intended for publication ten years afterwards, in the Courier Newspaper,
in which he wrote a series of Essays to Judge Fletcher, which were at
that time acknowledged by the most able judges to be prophetic. But it
must be remembered he never wrote for party purposes. His views were
grounded on Platonic principles keeping the balance of the powers, and
throwing his weight into the scale that needed assistance.
OF THE PROFANATION OF THE SACRED WORD "THE PEOPLE."
"Every brutal mob, assembled on some drunken St. Monday of faction, is
'_the People_' forsooth, and now each leprous ragamuffin, like a
circle in geometry, is at once one and all, and calls his own brutal
self 'us the People.' And who are the friends of the People? Not those
who would wish to elevate each of them, or at least, the child who is
to take his place in the flux of life and death, into something worthy
of esteem, and capable of freedom, but those who flatter and infuriate
them as they do. A contradiction in the very thought. For if really
they are good and wise, virtuous and well-informed, how weak must be
the motives of discontent to a truly moral being!--but if the
contrary, and the motives for discontent proportionally strong, how
without guilt and absurdity appeal to them as judges and arbiters! He
alone is entitled to a share in the government of all, who has learnt
to govern himself--there is but one possible ground of a right to
freedom, viz. to understand and revere its duties."
As specimens of his political writings I select the following, and leave
party men to criticise them--Coleridge being of no party, but guided, as
will sufficiently appear to those who have read his works with
attention, solely by philosophical principles, from which he never
swerved. Nor did he desire the praise of men, merely because they were
in power; still less that of the multitude. For this reason, I repeat,
these fragments are given, as illustrative of Coleridge's political
views, and to shew how easily the harmony of the constitutional balance
may be disturbed by party zeal. His opinions were often misunderstood
even sometimes by kindly-disposed individuals, when 'theirs' were not
founded on certain data, because their principles were not derived from
permanent sources. The doctrine of expediency was one he highly
censured, and it had existed long enough to prove to him that it was
worthless. What one set of well-intentioned men may effect, and which
for a time may have produced good, another set of men by the same
doctrine, 'i.e.' of expediency may effect, and then produce incalculable
mischief, and, therefore, Coleridge thought there was neither guide nor
safety, but in the permanent and uncontrovertible truths of the sacred
writings, so that the extent of this utility will depend on faith in
these truths, and with these truths, his name must 'live or perish'. But
some part of Coleridge's writings requiring too much effort of thought
to be at once thoroughly understood, may therefore have been found
distasteful, and consequently have exposed his name to ridicule, in some
cases even to contempt; but the application Coleridge has made of these
truths to the duties and various circumstances of life will surely be
found an inestimable blessing. They were truly his rock of support, and
formed the basis of the building he was endeavouring to raise.
In the year 1807, he wrote those weekly Essays of the Friend, which were
published about this time, and thus gave to the world some of his rich
intellectual stores. The following letter, which he addressed to Mr.
Cottle, will shew the progress of his mind from Socinian to Trinitarian
belief at that period of his life:
"Bristol, 1807.
DEAR COTTLE,
To pursue our last conversation. Christians expect no outward or
sensible miracles from prayer. Its effects, and its fruitions are
spiritual, and accompanied, says that true Divine, Archbishop
Leighton, 'not by reasons and arguments but by an inexpressible kind
of evidence, which they only know who have it.'
To this I would add, that even those who, like me I fear, have not
attained it, may yet presume it. First, because reason itself, or
rather mere human nature, in any dispassionate moment, feels the
necessity of religion, but if this be not true there is no religion,
no religation, or binding over again; nothing added to reason, and
therefore Socinianism (misnamed Unitarianism) is not only not
Christianity, it is not even 'religion', it does not religate; does
not bind anew. The first outward and sensible result of prayer, is, a
penitent resolution, joined with a consciousness of weakness in
effecting it, yea even a dread, too well grounded, lest by breaking
and falsifying it, the soul should add guilt to guilt; by the very
means it has taken to escape from guilt; so pitiable is the state of
unregenerate man.
Are you familiar with Leighton's Works? He resigned his
archbishoprick, and retired to voluntary poverty on account of the
persecution of the Presbyterians, saying, 'I should not dare to
introduce Christianity itself with such cruelties, how much less for a
surplice, and the name of a bishop.' If there could be an intermediate
space between inspired, and uninspired writings, that space would be
occupied by Leighton. No show of learning, no appearance, or
ostentatious display of eloquence; and yet both may be shown in him,
conspicuously and holily. There is in him something that must be felt,
even as the scriptures must be felt. [15]
You ask me my views of the 'Trinity'. I accept the doctrine, not as
deduced from human reason, in its grovelling capacity for
comprehending spiritual things, but as the clear revelation of
Scripture. But perhaps it may be said, the 'Socinians' do not admit
this doctrine as being taught in the Bible. I know enough of their
shifts and quibbles, with their dexterity at explaining away all they
dislike, (and that is not a little) but though beguiled once by them,
I happily, for my own peace of mind, escaped from their sophistries,
and now, hesitate not to affirm, that Socinians would lose all
character for honesty, if they were to explain their neighbour's will
with the same latitude of interpretation, which they do the
Scriptures.
I have in my head some floating ideas on the 'Logos', which I hope,
hereafter, to mould into a consistent form; but it is a gross
perversion of the truth, in 'Socinians', to declare that we believe in
'Three Gods', and they know it to be false. They might, with equal
justice, affirm that we believe in 'three suns'. The meanest peasant,
who has acquired the first rudiments of Christianity, would shrink
back from a thought so monstrous. Still the Trinity has its
difficulties. It would be strange if otherwise. A 'Revelation' that
revealed nothing, not within the grasp of human reason!--no
religation, no binding over again, as before said: but these
difficulties are shadows, contrasted with the substantive, and
insurmountable obstacles with which they contend who admit the 'Divine
authority of Scripture', with the 'superlative excellence of Christ',
and yet undertake to prove that these Scriptures teach, and that
Christ taught, his own 'pure humanity!'
