pay you, into whatever depth of horror your mistaken activity may eventually have precipitated me. As an agent, you stand acquitted, but the action was morally base. In an hour of extreme anguish, under the most solemn imposition of secrecy, I entrusted my place and residence to the young men at Christ's Hospital ; the intelligence which you ex- torted from their imbecility should have remained sacred with you. It lost not the obligation of secrecy by the transfer. But your motives justify you ? To the eye of your friendship the divulging might have appeared neces- sary, but what shadow of necessity is there to excuse you in showing my letters — to stab the very heart of confidence.
1 It would seem that there were sence, the " Domus quadrata horten-
alleviations to the misery and dis- sis, atHenley-on-Thames,"and " the
comfort of this direful experience, beautiful girl " who, it would seem,
In a MS. note dated January, 1805, soothed the captivity of the forlorn
he recalls as a suitable incident for trooper. a projected work, The Soother in Ab-
1794] TO GEORGE COLERIDGE 59
You have acted, Tuckett, so uniformly well that reproof must be new to you. I doubtless shall have offended you. I would to God that I, too, possessed the tender irritable- ness of unhandled sensibility. Mine is a sensibility gan- grened with inward corruption and the keen searching of the air from without. Your gossip with the commanding officer seems so totally useless and unmotived that I al- most find a difficulty in believing it.
A letter from my brother George ! I feel a kind of pleasure that it is not directed — it lies unopened — am I not already sufficiently miserable? The anguish of those who love me, of him beneath the shadow of whose protec- tion I grew up — does it not plant the pillow with thorns and make my dreams full of terrors ? Yet I dare not burn the letter — it seems as if there were a horror in the ac- tion. One pang, however acute, is better than long-con- tinued solicitude. My brother George possessed the cheer- ing consolation of conscience — but I am talking I know not what — yet there is a pleasure, doubtless an exquisite \ pleasure, mingled up in the most painful of our virtuous i emotions. Alas ! my poor mother ! What an intolerable weight of guilt is suspended over my head by a hair on one hand ; and if I endure to live — the look ever down- ward — insult, pity, hell ! God or Chaos, preserve me ! What but infinite Wisdom or infinite Confusion can do it?
XXII. TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE.
February 8, 1794.
My more than brother ! What shall I say ? What shall I write to you ? Shall I profess an abhorrence of my past conduct ? Ah me ! too well do I know its iniquity ! But to abhor! this feeble and exhausted heart supplies not so strong an emotion. O my wayward soul ! I have been a fool even to madness. What shall I dare to prom- ise ? My mind is illegible to myself. I am lost in the
60 STUDENT LIFE [FEB.
labyrinth, the trackless wilderness of my own bosom. Truly may I say, "I am wearied of being saved." My frame is chill and torpid. The ebb and flow of my hopes and fears has stagnated into recklessness. One wish only can I read distinctly in my heart, that it were possible for me to be forgotten as though I had never been ! The shame and sorrow of those who loved me ! The anguish of him who protected me from my childhood upwards, the sore travail of her who bore me ! Intolerable images of horror ! They haunt my sleep, they enfever my dreams !
0 that the shadow of Death were on my eyelids, that I were like the loathsome form by which I now sit ! O that without guilt I might ask of my Maker annihilation ! My brother, my brother ! pray for me, comfort me, my brother !
1 am very wretched, and, though my complaint be bitter, my stroke is heavier than my groaning.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
XXIII. TO THE SAME.
Tuesday night, February 11, 1794.
I am indeed oppressed, oppressed with the greatness of your love ! Mine eyes gush out with tears, my heart is sick and languid with the weight of unmerited kindness. I had intended to have given you a minute history of my thoughts and actions for the last two years of my life. A most severe and faithful history of the heart would it have been — the Omniscient knows it. But I am so uni- versally unwell, and the hour so late, that I must defer it till to-morrow. To-night I shall have a bed in a separate room from my comrade, and, I trust, shall have repaired v my strength by sleep ere the morning. For eight days and nights I have not had my clothes off. My comrade is not dead ; there is every hope of his escaping death. Closely has he been pursued by the mighty hunter ! Un- doubtedly, my brother, I could wish to return to College ; I know what I must suffer there, but deeply do I feel
1794] TO JAMES COLERIDGE 61
what I ought to suffer. Is my brother James still at Salisbury ? I will write to him, to all.
Concerning my emancipation, it appears to me that my discharge can be easily procured by interest, with great difficulty by negotiation ; but of this is not my brother James a more competent judge ?
What my future life may produce I dare not anticipate. Pray for me, my brother. I will pray nightly to the Almighty dispenser of good and evil, that his chastise- ment may not have harrowed my heart in vain. Scepti- cism has mildewed my hope in the Saviour. I was far from disbelieving the truth of revealed religion, but still far from a steady faith — the " Comforter that should have relieved my soul " was far from me.
Farewell! to-morrow I will resume my pen. Mr. Boyer ! indeed, indeed, my heart thanks him ; how often in the petulance of satire, how ungratefully have I injured that man !
S. T. COLEKIDGE.
XXIV. TO CAPTAIN JAMES COLERIDGE.
February 20, 1794.
In a mind which vice has not utterly divested of sensi- bility, few occurrences can inflict a more acute pang than the receiving proofs of tenderness and love where only re- sentment and reproach were expected and deserved. The gentle voice of conscience which had incessantly murmured within the soul then raises its tone and speaks with a tongue of thunder. My conduct towards you, and towards my other brothers, has displayed a strange combination of madness, ingratitude, and dishonesty. But you forgive me. May my Maker forgive me ! May the time arrive when I shall have forgiven myself !
With regard to my emancipation, every inquiry I have made, every piece of intelligence I could collect, alike tend to assure me that it may be done by interest, but
62 STUDENT LIFE [MARCH
not by negotiation 'without an expense which I should tremble to write. Forty guineas were offered for a dis- charge the day after a young man was sworn in, and were refused. His friends made interest, and his discharge came down from the War Office. If, however, negotiation must be first attempted, it will be expedient to write to our colonel — his name is Gwynne — he holds the rank of general in the army. His address is General Gwynne, K. L. D., King's Mews, London.
My assumed name is Silas Tomkyn Comberbacke, 15th, or King's Regiment of Light Dragoons, G Troop. My number I do not know. It is of no import. The bounty I received was six guineas and a half ; but a light horseman's bounty is a mere lure ; it is expended for him in things which he must have had without a bounty — gaiters, a pair of leather breeches, stable jacket, and shell ; horse cloth, surcingle, watering bridle, brushes, and the long etc. of military accoutrement. I enlisted the 2d of December, 1793, was attested and sworn the 4th. I am at present nurse to a sick man, and shall, I believe, stay at Henley another week. There will be a large draught from our regiment to complete our troops abroad. The men were picked out to-day. I suppose I am not one, being a very indocile equestrian. Farewell.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
Our regiment is at Reading, and Hounslow, and Maid- enhead, and Kensington ; our headquarters, Reading, Berks. The commanding officer there, Lieutenant Hop- kinson, our adjutant.