If Jesus Christ was merely a Man,--if he was not God as well as Man,
be it considered, he could not have been even a 'good man'. There is
no medium. The SAVIOUR 'in that case' was absolutely 'a deceiver!'
one, transcendently 'unrighteous!' in advancing pretensions to
miracles, by the 'Finger of God,' which he never performed; and by
asserting claims, (as a man) in the most aggravated sense,
blasphemous!
These consequences, Socinians, to be consistent, must allow, and which
impious arrogation of Divinity in Christ, (according to their faith,)
as well as his false assumption of a community of 'glory' with the
Father, 'before the world was,' even they will be necessitated to
admit, completely exonerated the Jews, according to their law, in
crucifying one, who 'being a man,' 'made himself God!' But, in the
Christian, rather than in the 'Socinian', or 'Pharisaic' view, all
these objections vanish, and harmony succeeds to inexplicable
confusion. If Socinians hesitate in ascribing 'unrighteousness' to
Christ, the inevitable result of their principles, they tremble, as
well they might, at their avowed creed, and virtually renounce what
they profess to uphold.
The Trinity, as Bishop Leighton has well remarked, is, 'a doctrine of
faith, not of demonstration,' except in a 'moral' sense. If the New
Testament declare it, not in an insulated passage, but through the
whole breadth of its pages, rendering, with any other admission, the
Book, which is the Christian's anchor-hold of hope, dark and
contradictory, then it is not to be rejected, but on a penalty that
reduces to an atom, all the sufferings this earth can inflict.
Let the grand question be determined; Is, or is not the Bible
'inspired?' No one Book has ever been subjected to so rigid an
investigation as the Bible, by minds the most capacious, and, in the
result, which has so triumphantly repelled all the assaults of
Infidels. In the extensive intercourse which I have had with this
class of men, I have seen their prejudices surpassed only by their
ignorance. This I found conspicuously the case in Dr. D. (Vol. i. p.
167) the prince of their fraternity. Without, therefore, stopping to
contend on what all dispassionate men must deem, undebatable ground, I
may assume inspiration as admitted; and, equally so, that it would be
an insult to man's understanding to suppose any other Revelation from
God than the Christian Scriptures. If these Scriptures, impregnable in
their strength; sustained in their pretensions by undeniable
prophecies and miracles; and by the experience of the 'inner man', in
all ages, as well as by a concatenation of arguments, all bearing upon
one point, and extending, with miraculous consistency, through a
series of fifteen hundred years; if all this combined proof does not
establish their validity, nothing can be proved under the sun; but the
world and man must be abandoned, with all its consequences to one
universal scepticism! Under such sanctions, therefore, if these
Scriptures, as a fundamental truth, 'do' inculcate the doctrine of the
'Trinity;' however surpassing human comprehension; then I say, we are
bound to admit it on the strength of 'moral demonstration'.
The supreme Governor of the world, and the Father of our spirits, has
seen fit to disclose to us, much of his will, and the whole of his
natural and moral perfections. In some instances he has given his
'word' only, and demanded our 'faith'; while, on other momentous
subjects, instead of bestowing a full revelation; like the 'Via
Lactea', he has furnished a glimpse only, through either the medium of
inspiration, or by the exercise of those rational faculties with which
he has endowed us. I consider the Trinity as substantially resting on
the first proposition, yet deriving support from the last.
I recollect when I stood on the summit of Etna, and darted my gaze
down the crater; the immediate vicinity was discernible, till, lower
down, obscurity gradually terminated in total darkness. Such figures
exemplify many truths revealed in the Bible. We pursue them, until,
from the imperfection of our faculties, we are lost in impenetrable
night. All truths, however, that are essential to faith, 'honestly'
interpreted; all that are important to human conduct, under every
diversity of circumstance, are manifest as a blazing star. The
promises also of felicity to the righteous, in the future world,
though the precise nature of that felicity may not be defined, are
illustrated by every image that can swell the imagination: while the
misery of the 'lost', in its unutterable intensity, though the
language that describes it is all necessarily figurative, is there
exhibited as resulting chiefly, if not wholly, from the withdrawment
of the 'light of God's countenance', and a banishment from his
'presence!'--best comprehended in this world, by reflecting on the
desolations which would instantly follow the loss of the sun's
vivifying and universally diffused 'warmth'.
You, or rather 'all', should remember, that some truths, from their
nature, surpass the scope of man's limited powers, and stand as the
criteria of 'faith', determining, by their rejection, or admission,
who among the sons of men can confide in the veracity of heaven. Those
more ethereal truths, of which the Trinity is conspicuously the chief,
without being circumstantially explained, may be faintly illustrated
by material objects.--The eye of man cannot discern the satellites of
Jupiter, nor become sensible of the multitudinous stars, the rays of
which have never reached our planet, and, consequently, garnish not
the canopy of night; yet, are they the less 'real', because their
existence lies beyond man's unassisted gaze? The tube of the
philosopher, and the 'celestial telescope',--the unclouded visions of
heaven, will confirm the one class of truths, and irradiate the other.
The 'Trinity' is a subject on which analogical reasoning may
advantageously be admitted, as furnishing, at least, a glimpse of
light, and with this, for the present, we must be satisfied. Infinite
Wisdom deemed clearer manifestations inexpedient; and is man to
dictate to his Maker? I may further remark, that where we cannot
behold a desirable object distinctly, we must take the best view we
can; and I think you, and every candid and inquiring mind, may derive
assistance from such reflections as the following.
Notwithstanding the arguments of Spinosa, and Descartes, and other
advocates of the 'Material system', (or, in more appropriate language,
the 'Atheistical system!') it is admitted by all men not prejudiced,
not biassed by sceptical prepossessions, that 'mind' is distinct from
'matter'. The mind of man, however, is involved in inscrutable
darkness, (as the profoundest metaphysicians well know) and is to be
estimated, (if at all) alone, by an inductive process; that is, by its
'effects'. Without entering on the question, whether an extremely
circumscribed portion of the mental process, surpassing instinct, may,
or may not, be extended to quadrupeds, it is universally acknowledged,
that the mind of man, alone, regulates all the voluntary actions of
his corporeal frame. Mind, therefore, may be regarded as a distinct
genus, in the scale ascending above brutes, and including the whole of
intellectual existences; advancing from 'thought', (that mysterious
thing!) in its lowest form, through all the gradations of sentient and
rational beings, till it arrives at a Bacon, a Newton, and then, when
unincumbered by matter, extending its illimitable sway through Seraph
and Archangel, till we are lost in the GREAT INFINITE!