To CAPTAIN JAMES COLERIDGE, Tiverton, Devonshire.
XXV. TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE.
THE COMPASSES, HIGH WYCOMBE, March 12, 1794. MY DEAR BROTHER, — Accept my poor thanks for the day's enclosed, which I received safely. I explained the
1794] TO GEORGE COLERIDGE 63
whole matter to the adjutant, who laughed and said I had been used scurvily ; he deferred settling the bill till Thursday morning. A Captain Ogle,1 of our regiment, who is returned from abroad, has taken great notice of me. When he visits the stables at night he always enters into conversation with me, and to-day, finding from the corporal's report that I was unwell, he sent me a couple of bottles of wine. These things demand my gratitude. I wrote last week — currente calamo — a declamation for my friend Allen on the comparative good and evil of novels. The credit which he got for it I should almost blush to tell you. All the fellows have got copies, and they meditate having it printed, and dispersing it through the University. The best part of it I built on a sentence in a last letter of yours, and indeed, I wrote most part of it feelingly.
I met yesterday, smoking in the recess, a chimney corner of the pot-house 2 at which I am quartered, a man of the greatest information and most original genius I ever lit upon. His philosophical theories of heaven and hell would have both amused you and given you hints for much speculation. He solemnly assured me that he be- lieved himself divinely inspired. He slept in the same room with me, and kept me awake till three in the morn- ing with his ontological disquisitions. Some of the ideas
l In the various and varying rem- he was not, as the poet Bowles and iniscences of his soldier days, which Miss Mitford maintained, the sole fell " from Coleridge's own mouth," instrument in procuring the dis- and were repeated by his delighted charge. He may have exerted him- and credulous hearers, this officer self privately, but his name does not plays an important part. Whatever occur in the formal correspondence foundation of fact there may be which passed between Coleridge's for the touching anecdote that the brothers and the military author- Latin sentence, " Eheu ! quam infor- ities.
tunii miserrimum est fuissefelicem" 2 The Compasses, now The
scribbled on the walls of the stable Chequers, High Wycombe, where
at Reading, caught the attention of Coleridge was billeted just a hun-
Captain Ogle, " himself a scholar," dred years ago, appears to have pre-
and led to Comberbacke's detection, served its original aspect.
64 STUDENT LIFE [MARCH
would have made .you shudder from their daring impiety, others would have astounded with their sublimity. My memory, tenacious and systematizing, would enable [me] to write an octavo from his conversation. " I find [says he] from the intellectual atmosphere that emanes from, and envelops you, that you are in a state of recipiency.'! He was deceived. I have little faith, yet am wonderfully fond of speculating on mystical schemes. Wisdom may be gathered from the maddest flights of imagination, as medicines were stumbled upon in the wild processes of alchemy. God bless you. Your ever grateful
S. T. COLERIDGE.
Tuesday evening. — I leave this place [High Wy- combe] on Thursday, 10 o'clock, for Reading. A letter will arrive in time before I go.
XXVI. TO THE SAME.
Sunday night, March 21, 1794.
I have endeavoured to feel what I ought to feel. Affili- ated to you from my childhood, what must be my present situation? But I know you, my dear brother; and I entertain a humble confidence that my efforts in well- doing shall in some measure repay you. There is a vis inertice in the human mind — I am convinced that a man once corrupted will ever remain so, unless some sudden revolution, some unexpected change of place or station, shall have utterly altered his connection. When these shocks of adversity have electrified his moral frame, he feels a convalescence of soul, and becomes like a being recently formed from the hands of nature.
The last letter I received from you at High Wycombe
was that almost blank letter which enclosed the guinea.
I have written to the postmaster. I have breeches and
waistcoats at Cambridge, three or four shirts, and some
" neckcloths, and a few pairs of stockings ; the clothes,
1794] TO GEORGE COLERIDGE 65
which, rather from the order of the regiment than the impulse of my necessities, I parted with in Reading on my first arrival at the regiment, I disposed of for a mere trifle, comparatively, and at a small expense can recover them all but my coat and hat. They are gone irrevo- cably. My shirts, which I have with me, are, all but one, worn to rags — mere rags ; their texture was ill-adapted to the labour of the stables.
Shall I confess to you my weakness, my more than brother? I am afraid to meet you. When I call to mind the toil and wearisomeness of your avocations, and think how you sacrifice your amusements and your health ; when I recollect your habitual and self -forgetting economy, how generously severe, my soul sickens at its own guilt. A thousand reflections crowd in my mind ; they are almost too much for me. Yet you, my brother, would comfort me, not reproach me, and extend the hand of forgiveness to one whose purposes were virtuous, though infirm, and whose energies vigorous, though desul- tory. Indeed, I long to see you, although I cannot help dreading it.
I mean to write to Dr. Pearce. The letter I will enclose to you. Perhaps it may not be proper to write, perhaps it may be necessary. You will best judge. The discharge should, I think, be sent down to the adjutant — yet I don't know ; it would be more comfortable to me to receive my dismission in London, were it not for the appearing in these clothes.
By to-morrow I shall be enabled to tell the exact ex- penses of equipping, etc.
I must conclude abruptly. God bless you, and your ever grateful
S. T. COLERIDGE.
66 STUDENT LIFE [MARCH
XXVII. TO THE SAME.
End of March, 1794.
MY DEAR BROTHER, — I have been rather uneasy, that I have not heard from you since my departure from High Wycombe. Your letters are a comfort to me in the comfortless hour — they are manna in the wilderness. I should have written you long ere this, but in truth I have been blockaded by a whole army of petty vexations, bad quarters, etc., and within this week I have been thrown three times from my horse and run away with to the no small perturbation of my nervous system almost every day. I ride a horse, young, and as undisciplined as myself. After tumult and agitation of any kind the mind and all its affections seem to doze for a while, and we sit shiver- ing with chilly feverishness wrapped up in the ragged and threadbare cloak of mere animal enjoyment.
On Sunday last I was surprised, or rather confounded, with a visit from Mr. Cornish, so confounded that for more than a minute I could not speak to him. He be- haved with great delicacy and much apparent solicitude of friendship. He passed through Reading with his sister Lady Shore. I have received several letters from my friends at Cambridge, of most soothing contents. They write me, that with " undiminished esteem and increased affection, the Jesuites look forward to my return as to that of a lost brother ! "
My present address is the White Hart, Reading, Berks.
Adieu, most dear brother !
S. T. COLERIDGE.
XXVIII. TO THE SAME.
March 27, 1794.