Is it not deserving of notice, as an especial subject of meditation,
that our 'limbs', in all they do, or can accomplish, implicitly obey
the dictation of the 'mind'? that this operating power, whatever its
name, under certain limitations, exercises a sovereign dominion, not
only over our limbs, but over all our intellectual pursuits? The mind
of every man is evidently the moving force, which alike regulates all
his limbs and actions; and in which example, we find a strong
illustration of the subordinate nature of mere 'matter'. That alone
which gives direction to the organic parts of our nature, is wholly
'mind'; and one mind, if placed over a thousand limbs, could, with
undiminished ease, control and regulate the whole.
This idea is advanced on the supposition, that 'one mind' could
command an unlimited direction over any given number of 'limbs',
provided they were all connected by 'joint' and 'sinew'. But suppose,
through some occult and inconceivable means, these limbs were
dis-associated, as to all material connexion; suppose, for instance,
one mind, with unlimited authority, governed the operations of 'two'
separate persons, would not this, substantially, be only 'one person',
seeing the directing principle was one? If the truth, here contended
for, be admitted, that 'two persons', governed by 'one mind', is
incontestably 'one person'; the same conclusion would be arrived at,
and the proposition equally be justified, which affirmed that,
'three', or, otherwise, 'four' persons, owning also necessary and
essential subjection to 'one mind', would only be so many diversities,
or modifications of that 'one mind', and therefore the component
parts, virtually collapsing into 'one whole', the person would be
'one'. Let any man ask himself, whose understanding can both reason,
and become the depository of truth, whether, if 'one mind' thus
regulated, with absolute authority, 'three', or, otherwise, 'four'
persons, with all their congeries of material parts, would not these
parts, inert in themselves, when subjected to one predominant mind,
be, in the most logical sense, 'one person'? Are ligament and exterior
combination indispensable pre-requisites to the sovereign influence of
mind over mind? or mind over matter? [16]
But perhaps it may be said, we have no instance of one mind governing
more than one body. This may be, but the argument remains the same.
With a proud spirit, that forgets its own contracted range of thought,
and circumscribed knowledge, who is to limit the sway of Omnipotence?
or, presumptuously to deny the possibility of 'that' Being, who called
light out of darkness, so to exalt the dominion of 'one mind', as to
give it absolute sway over other dependent minds, or (indifferently)
over detached, or combined portions of organized matter? But if this
superinduced quality be conferable on any order of created beings, it
is blasphemy to limit the power of GOD, and to deny 'his' capacity to
transfuse 'his own' Spirit, when, and to whom he will.
This reasoning may now be applied in illustration of the Trinity. We
are too much in the habit of viewing our Saviour Jesus Christ, through
the medium of his body. 'A body was prepared for him,' but this body
was mere matter; as insensible in itself, as every human frame when
deserted by the soul. If therefore the Spirit that was in Christ, was
the Spirit of the Father: if no thought, no vibration, no spiritual
communication, or miraculous display, existed in, or proceeded from
Christ, not immediately and consubstantially identified with JEHOVAH,
the Great First cause; if all these operating principles were thus
derived, in consistency alone with the conjoint divine attributes; of
this Spirit of the Father ruled and reigned in Christ as his own
manifestation, then, in the strictest sense, Christ exhibited 'the
God-head bodily,' and was undeniably ''one' with the Father;'
confirmatory of the Saviour's words; 'Of myself,' (my body) 'I can do
nothing, the Father that dwelleth in me, he doeth the works.'
But though I speak of the body, as inert in itself, and necessarily
allied to matter, yet this declaration must not be understood as
militating against the Christian doctrine of the 'resurrection of the
body'. In its grosser form, the thought is not to be admitted, for,
'flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God,' but, that the
body, without losing its consciousness, and individuality, may be
subjected, by the illimitable power of Omnipotence, to a sublimating
process, so as to be rendered compatible with spiritual association,
is not opposed to reason, in its severe abstract exercises, while in
attestation of this 'exhilarating belief', there are many remote
analogies in nature exemplifying the same truth, while it is in the
strictest accordance with that final dispensation, which must, as
Christians, regulate all our speculations. I proceed now to say, that:
If the postulate be thus admitted, that one mind influencing two
bodies, would only involve a diversity of operations, but in reality
be one in essence; or otherwise, (as an hypothetical argument,
illustrative of truth) if one preeminent mind, or spiritual
subsistence, unconnected with matter, possessed an undivided and
sovereign dominion over two or more disembodied minds, so as to become
the exclusive source of all their subtlest volitions and exercises,
the 'unity', however complex the modus of its manifestation, would be
fully established; and this principle extends to DEITY itself, and
shows the true sense, as I conceive, in which Christ and the Father
are one.
In continuation of this reasoning, if God who is light, the Sun of the
Moral World, should in his union of Infinite Wisdom, Power, and
Goodness, and from all Eternity, have ordained that an emanation from
himself (for aught we know, an essential emanation, as light is
inseparable from the luminary of day) should not only have existed in
his Son, in the fulness of time to be united to a mortal body, but
that a like emanation from himself (also perhaps essential) should
have constituted the Holy Spirit, who, without losing his ubiquity,
was more especially sent to this lower earth, 'by' the SON, 'at' the
impulse of the Father, then, in the most comprehensive sense, God, and
his Son, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost, are ONE. 'Three Persons in
one God,' and thus form the true Trinity in Unity.
To suppose that more than ONE Independent Power, or Governing mind
exists in the whole universe, is absolute Polytheism, against which
the denunciations of all the Jewish, and Christian Canonical books
were directed. And if there be but ONE directing MIND, that Mind is
GOD!--operating, however, in Three Persons, according to the direct
and uniform declarations of that inspiration which 'brought life and
immortality to light.' Yet this divine doctrine of the Trinity is to
be received, not because it is, or can be clear to finite
apprehension, but, (in reiteration of the argument) because the
Scriptures, in their unsophisticated interpretation expressly state
it. The Trinity, therefore, from its important aspects, and Biblical
prominence, is the grand article of faith, and the foundation of the
whole Christian system.