MY DEAR BROTHER, — I find that I was too sanguine in my expectations of recovering all my clothes. My coat, which I had supposed gone, and all the stockings, viz.,
1794] TO GEORGE COLERIDGE 67
four pairs of almost new silk stockings, and two pairs of new silk and cotton, I can get again for twenty-three shil- lings. I have ordered, therefore, a pair of breeches, which will be nineteen shillings, a waistcoat at twelve shillings, a pair of shoes at seven shillings and four pence. Besides these I must have a hat, which will be eighteen shillings, and two neckcloths, which will be five or six shillings. These things I have ordered. My travelling expenses will be about half a guinea. Have I done wrong in ordering these things ? Or did you mean me to do it by desiring me to arrange what was necessary for my personal appear- ance at Cambridge ? I have so seldom acted right, that in every step I take of my own accord I tremble lest I should be wrong. I forgot in the above account to men- tion a flannel waistcoat ; it will be six shillings. The military dress is almost oppressively warm, and so very ill as I am at present I think it imprudent to hazard cold. I will see you at London, or rather at Hackney. There will be two or three trifling expenses on my leaving the army ; I know not their exact amount. The adjutant dis- missed me from all duty yesterday. My head throbs so, and I am so sick at stomach that it is with difficulty I can write. One thing more I wished to mention. There are three books, which I parted with at Reading. The book- seller, whom I have occasionally obliged by composing advertisements for his newspaper, has offered them me at the same price he bought them. They are a very valuable edition of Casimir I by Barbou,2 a Synesius 3 by Canterus
1 See Notes to Poetical Works of " In the course of the Work will
Coleridge (1893), p. 568. The " in- be introduced a copious selection
tended translation " was advertised from the Lyrics of Casimir, and a
in the Cambridge Intelligencer for new Translation of the Basia of Se-
June 14 and June 16, 1794 : " Pro- cundus."
posals for publishing by subscrip- One ode, " Ad Lyram," was print-
tion Imitations from the Modern ed in The Watchman, No. 11, March
Latin Poets, with a Critical and Bi- 9, 1796, p. 49.
ographical Essay on the Bestoration 2 The Barbou Casimir, published
of Literature. By S. T. Coleridge, at Paris in 1759.
of Jesus College, Cambridge. ... 8 Compare the note to chapter
68 STUDENT LIFE [APRIL
and Bentley's Quarto Edition. They are worth thirty shillings, at least, and I sold them for fourteen. The two first I mean to translate. I have finished two or three Odes of Casimir, and shall on my return to College send them to Dodsley as a specimen of an intended translation. Barbou's edition is the only one that contains all the works of Casimir. God bless you. Your grateful
S. T. C.
XXIX. TO THE SAME.
Sunday night, March 30, 1794.
MY DEAR BROTHER, — I received your enclosed. I am fearful, that as you advise me to go immediately to Cam- bridge after my discharge, that the utmost contrivances of economy will not enable [me] to make it adequate to all the expenses of my clothes and travelling. I shall go across the country on many accounts. The expense (I have examined) will be as nearly equal as well can be. The fare, from Heading to High Wycombe on the outside is four shillings, from High Wycombe to Cambridge (for there is a coach that passes through Cambridge from Wy- combe) I suppose about twelve shillings, perhaps a trifle more. I shall be two days and a half on the road, two nights. Can I calculate the expense at less than half a guinea, including all things ? An additional guinea would perhaps be sufficient. Surely, my brother, I am not so utterly abandoned as not to feel the meaning and duty of economy. Oh me ! I wish to God I were happy ; but it would be strange indeed if I were so.
I long ago theoretically and in a less degree experi- mentally knew the necessity of faith in order to regulate
xii. of the Biographia Literaria : before my fifteenth year." The
" In the Biographical Sketch of my edition referred to may be that
Literary Life I may be excused if published at Basle in 1567. Inter-
I mention here that I had translated prete G. Cantero. Bentley's Quarto
the eight Hymns of Synesius from Edition -was probably the Quarto
the Greek into English Anacreontics Edition of Horace, published in 1711.
1794] TO GEORGE COLERIDGE 69
virtue, nor did I even seriously disbelieve the existence of a future state. In short, my religious creed bore and, perhaps, bears a correspondence with my mind and heart. I had too much vanity to be altogether a Christian, too much tenderness of nature to be utterly an infidel. Fond of the dazzle of wit, fond of subtlety of argument, I could not read without some degree of pleasure the levities of Voltaire or the reasonings of Helvetius ; but, tremblingly alive to the feelings of humanity, and susceptible to the charms of truth, my heart forced me to admire the " beauty of holiness " in the Gospel, forced me to love the Jesus, whom my reason (or perhaps my reasonings) would not permit me to worship, — my faith, therefore, was made up of the Evangelists and the deistic philosophy — a kind of religious twilight. I said, "perhaps bears" — yes! my brother, for who can say, " Now I '11 be a Christian " ? Faith is neither altogether voluntary ; we cannot believe what we choose, but we can certainly cultivate such habits of thinking and acting as will give force and effective energy to the arguments on either side.
If I receive my discharge by Thursday, I will be, God pleased, in Cambridge on Sunday. Farewell, my brother ! Believe me your severities only wound me as they awake the voice within to speak, ah ! how more harshly ! I feel gratitude and love towards you, even when I shrink and shiver. Your affectionate
S. T. COLERIDGE.
XXX. TO THE SAME.
April 7, 1794.
MY DEAR BROTHER, — The last three days I have spent at Bray, near Maidenhead, at the house of a gen- tleman who has behaved with particular attention to me. I accepted his invitation as it was in my power in some measure to repay his kindness by the revisal of a per- formance he is about to publish, and by writing him a
70 STUDENT LIFE [MAY
dedication and preface. At my return I found two let- ters from you, the one containing the two guineas, which will be perfectly adequate to my expenses, and, my brother, what some part of your letter made me feel, I am ill able to express ; but of this at another time. I have signed the certificate of my expenses, but not my discharge. The moment I receive it I shall set off for Cambridge im- mediately, most probably through London, as the gentle- man, whose house I was at at Bray, has pressed me to take his horse, and accompany him on Wednesday morning, as he himself intends to ride to town that day. If my dis- charge comes down on Tuesday morning I shall embrace his offer, particularly as I shall be introduced to his book- seller, a thing of some consequence to my present views.
Clagget1has set four songs of mine most divinely, for two violins and a pianoforte. I have done him some ser- vices, and he wishes me to write a serious opera, which he will set, and have introduced. It is to be a joint work. I think of it. The rules for adaptable composition which he has given me are excellent, and I feel my powers greatly strengthened, owing, I believe, to my having read little or nothing for these last four months.
XXXI. TO THE SAME.
May 1, 1794.