Who can say, as Christ [17] and the Holy Ghost proceeded from, and are
still one with the Father, and as all the disciples of Christ derive
their fulness from him, and, in spirit, are inviolately united to him
as a branch is to the vine, who can say, but that, in one view, what
was once mysteriously separated, may, as mysteriously, be recombined,
and, (without interfering with the everlasting Trinity, and the
individuality of the spiritual and seraphic orders) the Son, at the
consummation of all things, deliver up his mediatorial kingdom to the
Father, and God, in some peculiar, and infinitely sublime sense,
become All 'in' All!
God love you,
S.T. COLERIDGE." [18]
Those who are acquainted with Mr. Coleridge's maturer view of the
doctrine of the Trinity, will not need to be informed that this letter
does not convey his later conviction in regard to this awful mystery,
and will know that his philosophic meditations rested essentially in the
same faith that dictated the Article of the Church of England on this
subject.
Mr. De Quincey has made several mistatements in a memoir on Mr.
Coleridge, which he wrote in Tait's Magazine; but it may be only fair
first to quote a few interesting remarks, with which he begins:
"In the summer season of 1807 I first saw this illustrious man, the
largest and most spacious intellect in my judgment that has ever yet
existed amongst men. My knowledge of his works as a most original
genius began about the year 1799."
A little before that time, Wordsworth published the "Lyrical Ballads,"
in which was the Ancient Mariner of Coleridge, and to which Mr. De
Quincey attributes the unfolding of his own mind; this confession is by
no means humiliating, for many persons of the highest reputation have
made similar acknowledgments, and some there are still living who have
the courage and integrity to do so now.
"I found (says this gentleman) that Professor Wilson, as well as
myself, saw in these poems 'the ray of a new morning;'--and to these
names may be added that of the celebrated Sir Walter Scott."
The admiration of Mr. De Quincey was so great that inquiring where
Coleridge was to be found, and learning that he was in Malta, he
contemplated an immediate visit to that island, but the fear of a French
prison reconciled him to remaining in England. When on a visit in 1807
(to a relation), at the Hot Wells, he learnt that Coleridge was staying
with a friend not far from Bristol. This friend was Mr. Poole of Nether
Stowey, and thither he bent his steps. In this house Mr. De Quincey
spent two days, and gives, from his own knowledge, a sketch of Mr.
Poole's person and character very descriptive of the original. Coleridge
often remarked that he was the best "ideal for a useful member of
parliament he ever knew;"
"a plain dressed man leading a bachelor life," as Mr. De Quincey
observes, "in a rustic old fashioned house, amply furnished with
modern luxuries, and a good library. Mr. Poole had travelled
extensively, and had so entirely dedicated himself to his humble
fellow countrymen, who resided in his neighbourhood, that for many
miles round he was the general arbiter of their disputes, the guide
and counsellor of their daily life; besides being appointed executor
and guardian to his children by every third man who died in or about
the town of Nether Stowey."
Such in few words was the individual whom Coleridge, in his social hours
and in the full warmth of friendship, would most eloquently and
feelingly describe. [19]
Mr. De Quincey having been informed that Coleridge was at Bridgewater,
left Nether Stowey for that place, in search of him. The meeting and the
description recall him forcibly to the minds of those who twenty years
after were so intimately acquainted with him:
"In Bridgewater I noticed a gateway, standing under which was a man
corresponding to the description given me of Coleridge whom I shall
presently describe. In height he seemed to be five feet eight inches,
(he was in reality about an inch and a half taller,) though in the
latter part of life, from a lateral curvature in the spine, he
shortened gradually from two to three inches. His person was broad and
full, and tended even to corpulence; his complexion was fair, though
not what painters technically style fair, because it was associated
with black hair; his eyes were large and soft in their expression, and
it was by the peculiar appearance of haze or dreaminess which mixed
with their light that I recognized my object. This was Coleridge; I
examined him steadily for a moment or more, and it struck me he
neither saw myself, nor any other object in the street. He was in a
deep reverie; for I had dismounted, made two or three trifling
arrangements at the inn door, and advanced close to him, before he
seemed apparently conscious of my presence. The sound of my voice
announcing my name first awoke him; he started, and for a moment
seemed at a loss to understand my purpose, or his own situation, for
he repeated rapidly a number of words which had no relation to either
of us; very likely trying a metre, or making verse, a frequent
practice of his, and of Mr. Wordsworth's. There was no mauvaise haute
in his manner, but simple perplexity, and an apparent difficulty in
recovering his position amongst daylight realities. This little scene
over, he received me with a kindness of manner so marked, that it
might be called gracious. The hospitable family, with whom he was
domesticated, were distinguished for their amiable manners, and
enlightened understandings; they were descendants from Chubb, the
philosophic writer, and bore the same name. For Coleridge they all
testified deep affection and esteem, sentiments which the whole town
of Bridgewater seemed to share, for in the evening, when the heat of
the day had declined, I walked out with him; and rarely, perhaps
never, have I seen a person so much interrupted in one hour's space as
Coleridge on this occasion, by the courteous attentions of young and
old." [20]
This appears so faithful a portraiture of Coleridge that it is
impossible to read it without once more beholding him as in a mirror.
Continuing his description, he speaks again of his extreme courtesy, and
of his easy and gentlemanly manner of receiving strangers. A friend of
mine seldom speaks of the past in connexion with Coleridge's name, but
he reminds me of a visit he once made to me during my absence at the sea
shore, and of the courteous grace he displayed in doing the honours of
the house.
In every thing wherein the comfort or happiness of others were
concerned, Coleridge ever evinced how entirely he could devote himself
to those he loved or who might require his sympathy:
His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead,
His tender smiles, love's day-dawn on his lips--
The sense, the spirit, and the light divine,
At the same moment in his steadfast eye
Were virtue's native crest, the innocent soul's
Unconscious meek self-heraldry--to man
Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel!
He suffered, nor complained; though oft with tears
He mourned the oppression of his helpless brethren;
Yea with a deeper and yet holier grief
Mourned for th' oppressor; but this
In sabbath hours--a solemn grief,
Most like a cloud at sunset,
Was but the veil of purest meditation,
Pierced through and saturate with the intellectual rays
It softened.
'Literary Remains', vol. i. 277.
These were characteristic beauties, that shone forth in Coleridge, and
were deeply felt by all who were attached to him.
With regard to the charge made by Mr. De Quincey, of Coleridge's so
borrowing the property of other writers as to be guilty of 'petty
larceny'; with equal justice might we accuse the bee which flies from
flower to flower in quest of food, and which, by means of the instinct
bestowed upon it by the all-wise Creator, extracts its nourishment from
the field and the garden, but 'digests' and 'elaborates' it by its own
'native' powers.
Coleridge 'began' the use of opium from bodily pain (rheumatism), and
for the same reason 'continued' it, till he had acquired a habit too
difficult under his own management to control. To him it was the thorn
in the flesh, which will be seen in the following notes
"I have never loved evil for its own sake: no! nor ever sought
pleasure for its own sake, but only as the means of escaping from
pains that coiled around my mental powers, as a serpent around the
body and wings of an eagle! My sole sensuality was 'not' to be in
pain."
'Note from Pocket Book, "The History of my own mind for my own
improvement," Dec. 23, 1804.'
"I wrote a few stanzas [21] three and twenty years ago, soon after my
eyes had been opened to the true nature of the habit into which I had
been ignorantly deluded by the seeming magic effects of opium, in the
sudden removal of a supposed rheumatic affection, attended with
swellings in my knees, and palpitations of the heart, and pains all
over me, by which I had been bed-ridden for nearly six months.
Unhappily, among my neighbour's and landlord's books were a large
parcel of medical reviews and magazines. I had always a fondness (a
common case, but most mischievous turn with reading men who are at all
dyspeptic) for dabbling in medical writings; and in one of these
reviews I met a case, which I fancied very like my own, in which a
cure had been effected by the Kendal Black Drop. In an evil hour I
procured it:--it worked miracles--the swellings disappeared, the pains
vanished; I was all alive, and all around me being as ignorant as
myself, nothing could exceed my triumph. I talked of nothing else,
prescribed the newly-discovered panacea for all complaints, and
carried a bottle about with me, not to lose any opportunity of
administering 'instant relief and speedy cure' to all complainers,
stranger or friend, gentle or simple. Need I say that my own apparent
convalescence was of no long continuance; but what then?--the remedy
was at hand and infallible. Alas! it is with a bitter smile, a laugh
of gall and bitterness, that I recall this period of unsuspecting
delusion, and how I first became aware of the Maelstrom, the fatal
whirlpool, to which I was drawing just when the current was already
beyond my strength to stem. The state of my mind is truly portrayed in
the following effusion, for God knows! that from that moment I was the
victim of pain and terror, nor had I at any time taken the flattering
poison as a stimulus, or for any craving after pleasurable sensations.
I needed none; and oh! with what unutterable sorrow did I read the
'Confessions of an Opium-eater,' in which the writer with morbid
vanity, makes a boast of what was my misfortune, for he had been
faithfully and with an agony of zeal warned of the gulf, and yet
wilfully struck into the current!--Heaven be merciful to him!"
'April, 1826'.
"Oh! (will a vain imagination whisper) that in the outset of life I
could have 'felt' as well as known the consequences of sin and error
before their tyranny had commenced! Though, compared with the average
of my fellow men, not a sinful man, yet I feel enough to be assured
that few indeed are there who might not from their sins or sinful
infirmities gain a tongue of flame, wherewith to warn men of the
deadly poison of all, even the least offence. Of all divines, Luther
felt most deeply the terrors of the LAW; and for that reason, the
unutterable goodness and love of the dispensation of grace!--To be one
with God the Father--an awful thought beyond all utterance of the awe
which it inspires, but by no means wild or mystical. On the contrary,
all our experience moves in this direction. In reason, in science, who
shall set bounds to the possible progress of man, as long as he is no
longer in himself, but in the truth and power of truth. The moment
that disease reduces himself to himself, the sage who was able to
weigh the planets, and foresee their movements centuries and
millenniums to come, trembles in his ignorance of the next five
minutes, whether it shall be pain and terror, or relief and respite,
and in spirit falls on his knees and prays. Prayer is the mediation,
or rather the effort to connect the misery of self with the
blessedness of God; and its voice is--Mercy! mercy! for Christ's sake,
in whom thou hast opened out the fountain of mercy to sinful man. It
is a sore evil to be, and not in God; but it is a still more dreadful
evil and misery to will to be other than in God; and yet in every act,
in which the gratification of the sensual life is the 'ultimate end',
is the manifestation of such a will. Imagine a----, first in his
noblest hours, in the laboratory or the observatory--an unfolder and
discoverer--and then on a sick bed, from the consequences of his own
indiscretions. Place both states of the same man, that of the spirit
and that of the self-seeking self, clearly and in detail before your
mind:--if you can do this, you need no more."
'January 7, 1830'.
"There is a passage in the Samson Agonistes, in which Milton is
supposed on sufficient grounds to have referred to himself, that in
which the chorus speaks of strictly temperate man 'causelessly
suffering' the pains and penances of inordinate days. O! what would I
not give to be able to utter with truth this complaint! O! if he had
or rather if he 'could' have presented to himself truly and vividly
the aggravation of those pains, which the conscience of their having
originated in errors and weaknesses of his own. I do not say that he
would not have complained of his sufferings, for who can be in those
most trying sufferances of miserable sensations and not complain of
them, but his groans for the pain would have been blended with
thanksgivings to the sanctifying Spirit. Even under the direful yoke
of the necessity of daily poisoning by narcotics it is somewhat less
horrible, through the knowledge that it was not from any craving for
pleasurable animal excitement, but from pain, delusion, error, of the
worst ignorance, medical sciolism, and when (alas! too late the plea
of error was removed from my eyes,) from terror and utter perplexity
and infirmity;--sinful infirmity, indeed, but yet not a wilful
sinfulness that I brought my neck under it. Oh, may the God to whom I
look for mercy through Christ, show mercy on the author of the
'Confessions of an Opium Eater,' if, as I have too strong reason to
believe, his book has been the occasion of seducing others into this
withering vice through wantonness. From this aggravation I have, I
humbly trust, been free, as far as acts of my free will and intention
are concerned; even to the author of that work I pleaded with flowing
tears, and with an agony of forewarning. He utterly denied it, but I
fear that I had even then to 'deter' perhaps not to forewarn. My own
contrasted feelings soon after I saw the Maelstrom to which the
current was absorbing me, are written in one of my paper books." [22]
'Jan. 7, 1830'.