MY DEAR BROTHER, — I have been convened before the fellows.2 Dr. Pearce behaved with great asperity, Mr. Plampin 3 with exceeding and most delicate kindness. My
1 Charles Clagget, a musical com- 2 The entry in the College Regis- poser and inventor of musical instru- ter of Jesus College is brief and to ments, flourished towards the close the point : " 1794 Apr. : Coleridge of the eighteenth century. I have admonitus est per magistrum in prce- been unable to ascertain whether sentia soczorwra." the songs in question were ever pub- 3 A letter to George Coleridge lished, Dictionary of Music and Mu- dated April 16, 1794, and signed J. sicians, edited by George Grove, Plampin, has been preserved. The D. C. L., 1879, article " Clagget," pains and penalties to which Cole- i. 359. ridge had subjected himself are
1794] TO GEORGE COLERIDGE 71
sentence is a reprimand (not a public one, but implied in the sentence), a month's confinement to the precincts of the College, and to translate the works of Demetrius Pha- lareus into English. It is a thin quarto of about ninety Greek pages. All the fellows tried to persuade the Mas- ter to greater leniency, but in vain. Without the least affectation I applaud his conduct, and think nothing of it. The confinement is nothing. I have the fields and grove of the College to walk in, and what can I wish more ? What do I wish more ? Nothing. The Demetrius is dry, and utterly untransferable to modern use, and yet from the Doctor's words I suspect that he wishes it to be a publication, as he has more than once sent to know how I go on, and pressed me to exert erudition in some notes, and to write a preface. Besides this, I have had a decla- mation to write in the routine of college business, and the Eustat examination, at which I got credit. I get up every morning at five o'clock.
Every one of my acquaintance I have dropped solemnly and forever, except those of my College with whom be- fore my departure I had been least of all connected — who had always remonstrated against my imprudences, yet have treated me with almost fraternal affection, Mr. Caldwell particularly. I thought the most decent way of dropping acquaintances was to express my intention, openly and irrevocably.
I find I must either go out at a by-term or degrade to the Christmas after next ; but more of this to-morrow. I have been engaged in finishing a Greek ode. I mean to write for all the prizes. I have had no time upon my hands. I shall aim at correctness and perspicuity, not genius. My last ode was so sublime that nobody could
stated in full, but the kindly nature proper ; and I beg to assure you that
of the writer is shown in the con- it will give me much pleasure to see
eluding sentence : " I am happy in him take such an advantage of his
adding that I thought your brother's experience as his own good sense will
conduct on his return extremely dictate."
72 STUDENT LIFE [JULY
understand it. If I should be so very lucky as to win one of the prizes, I could comfortably ask the Doctor advice concerning the time of my degree. I will write to-morrow.
God bless you, my brother ! my father !
S. T. COLERIDGE.
XXXII. TO ROBERT SOUTHEY.
GLOUCESTEB, Sunday morning, July 6, 1794.
S. T. Coleridge to R. Southey, Health and Republican- ism to be ! When you write, direct to me, " To be kept at the Post Office, Wrexham, Denbighshire, N. Wales." I mention this circumstance now, lest carried away by a flood of confluent ideas I should forget it. You are averse to gratitudinarian flourishes, else would I talk about hos- pitality, attentions, etc. However, as I must not thank you, I will thank my stars. Verily, Southey, I like not Oxford nor the inhabitants of it. I would say, thou art a nightingale among owls, but thou art so songless and heavy towards night that I will rather liken thee to the matin lark. Thy nest is in a blighted cornfield, where the sleepy poppy nods its red-cowled head, and the weak- eyed mole plies his dark work ; but thy soaring is even unto heaven. Or let me add (for my appetite for sim- iles is truly canine at this moment) that as the Italian nobles their new-fashioned doors, so thou dost make the adamantine gate of democracy turn on its golden hinges to most sweet music. Our journeying has been intolerably fatiguing from the heat and whiteness of the roads, and the unhedged country presents nothing but stone fences, dreary to the eye and scorching to the touch. But we shall soon be in Wales.
Gloucester is a nothing-to-be-said-about town. The women have almost all of them sharp noses.
It is wrong, Southey! for a little girl with a half-
1794] TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 73
famished sickly baby in her arms to put her head in at the window of an inn — " Pray give me a bit of bread and meat ! " from a party dining on lamb, green peas, and salad. Why ? Because it is impertinent and obtru- sive ! " I am a gentleman ! and wherefore the clamorous voice of woe intrude upon mine ear ? " My companion is a man of cultivated, though not vigorous understanding ; his feelings are all on the side of humanity ; yet such are the unfeeling remarks, which the lingering remains of aristocracy occasionally prompt. When the pure system of pantisocracy shall have aspheterized — from d, non, and o-^eVepos, proprius (we really wanted such a word), in- stead of travelling along the circuitous, dusty, beaten highroad of diction, you thus cut across the soft, green, pathless field of novelty ! Similes for ever ! Hurrah ! I have bought a little blank book, and portable ink horn ; [and] as I journey onward, I ever and anon pluck the wild flowers of poesy, " inhale their odours awhile," then throw them away and think no more of them. I will not do so ! Two lines of mine : —
And o'er the sky's unclouded blue The sultry heat suffus'd a brassy hue.
The cockatrice is a foul dragon with a crown on its head. The Eastern nations believe it to be hatched by a viper on a cock's egg. Southey, dost thou not see wisdom in her Coan vest of allegory ? The cockatrice is emblem- atic of monarchy, a monster generated by ingratitude or absurdity. When serpents sting, the only remedy is to kill the serpent, and besmear the wound with the fat. Would you desire better sympathy ?
Description of heat from a poem I am manufacturing, the title : " Perspiration. A Travelling Eclogue."
The dust flies smothering, as on clatt'ring wheel Loath'd aristocracy careers along ;
74 STUDENT LIFE [JuLT
The distant track quick vibrates to the eye, And white and dazzling undulates with heat, Where scorching to the unwary travellers' touch, The stone fence flings its narrow slip of shade ; Or, where the worn sides of the chalky road Yield their scant excavations (sultry grots !), Emblem of languid patience, we behold The fleecy files faint-ruminating lie.
Farewell, sturdy Republican ! Write me concerning Burnett and thyself, and concerning etc., etc. My next shall be a more sober and chastened epistle ; but, you see, I was in the humour for metaphors, and, to tell thee the truth, I have so of ten serious reasons to quarrel with my inclination, that I do not choose to contradict it for trifles. To Lovell, fraternity and civic remembrances ! Hucks'
compliments.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
Addressed to " Kobert Southey. Miss Tyler's, Bristol."
XXXIII. TO THE SAME.
WKEXHAM, Sunday, July 15, 1794.1
Your letter, Southey ! made me melancholy. Man is a bundle of habits, but of all habits the habit of despond- ence is the most pernicious to virtue and happiness. I| once shipwrecked my frail bark on that rock ; a friendly plank was vouchsafed me. Be you wise by my experience,
1 A -week later, July 22, in a let- year. Coleridge's letters from for- ter addressed to H. Martin, of Jesus eign parts were written with a view College, to whom, in the following to literary effect, and often with the September, he dedicated " The Fall half -formed intention of sending of Robespierre," Coleridge repeated them to the " booksellers." They almost verbatim large portions of this are to be compared with "letters lettre de voyage. The incident of the from our own correspondent," and in sentiment and the Welsh clergyman respect of picturesque adventure, takes a somewhat different shape, dramatic dialogue, and so forth, must and both versions differ from the re- be judged solely by a literary stand- port of the same occurrence con- ard. Biographia Literaria, 1847, tained in Hucks' account of the tour, ii. 338-343 ; J. Hucks' Tour in North which was published in the following Wales, 1795, p. 25.
1794] TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 75
and receive unhurt the flower, which I have climbed preci- pices to pluck. Consider the high advantages which you possess in so eminent a degree — health, strength of mind, and confirmed habits of strict morality. Beyond all doubt, by the creative powers of your genius, you might supply whatever the stern simplicity of republican wants could require. Is there no possibility, of procuring the office of clerk in a compting-house ? A month's application would qualify you for it. For God's sake, Southey ! enter not into the church. Concerning Allen I say little, but I feel anguish at times. This earnestness of remonstrance ! I will not offend you by asking your pardon for it. The following is a fact. A friend of Hucks' after long strug- gles between principle and interest, as it is improperly called, accepted a place under government. He took the oaths, shuddered, went home and threw himself in an agony out of a two-pair of stairs window ! These dreams of despair are most soothing to the imagination. I well know it. We shroud ourselves in the mantle of distress, and tell our poor hearts, " This is happiness ! " There is a dignity in all these solitary emotions that flatters the pride of our nature. Enough of sermonizing. As I was meditating on the capability of pleasure in a mind like yours, I unwarily fell into poetry : l —
'T is thine with fairy forms to talk, And thine the philosophic walk ; And what to thee the sweetest are — The setting sun, the Evening Star — The tints, that live along the sky, The Moon, that meets thy raptured eye, Where grateful oft the big drops start, Dear silent pleasures of the Heart ! But if thou pour one votive lay, For humble independence pray ;
1 The lines are from " Happiness," See Poetical Works, p. 17. See, too, an early poem first published in 1834. Editor's *Note, p. 564.
76 STUDENT LIFE [JULY
Whom (sages say) in days of yore
Meek ^Competence to Wisdom bore.
So shall thy little vessel glide
With a fair breeze adown the tide,
Till Death shall close thy tranquil eye
While Faith exclaims : " Thou shalt not die ! "
" The heart-smile glowing on his aged cheek Mild as decaying light of summer's eve,"
are lines eminently beautiful. The whole is pleasing. For a motto ! Surely my memory has suffered an epileptic fit. A Greek motto would be pedantic. These lines will perhaps do : —
All mournful to the pensive sages' eye,1 The monuments of human glory lie ; Fall'n palaces crush 'd by the ruthless haste Of Time, and many an empire's silent waste —
But where a sight shall shuddering sorrow find Sad as the ruins of the human mind, —
BOWLES.
A better will soon occur to me. Poor Poland ! They go on sadly there. Warmth of particular friendship does not imply absorption. The nearer you approach the sun, the more intense are his rays. Yet what distant corner of the system do they not cheer and vivify ? The ardour of private attachments makes philanthropy a necessary habit of the soul. I love my friend. Such as he is, all mankind are or might be. The deduction is evident. Philanthropy (a,nd indeed every other virtue) is a thing of concretion. Some home-born feeling is the centre of the ball, that rolling on through life collects and assimilates every con- genial affection. What did you mean by H. has " my
1 Quoted from a poem by Bowles lines of the quotation as a motto for
entitled, " Verses inscribed to His his " Botany Bay Eclogues." Poet-
Grace the Duke of Leeds, and other ical Works of Milman, Bowles, etc.,
Promoters of the Philanthropic Soci- Paris, 1829, p. 117 ; Southey's Poeti-
ety." Southey adopted the last two col Works, 1837, ii. 71.
1794] TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 77
understanding " ? I have puzzled myself in vain to dis- cover the import of the sentence. The only sense it seemed to bear was so like mock-humility, that I scolded myself for the momentary supposition.1 My heart is so heavy at present, that I will defer the finishing of this letter till to-morrow.
I saw a face in Wrexham Church this morning, which recalled " Thoughts full of bitterness and images " too dearly loved I now past and but " Remembered like sweet sounds of yesterday ! " At Ross (sixteen miles from Gloucester) we took up our quarters at the King's Arms, once the house of Kyrle, the Man of Ross. I gave the window-shutter the following effusion : 2 —
Richer than Misers o'er their countless hoards,
Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted LordvS,
Here dwelt the Man of Ross ! O Traveller, hear !
Departed Merit claims the glistening tear.
Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health,
"With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth ;
He heard the widow's heaven-breathed prayer of praise,
He mark'd the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze ;
And o'er the dowried maiden's glowing cheek
Bade bridal love suffuse its blushes meek.
If 'neath this roof thy wine-cheer'd moments pass,
Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass !
To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul,
And Virtue mingle in the sparkling bowl.
But if, like me, thro' life's distressful scene,
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been,
And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,
Thou journeyest onward tempest-tost in thought,
Here cheat thy cares, — in generous visions melt,
And dream of Goodness thou hast never felt !
I will resume the pen to-morrow.
1 Southey, we may suppose, had 2 Poetical Works, p. 33. See, too, contrasted Hucks with Coleridge. Editor's Note, p. 570. " H. is on my level, not yours."
78 STUDENT LIFE [JULY
Monday, 11 o'clock. Well, praised be God ! here I am. Videlicet, Ruthin, sixteen miles from Wrexham. At Wrexham Church I glanced upon the face of a Miss E. Evans, a young lady with [whom] I had been in habits of fraternal correspondence. She turned excessively pale ; she thought it my ghost, I suppose. I retreated with all possible speed to our inn. There, as I was standing at the window, passed by Eliza Evans, and with her to my utter surprise her sister, Mary Evans, quam efflictim et perdite amabam. I apprehend she is come from London on a visit to her grandmother, with whom Eliza lives. I turned sick, and all but fainted away ! The two sisters, as H. informs me, passed by the window anxiously several times afterwards ; but I had retired.
Vivit, sed mihi non vivit — nova forte marita, Ah dolor ! alterius card, a cervice pependit. Vos, malefida valete accensce insomnia mentis, Littora amata valete ! Vale, ah ! formosa Maria !
My fortitude would not have supported me, had I recog- nized her — I mean appeared to do it ! I neither ate nor / slept yesterday. / But love is a . local anguish ; I am six- teen miles distant, and am not half so miserable/ I must endeavour to forget it amid the terrible graces of the wild wood scenery that surround me. I never durst even in a whisper avow my passion, though I knew she loved me. Where were my fortunes ? and why should I make her miserable ! Almighty God bless her ! Her image is in the sanctuary of my heart, and never can it be torn away but with the strings that grapple it to life. Southey ! there are few men of whose delicacy I think so highly as to have written all this. I am glad I have so deemed of you. We are soothed by communications.