Having referred to the accusations of plagiarism brought against
Coleridge, it will not, I trust, be deemed inappropriate, to introduce
from the British Magazine, No. 37, the concluding part of a critique
ably written by the Rev. Julius Hare, who has selected with great
discrimination several passages from the "Friend," which must come home
to the heart of every good man, and this I feel the more impelled to do,
as it is a moral lesson to biographers--perhaps to us all:
"An inquisitiveness into the minutest circumstances and casual sayings
of eminent contemporaries is indeed quite natural: but so are all our
follies: and the more natural they are the more caution should we
exert in guarding against them. To scribble trifles, even on the
perishable glass of an inn window, is the mark of an idler: but to
engrave them on the marble monument sacred to the memory of the
departed great, is something worse than idleness. The spirit of
genuine biography is in nothing more conspicuous than in the firmness
with which it withstands the cravings of worthless curiosity, as
distinguished from the thirst after useful knowledge. For in the first
place, such anecdotes as derive their whole and sole interest from the
great name of the person concerning whom they are related, and neither
illustrate his general character nor his particular actions, would
scarcely have been noticed or remembered, except by men of weak minds.
It is not unlikely, therefore, that they were misapprehended at the
time; and it is most probable that they have been related as
incorrectly, as they were noticed injudiciously. Nor are the
consequences of such garrulous biography merely negative. For as
insignificant stories can derive no real respectability from the
eminence of the person who happens to be the subject of them, but
rather an additional deformity of disproportion, they are apt to have
their insipidity seasoned by the same bad passions that accompany the
habit of gossiping in general: and the misapprehensions of weak men,
meeting with the misinterpretations of malignant men, have not seldom
formed the ground work of the most grievous calamities. In the second
place, those trifles are subversive of the great end of biography,
which is to fix the attention and to interest the feelings of men on
those qualities and actions which have made a particular life worthy
of being recorded. It is no doubt the duty of an honest biographer to
portray the prominent imperfections as well as excellencies of his
hero. But I am at a loss to conceive how this can be deemed an excuse
for heaping together a multitude of particulars, which can prove
nothing of any man, that might not be safely taken for granted of all
men. In the present age--emphatically the age of personality--there
are more than ordinary motives for withholding all encouragement from
the mania of busying ourselves with the names of others, which is
still more alarming as a symptom, than it is troublesome as a disease.
The reader must be still less acquainted with contemporary literature
than myself, if he needs me to inform him that there are men who,
trading in the silliest anecdotes, in unprovoked abuse and senseless
eulogy, think themselves nevertheless employed both worthily and
honourably if only all this be done in good set terms, and from the
press, and of public characters,--a class which has increased so
rapidly of late, that it becomes difficult to discover what characters
are to be considered as private. Alas! if these wretched misusers of
language and the means of giving wings to thought, and of multiplying
the presence of an individual mind, had ever known how great a thing
the possession of any one simple truth is, and how mean a thing a mere
fact is, except as seen in the light of some comprehensive truth--if
they had but once experienced the unborrowed complacency, the inward
independence, the homebred strength, with which every clear conception
of the reason is accompanied,--they would shrink from their own pages
as at the remembrance of a crime.--For a crime it is (and the man who
hesitates in pronouncing it such, must be ignorant of what mankind owe
to books, what he himself owes to them in spite of his ignorance) thus
to introduce the spirit of vulgar scandal, and personal inquietude
into the closet and the library, environing with evil passions the
very sanctuaries to which we should flee for refuge from them. For to
what do these publications appeal, whether they present themselves as
biography or as anonymous criticism, but to the same feelings which
the scandal bearers, and time-killers of ordinary life seem to gratify
in themselves and their listeners; and both the authors and admirers
of such publications, in what respect are they less truants and
deserters from their own hearts, and from their appointed task of
understanding and amending them, than the most garrulous female
chronicler of the goings-on of yesterday in the families of her
neighbours and townsfolk?
'As to my own attempt to record the life and character of the late Sir
Alexander Ball, I consider myself deterred from all circumstances not
pertaining to his conduct or character as a public functionary, that
involve the names of the living for good or for evil. Whatever facts
and incidents I relate of a private nature must, for the most part,
concern Sir Alexander Ball exclusively, and as an insulated
individual. But I needed not this restraint. It will be enough for me,
as I write, to recollect the form and character of Sir Alexander Ball
himself, to represent to my own feelings the inward contempt with
which he would have abstracted his mind from worthless anecdotes and
petty personalities; a contempt rising into indignation if ever an
illustrious name were used as a thread to string them upon. If this
recollection be my Socratic Demon, to warn and to check me, I shall,
on the other hand, derive encouragement from the remembrance of the
tender patience, the sweet gentleness, with which he was wont to
tolerate the tediousness of well meaning men; and the inexhaustible
attention, the unfeigned interest, with which he would listen for
hours, when the conversation appealed to reason, and like the bee,
made honey, while it murmured.'
I have transcribed this passage from the original edition of the
Friend, No. 21, and not from the reprint, where it stands in vol. ii.
pp. 303-307; because in the latter, the last paragraph, in itself a
beautiful one, and to our present purpose particularly appropriate, is
left out. For if Coleridge could imagine 'the inward contempt with
which Sir Alexander Ball would have abstracted his mind from worthless
anecdotes and petty personalities,--a contempt rising into
indignation, if ever an illustrious name was used as a thread to
string them on,' well may those who knew Coleridge conceive the grief,
the grief and pity, he would have felt, at seeing eminent powers and
knowledge employed in ministering to the wretched love of
gossip--retailing paltry anecdotes in dispraise of others,
intermingled with outflowings of self-praise--and creeping into the
secret chambers of great men's houses to filch out materials for
tattle--at seeing great powers wasting and debasing themselves in such
an ignoble task--above all, at seeing that the person who thus wasted
and debased them was a scholar, and a philosopher whose talents he
admired, with whom he had lived familiarly, and whom he had honoured
with his friendship."[23]
There is one part of Coleridge's character not to be passed by, although
so overlaid by his genius as rarely to be noticed, namely, his love of
humour and of wit, of which he possessed so large a share. As punsters,
his dear friend Lamb and himself were inimitable. Lamb's puns had
oftener more effect, from the impediment in his speech their force
seemed to be increased by the pause of stuttering, and to shoot forth
like an arrow from a strong bow--but being never poisoned nor envenomed,
they left no pain behind. Coleridge was more humorous than witty in
making puns--and in repartee, he was, according to modern phraseology,
"smart and clever." Staying a few days with two friends at a farm-house,
they agreed to visit a race-course in the neighbourhood. The farmer
brought from his stud a horse low in stature, and still lower in
flesh--a bridle corresponding in respectability of appearance, with a
saddle equally suitable--stirrups once bright, but now deeply
discoloured by rust. All this was the contrivance of the farmer, and
prudently intended for his safety. He had heard previously of
Coleridge's want of skill in riding, and had therefore provided him with
a beast not likely to throw him. On this Rosinante the poet mounted, in
his accustomed dress, namely, a black coat, black breeches, with black
silk stockings and shoes. His friends being trusted with more active
steeds, soon outstripped him. Jogging on leisurely he was met by a
long-nosed knowing-looking man, attired in a 'sporting' dress, and an
excellent equestrian. Seeing this whimsical horseman in shoes, he
writhed, as Coleridge observed, his lithe proboscis, and thus accosted
him:
Pray, sir, did you meet a tailor along the road?"
"A tailor?" answered Coleridge; "yes!"
"Do you see, sir! he rode just such a horse as you ride! and for all the
world was just like you!"
"Oh! oh!" answered Coleridge, "I did meet a person answering such a
description, who told me he had dropped his goose, that if I rode a
little farther I should find it; and I guess by the arch-fellow's looks,
he must have meant you."
"Caught a tartar!" replied the man, and suddenly spurring his horse,
left him to pursue his road. At length Coleridge reached the
race-course, when threading his way through the crowd, he arrived at the
spot of attraction to which all were hastening. Here he confronted a
barouche and four, filled with smart ladies and attendant gentlemen. In
it was also seated a baronet of sporting celebrity, steward of the
course, and member of the House of Commons, well known as having been
bought and sold in several parliaments. The baronet eyed the figure of
Coleridge as he slowly passed the door of the barouche, and thus
accosted him:
"A pretty piece of blood, sir, you have there?"
"Yes!" answered Coleridge.
"Rare paces, I have no doubt, sir!"
"Yes," said Coleridge he brought me here a matter of four miles an
hour."
He was at no loss to perceive the honourable member's drift, who wished
to shew off before the ladies: so he quietly waited the opportunity of a
suitable reply.
"What a fore-hand he has!" continued Nimrod, "how finely he carries his
tail! Bridle and saddle well suited! and appropriately appointed!"
"Yes," said Coleridge.
"Will you sell him?" asked the sporting baronet.
"Yes!" was the answer, "if I can have my price."
"Name your price, then, putting the rider into the bargain!"
This was too pointed to be passed over by a simple answer, and Coleridge
was ready.
"My price for the 'horse, sir', if I sell him, is 'one hundred'
guineas,--as to the 'rider', never having been in parliament, and never
intending to go, 'his' price is not yet fixed."
The baronet sat down more suddenly than he had risen--the ladies began
to titter--while Coleridge quietly left him to his chagrin, and them to
the enjoyment of their mirth.
We are now arrived at that period of Coleridge's life, in which it may
be said, he received his first great warning of approaching danger. But
it will be necessary to review his previous state of health. From
childhood he discovered strong symptoms of a feeble stomach. As observed
in the account of his school experience, when compelled to turn over the
shoes in the shoe closet, exhausted by the fatigue, and overpowered by
the scent, he suffered so much, that in after years the very remembrance
almost made him shudder. Then his frequent bathing in the New River was
an imprudence so injurious in its consequences, as to place him for
nearly twelve months in the sick ward in the hospital of the school,
with rheumatism connected with jaundice. These, to a youthful
constitution, were matters of so serious a nature, as to explain to
those acquainted with disease the origin and cause of his subsequent
bodily sufferings. His sensitiveness was consequent on these, and so was
his frequent incapability of continuous sedentary employment--an
employment requiring far stronger health in an individual whose
intellectual powers were ever at work. When overwhelmed at College, by
that irresistible alarm and despondency which caused him to leave it,
and to enlist as a soldier in the army, he continued in such a state of
bodily ailment as to be deprived of the power of stooping, so that
'Cumberback',--a thing unheard of before,--was compelled to depute
another to perform this part of his duty. On his voyage to Malta, he had
complained of suffering from shortness of breath; and on returning to
his residence at the Lakes, his difficulty of breathing and his
rheumatism increased to a great degree. About the year 1809, ascending
Skiddaw with his younger son, he was suddenly seized in the chest, and
so overpowered as to attract the notice of the child. After the relation
of these circumstances to some medical friend, he was advised by him not
to bathe in the sea. The love, however, which he had from a boy, for
going into the water, he retained till a late period of life. Strongly
impressed with this feeling, he seems to have written the poem, entitled
"On Revisiting the Sea Shore:"
"Dissuading spake the mild physician,
Those briny waves for thee are death,
But my soul fulfilled her mission,
And lo! I breathe untroubled breath." [24]
In the year 1810, he left the Lakes, in company with Mr. Basil Montagu,
whose affectionate regard for Mr. Coleridge, though manifested upon
every occasion, was more particularly shown in seasons of difficulty and
affliction. By Coleridge, Mr. Montagu's friendship was deeply felt,--and
his gentle manners and unremitted kindness had the most soothing effect
upon the sensitive and grateful mind of Coleridge. He remained for some
time at Mr. Montagu's house. He afterwards resided at Hammersmith, with
an amiable and common friend of his and Mr. Southey's,--Mr. Morgan, with
whom they had formed an intimacy in Bristol. Whilst here he delivered a
course of lectures at the London Philosophical Society. The prospectus
was as follows:
"Mr. Coleridge will commence, on Monday, November 18, 1811, a Course
of Lectures on Shakspeare and Milton, in illustration of the
principles of poetry, and their application, as grounds of criticism,
to the most popular works of later English Poets, those of the living
included. After an introductory lecture on False Criticism (especially
in poetry), and on its causes; two thirds of the remaining course will
be assigned,
1st, to a philosophical analysis, and explanation of all the principal
'characters' of our great dramatist, as Othello, Falstaff, Richard the
Third, Iago, Hamlet, &c.; and
2nd, to a critical 'comparison' of Shakspeare, in respect of diction,
imagery, management of the passions, judgment in the construction of
his dramas, in short, of all that belongs to him as a poet, and as a
dramatic poet, with his contemporaries or immediate successors,
Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Ford, Massinger, &c. in the endeavour
to determine what of Shakspeare's merits and defects are common to
him, with other writers of the same age, and what remain peculiar to
his own genius.