Denbigh (eight miles from Ruthin).
And now to give you some little account of our journey. Prom Oxford to Gloucester, to Ross, to Hereford, to
1794] TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 79
Leominster, to Bishop's Castle, to Welsh Pool, to Llanfyl- lin, nothing occurred worthy notice except that at the last place I preached pantisocracy and aspheterism with so much success that two great huge fellows of butcher-like appearance danced about the room in enthusiastic agita- tion. And one of them of his own accord called for a large glass of brandy, and drank it off to this his own toast, " God save the King ! And may he be the last." Southey ! Such men may be of use. They would kill the golden calf secundum artem. From Llanfyllin we pene- trated into the interior of the country to Llangunnog, aj village most romantically situated. We dined there on hashed mutton, cucumber, bread and cheese, and beer, and had two pots of ale — the sum total of the expense being sixteen pence for both of us ! From Llangunnog we walked over the mountains to Bala — most sublimely terrible ! It was scorchingly hot. I applied my mouth ever and anon to the side of the rocks and sucked in draughts of water cold as ice, and clear as infant diamonds in their embryo dew ! The rugged and stony clefts are stupendous, and in winter must form cataracts most astonishing. At this time of the year there is just water enough dashed down over them to " soothe, not disturb the pensive traveller's ear." I slept by the side of one an hour or more. As we descended the mountain, the sun was reflected in the river, that winded through the valley with insufferable brightness ; it rivalled the sky. At Bala is nothing re- markable except a lake of eleven miles in circumference. At the inn I was sore afraid that I had caught the itch from a Welsh democrat, who was charmed with my senti- ments : he grasped my hand with flesh-bruising ardor, and I trembled lest some disappointed citizens of the animal- cular republic should have emigrated.
Shortly; after, into the same room, came a well-dressed clergyman and four others, among whom (the landlady whispers me) was a justice of the peace and the doctor of
80 STUDENT LIFE [SEPT.
the parish. I was asked for a gentleman. I gave General Washington. The parson said in a low voice, " Republi- cans ! " After which, the medical man said, " Damn toasts ! I gives a sentiment : May all republicans be guil- lotined ! " Up starts the Welsh democrat. " May all fools be gulloteen'd — and then you will be the first." Thereon rogue, villain, traitor flew thick in each other's faces as a hailstorm. This is nothing in Wales. They make calling one another liars, etc., necessary vent-holes to the superfluous fumes of the temper. At last I endeav- oured to articulate by observing that, whatever might be our opinions in politics, the appearance of a clergyman in the company assured me we were all Christians ; " though," continued I, " it is rather difficult to reconcile the last sen- timent with the spirit of Christianity." " Pho ! " quoth the parson, " Christianity ! Why, we are not at church now, are we ? The gemman's sentiment was a very good one ; it showed he was sincere in his principles." Welsh politics could not prevail over Welsh hospitality. They all, except the parson, shook me by the hand, and said I was an open-hearted, honest-speaking fellow, though I was a bit of a democrat.
From Bala we travelled onward to Llangollen, a most beautiful village in a most beautiful situation. On the road we met two Cantabs of my college, Brookes and Berd- more. These rival pedestrians — perfect Powells — were vigorously pursuing their tour in a post-chaise ! We laughed famously. Their only excuse was that Berdmore had been ill. From Llangollen to Wrexham, from Wrex- ham to Ruthin, to Denbigh. At Denbigh is a ruined cas- tle; it surpasses everything I could have conceived. I wandered there an hour and a half last evening (this is Tuesday morning). Two well-dressed young men were walking there. " Come," says one, " I '11 play my flute ; 'twill be romantic." " Bless thee for the thought, man of genius and sensibility ! " I exclaimed, and preattuned my
1794] TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 81
heartstring to tremulous emotion. He sat adown (the moon just peering) amid the awful part of the ruins, and the romantic youth struck up the affecting tune of " Mrs. Carey." 1 'T is fact, upon my honour.
God bless you, Southey ! We shall be at Aberystwith 2 this day week. When will you come out to meet us ? There you must direct your letter. Hucks' compliments. I anticipate much accession of republicanism from Lovell. I have positively done nothing but dream of the system of no property every step of the way since I left you, till last Sunday. Heigho !
ROBERT SOUTHEY, No. 8 Westcott Buildings, Bath.
XXXIV. TO THE SAME. 10 o'clock, Thursday morning, September 18, 1794.
Well, my dear Southey! I am at last arrived at Jesus. My God ! how tumultuous are the movements of my heart. Since I quitted this room what and how important events have been evolved ! America ! Southey ! Miss Fricker I Yes, Southey, you are right. Even Love is the creature of strong motive. I certainly love her. I think of her incessantly and with unspeakable tenderness, — with that inward melting away of soul that symptomatizes it.
Pantisocracy ! Oh, I shall have such a scheme of it ! My head, my heart, are all alive. I have drawn up my arguments in battle array ; they shall have the tacti-
1 Hucks records the incident in remark to me, when we had climbed much the same words, but gives the to the top of Plinlimmon, and were name of the tune as " Corporal Ca- nearly dead with thirst. We could sey." not speak from the constriction till
2 The letter to Martin gives further we found a little puddle under a particulars of the tour, including stone. He said to me, ' You grinned the ascent of Penmaen Mawr in com- like an idiot.' He had done the pany with Brookes and Berdmore. same." The parching thirst of the Compare Table Talk for May 31, pedestrians, and their excessive joy 1830 : "I took the thought of grin- at the discovery of a spring of water, ning for joy in that poem ( The An- are recorded by Hucks. Tour in dent Mariner) from my companion's North Wales, 1795, p. 62.
82 STUDENT LIFE [SEPT.
dan excellence of the mathematician with the enthusiasm of the poet. The head shall be the mass ; the heart the fiery spirit that fills, informs, and agitates the whole. Har- wood — pish ! I say nothing of him.
SHAD GOES WITH US. HE IS MY BKOTHER ! I am longing to be with you. Make Edith my sister. Surely, Southey, we shall be frendotatoi metafrendous — most friendly where all are friends. She must, therefore, be more emphatically my sister.
Brookes and Berdmore, as I suspected, have spread my opinions in mangled forms at Cambridge. Caldwell, the most pantisocratic of aristocrats, has been laughing at me. Up I arose, terrible in reasoning. He fled from me, because " he could not answer for his own sanity, sitting so near a madman of genius." He told me that the strength of my imagination had intoxicated my reason, and that the acuteness of my reason had given a directing influence to my imagination. Four months ago the re- mark would not have been more elegant than just. Now it is nothing.
I like your sonnets exceedingly — the best of any I have yet seen.1 " Though to the eye fair is the extended vale " should be " to the eye though fair the extended vale." I by no means disapprove of discord introduced to produce effect, nor is my ear so fastidious as to be angry with it where it could not have been avoided without weakening the sense. But discord for discord's sake is rather too licentious.
" Wild wind " has no other but alliterative beauty ; it applies to a storm, not to the autumnal breeze that makes the trees rustle mournfully. Alter it to " That rustle to the sad wind meaningly."
" 'T was a long way and tedious," and the three last lines are marked beauties — unlaboured strains poured soothingly along from the feeling simplicity of heart. The 1 Southey's Poetical Works, 1837, ii. 93.
1794] TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 83
next sonnet is altogether exquisite, — the circumstance common yet new to poetry, the moral accurate and full of soul.1 " I never saw," etc., is most exquisite. I am almost ashamed to write the following, it is so inferior. Ashamed? No, Southey ! God knows my heart ! I am delighted to feel you superior to me in genius as in virtue.
No more my visionary soul shall dwell
On joys that were ; no more endure to weigh
The shame and anguish of the evil day.
Wisely forgetful ! O'er the ocean swell
Sublime of Hope, I seek the cottag'd dell
Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray,
And, dancing to the moonlight roundelay,
The wizard Passions weave an holy spell.
Eyes that have ach'd with sorrow ! ye shall weep
Tears of doubt-mingled joy, like theirs who start
From precipices of distemper'd sleep,
On which the fierce-eyed fiends their revels keep,
And see the rising sun, and feel it dart
New rays of pleasance trembling to the heart.2
I have heard from Allen, and write the third letter to him. Yours is the second. Perhaps you would like two sonnets I have written to my Sally. When I have re- ceived an answer from Allen I will tell you the contents of his first letter.
My compliments to Heath.
I will write you a huge, big letter next week. At pres- ent I have to transact the tragedy business, to wait on the Master, to write to Mrs. Southey, Lovell, etc., etc.
God love you, and
S. T. COLERIDGE.
1 Southey's Poetical Works, 1837, 2 See Letter XLI. p. 110, note 1. ii. 94.
84 STUDENT LIFE [SEPT.
. XXXV. TO THE SAME.
Friday morning, September 19, 1794.
My fire was blazing cheerfully — the tea-kettle even now boiled over on it. Now sudden sad it looks. But, see, it blazes up again as cheerily as ever. Such, dear Southey, was the effect of your this morning's letter on my heart. Angry, no ! I esteem and confide in you the more ; but it did make me sorrowful. I was blameless ; it was therefore only a passing cloud empictured on the breast. Surely had I written to you ihejlrst letter you directed to me at Cambridge, I would not have believed that you could have received it without answering it. Still less that you could have given a momentary pain to her that loved you. If I could have imagined no rational excuse for you, I would have peopled the vacancy with events of impossibility !
On Wednesday, September 17, 1 arrived at Cambridge. Perhaps the very hour you were writing in the severity of offended friendship, was I pouring forth the heart to Sarah Fricker. I did not call on Caldwell ; I saw no one. On the moment of my arrival I shut my door, and wrote to her. But why not before ?
In the first place Miss F. did not authorize me to direct immediately to her. It was settled that through you in our weekly parcels were the letters to be conveyed. The moment I arrived at Cambridge, and all yesterday, was I writing letters to you, to your mother, to Lovell, etc., to complete a parcel.
In London I wrote twice to you, intending daily to go to Cambridge ; of course I deferred the parcel till then. I was taken ill, very ill. I exhausted my finances, and ill as I was, I sat down and scrawled a few guineas' worth of nonsense for the booksellers, which Dyer disposed of for me. Languid, sick at heart, in the back room of an inn ! Lofty conjunction of circumstances for me to write
1794] TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 85
to Miss F. Besides, I told her I should write the moment I arrived at Cambridge. I have fulfilled the promise. Recollect, Southey, that when you mean to go to a place to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, the time that intervenes is lost. Had I meant at first to stay in Lon- don, a fortnight should not have elapsed without my writing to her. If you are satisfied, tell Miss F. that you are so, but assign no reasons — I ought not to have been suspected.
The tragedy 1 will be printed in less than a week. I shall put my name, because it will sell at least a hundred copies in Cambridge. It would appear ridiculous to put two names to such a work. But, if you choose it, mention it and it shall be done. To every man who praises it, of course I give the true biography of it; to those who laugh at it, I laugh again, and I am too well known at Cambridge to be thought the less of, even though I had published James Jennings' Satire.
Southey ! Precipitance is wrong. There may be too high a state of health, perhaps even virtue is liable to a plethora. I have been the slave of impulse, the child of imbecility. But my inconsistencies have given me a tarditude and reluctance to think ill of any one. Having \ been often suspected of wrong when I was altogether right, from fellow-feeling I judge not too hastily, and from appearances. Your undeviating simplicity of recti- ' tude has made you rapid in decision. Having never erred, you feel more indignation at error than^>ifa/ for it. There is phlogiston in your heart. Yet am I grateful for it. You would not have written so angrily but for -_-, the greatness of your esteem and affection. The,, more highly we have been wont to think of a character, the
1 " A tragedy, of which the first in the text of "An Address on the
act was written by S. T. Coleridge." Present War." Condones ad Popu- >
See footnote to quotation from " The lum, 1795, p. 66. Fall of Robespierre," which occurs
86 STUDENT LIFE [Ocx.
more pain and irritation we suffer from the discovery of its~imperfections. My heart is very heavy, much more so than when I began to write.
Yours most fraternally.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
XXXVI. TO THE SAME.
Friday night, September 26, 1794.
MY DEAR, DEAR SouTHEY, — I am beyond measure distressed and agitated by your letter to Favell. On the evening of the Wednesday before last, I arrived in Cam- bridge; that night and the next day I dedicated to writing to you, to Miss F., etc. On the Friday I received yoifr letter of phlogistic rebuke. I answered it immedi- ately, wrote a second letter to Miss F., inclosed them in the aforesaid parcel, and sent them off by the mail directed to Mrs. Southey, No. 8 Westcott Buildings, Bath. They should have arrived on Sunday morning. Perhaps you have not heard from Bath ; perhaps — damn perhapses ! My God, my God ! what a deal of pain you must have suffered before you wrote that letter to Favell. It is an Ipswich Fair time, and the Norwich company are theat- ricalizing. They are the first provincial actors in the kingdom. Much against my will, I am engaged to drink tea and go to the play with Miss Brunton l (Mrs. Merry's
1 One of six sisters, daughters of Coleridge's Miss Brunton, to whom
John Brunton of Norwich. Eliza- he sent a poem on the French Revo-
beth, the eldest of the family, was lution, that is, " The Fall of Robes-
married in 1791 to Robert Merry pierre," must have been an inter-
the dramatist, the founder of the mediate sister less known to fame,
so-called Delia Cruscan school of It is curious to note that " The Right
poetry. Louisa Brunton, the young- Hon. Lady Craven " was a subscrib-
est sister, afterwards Countess of er to the original issue of The Friend
Craven, made her first appearance at in 1809. National Dictionary of
Covent Garden Theatre on October Biography, articles "Craven" and
5, 1803, and at most could not have "Merry." Letters of the Lake Poets,
been more than twelve or thirteen 1885, p. 455. years of age in the autumn of 1794.
1794] TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 87
sister). The young lady, and indeed the whole family, have taken it into their heads to be very much attached to me, though I have known them only six days. The father (who is the manager and proprietor of the theatre) inclosed in a very polite note a free ticket for the season. The young lady is said to be the most literary of the beautiful, and the most beautiful of the literate. It may be so ; my faculties and discernments are so completely jaundiced by vexation that the Virgin Mary and Mary Flanders, alias Moll, would appear in the same hues.
All last night, I was obliged to listen to the damned chatter of our mayor, a fellow that would certainly be a pantisocrat, were his head and heart as highly illuminated as his face. At present he is a High Churchman, and a Pittite, and is guilty (with a very large fortune) of so many rascalities in his public character, that he is obliged to drink three bottles of claret a day in order to acquire a stationary rubor, and prevent him from the trouble of running backwards and forwards for a blush once every five minutes. In the tropical latitudes of this fellow's nose was I obliged to fry. I wish you would write a lampoon upon him — in me it would be unchristian re- venge.
Our tragedy is printed, all but the title-page. It will be complete by Saturday night.
God love you. I am in the queerest humour in the world, and am out of love with everybody.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
XXXVII. TO THE SAME.
October 21, 1794.
To you alone, Southey, I write the first part of this letter. To yourself confine it.
" Is this handwriting altogether erased from your memory ? To whom am I addressing myself ? For whom am I now violating the rules of female delicacy ?
88 STUDENT LIFE [OCT.
Is it for the same Coleridge, whom I once regarded as a sister her best-beloved Brother? Or for one who will ridicule that advice from me, which he has rejected as offered by his family? I will hazard the attempt. I have no right, nor do I feel myself inclined to reproach you for the Past. God forbid ! You have already suf- fered too much from self-accusation. But I conjure you, Coleridge, earnestly and solemnly conjure you to consider long and deeply, before you enter into any rash schemes. There is an Eagerness in your Nature, which is ever hurry- ing you in the sad Extreme. I have heard that you mean to leave England, and on a Plan so absurd and extrava- gant that were I for a moment to imagine it true, I should be obliged to listen with a more patient Ear to sugges- tions, which I have rejected a thousand times with scorn and anger. Yes ! whatever Pain I might suffer, I should be forced to exclaim, ' O what a noble mind is here o'er- thrown, Blasted with ecstacy.' You have a country, does it demand nothing of you ? You have doting Friends ! Will you break their Hearts ! There is a God — Cole- ridge ! Though I have been told (indeed I do not believe it) that you doubt of his existence and disbelieve a here- after. No ! you have too much sensibility to be an Infidel. You know I never was rigid in my opinions concerning Religion — and have always thought faith to be only Reason applied to a particular subject. In short, I am the same Being as when you used to say, ' We thought in all things alike.' I often reflect on the happy hours we spent together and regret the Loss of your Society. I cannot easily forget those whom I once loved — nor can I easily form new Friendships. I find women in general vain — all of the same Trifle, and therefore little and envious, and (I am afraid) without sincerity ; and of the other sex those who are offered and held up to my esteem are very prudent, and very worldly. If you value my peace of mind, you must on no account answer this let-
1794] TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 89
ter, or take the least notice of it. I would not for the world any part of my Family should suspect that I have written to you. My mind is sadly tempered by being perpetually obliged to resist the solicitations of those whom I love. I need not explain myself. Farewell, Coleridge ! I shall always feel that I have been your /Sister"
No name was signed, — it was from Mary Evans. I received it about three weeks ago. I loved her, Southey, almost to madness. Her image was never absent from me for three years, for more than three years. My reso- lution has not faltered, but I want a comforter. I have done nothing, I have gone into company, I was constantly at the theatre here till they left us, I endeavoured to be perpetually with Miss Brunton, I even hoped that her exquisite beauty and uncommon accomplishments might have cured one passion by another. The latter I could easily have dissipated in her absence, and so have restored my affections to her whom I do not love, but whom by every tie of reason and honour I ought to love. I am resolved, but wretched ! But time shall do much. You will easily believe that with such feelings I should have found it no easy task to write to . I should have de- tested myself, if after my first letter I had written coldly — how could I write as warmly ? I was vexed too and alarmed by your letter concerning Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, Shad, and little Sally. I was wrong, very wrong, in the affair of Shad, and have given you reason to suppose that I should assent to the innovation. I will most assuredly go with you to America, on this plan, but remember, Southey, this is not our plan, nor can I defend it. " Shad's chil- dren will be educated as ours, and the education we shall give them will be such as to render them incapable of blushing at the want of it in their parents " — Perhaps 1 With this one word would every Lilliputian reasoner de- molish the system. Wherever men can be vicious, some
90 STUDENT LIFE [Ocx.
will be. The leading idea of pantisocracy is to make men necessarily virtuous by removing all motives to evil — all possible temptation. "Let them dine with us and be treated with as much equality as they would wish, but per- form that part of labour for which their education has fitted them." Southey should not have written this sen- tence. My friend, my noble and high-souled friend should have said to his dependents, " Be my slaves, and ye shall be my equals ; " to his wife and sister, " Resign the name of Ladyship and ye shall retain the thing''' Again. Is X every family to possess one of these unequal equals, these Helot Egalites? Or are the few you have men- tioned, "with more toil than the peasantry of England undergo," to do for all of us " that part of labour which their education has fitted them for " ? If your remarks on the other side are just, the inference is that the scheme of pantisocracy is impracticable, but I hope and believe that it is not a necessary inference. Your remark of the physical evil in the long infancy of men would indeed puzzle a Pangloss — puzzle him to account for the wish of a benevolent heart like yours to discover malignancy-^ in its Creator. Surely every eye but an eye jaundiced \ by habit of peevish scepticism must have seen that the mothers' cares are repaid even to rapture by the mothers' endearments, and that the long helplessness of the babe is the means of our superiority in the filial and maternal affection and duties to the same feelings in the brute crea- tion. It is likewise among other causes the means of society, that thing which makes them a little lower than the angels. If Mrs. S. and Mrs. F. go with us, they can at least prepare the food of simplicity for us. Let the married women do only what is absolutely convenient and customary for pregnant women or nurses. Let the husband do all the rest, and what will that all be ? Wash- ing with a machine and cleaning the house. One hour's addition to our daily labor, and pantisocracy in its most
1794] TO ROBERT SOUTHEY 91
perfect sense is practicable. That the greater part of our female companions should have the task of maternal ex- ertion at the same time is very improbable ; but, though it were to happen, an infant is almost always sleeping, and during its slumbers the mother may in the same room perform