The course will extend to fifteen lectures, which will be given on
Monday and Thursday evenings successively."
Mr. Coleridge afterwards delivered another course of lectures at the
Royal Institution. Dr. Dibdin, one of his auditors, gives the following
account of the lecturer: [25]
"It was during my constant and familiar intercourse with Sir T.
Bernard, while 'The Director' was going on, that I met the celebrated
Mr. Coleridge--himself a lecturer. He was not a 'constant'
lecturer--not in constant harness like others for the business of the
day. Indisposition was generally preying upon him, [26] and habitual
indolence would now and then frustrate the performance of his own
better wishes. I once came from Kensington in a snow-storm, to hear
him lecture upon Shakspeare. I might have sat as wisely and more
comfortably by my own fire-side--for no Coleridge appeared. And this I
think occurred more than once at the Royal Institution. I shall never
forget the effect his conversation made upon me at the first meeting.
It struck me as something not only quite out of the ordinary course of
things, but as an intellectual exhibition altogether matchless. The
viands were unusually costly, and the banquet was at once rich and
varied; but there seemed to be no dish like Coleridge's conversation
to feed upon--and no information so varied and so instructive as his
own. The orator rolled himself up, as it were, in his chair, and gave
the most unrestrained indulgence to his speech, and how fraught with
acuteness and originality was that speech, and in what copious and
eloquent periods did it flow! The auditors seemed to be rapt in wonder
and delight, as one conversation, more profound or clothed in more
forcible language than another, fell from his tongue. A great part of
the subject discussed at the first time of my meeting Mr. Coleridge,
was the connexion between Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton. The speaker
had been secretary to Sir Alexander Ball, governor of Malta--and a
copious field was here afforded for the exercise of his colloquial
eloquence. For nearly two hours he spoke with unhesitating and
uninterrupted fluency. As I retired homewards (to Kensington), I
thought a second Johnson had visited the earth, to make wise the sons
of men; and regretted that I could not exercise the powers of a second
Boswell, to record the wisdom and the eloquence which had that evening
flowed from the orator's lips. It haunted me as I retired to rest. It
drove away slumber: or if I lapsed into sleep, there was
Coleridge--his snuffbox, and his 'kerchief before my eyes!--his mildly
beaming looks--his occasionally deep tone of voice--and the excited
features of his physiognomy.--The manner of Coleridge was rather
emphatic than dogmatic, and thus he was generally and satisfactorily
listened to. It might be said of Coleridge, as Cowper has so happily
said of Sir Philip Sidney, that he was 'the warbler of poetic prose.'
There was always 'this' characteristic feature in his multifarious
conversation--it was delicate, reverend, and courteous. The chastest
ear could drink in no startling sound; the most serious believer never
had his bosom ruffled by one sceptical or reckless assertion.
Coleridge was eminently simple in his manner. Thinking and speaking
were his delight; and he would sometimes seem, during the more fervid
movements of discourse, to be abstracted from all and every thing
around and about him, and to be basking in the sunny warmth of his own
radiant imagination."
The manuscript of 'The Remorse' was sent to Mr. Sheridan, who did not
even acknowledge the receipt of the letter which accompanied the drama;
he however observed to a friend, that he had received a play from
Coleridge, but that there was one extraordinary line in the Cave Scene,
'drip, drip'--which he could not understand: "in short," said he, "it is
all dripping." This was the only notice he took of the play; but the
comment was at length repeated to the author, through the medium of a
third party. The theatre falling afterwards into the hands of Lord Byron
and Mr. Whitbread, his Lordship sent for Coleridge, was very kind to his
brother poet, and requested that the play might be represented: this
desire was complied with, and it received his support. Although Mr.
Whitbread [27] did not give it the advantage of a single new scene, yet
the popularity of the play was such, that the principal actor, who had
performed in it with great success, made choice of it for his
benefit-night, and it brought an overflowing house. [28]
In consequence of the interest Lord Byron took in the success of this
tragedy, Coleridge was frequently in his company, and on one occasion,
in my presence, his Lordship said, "Coleridge, there is one passage in
your poems, I have parodied fifty times, and I hope to live long enough
to parody it five hundred." That passage I do not remember; but it may
strike some reader.
In a letter of Coleridge's to a friend, written April 10th, 1816, he
thus speaks of Byron:
"If you had seen Lord Byron, you could scarcely disbelieve him--so
beautiful a countenance I scarcely ever saw--his teeth so many
stationary smiles--his eyes the open portals of the sun--things of
light, and for light--and his forehead so ample, and yet so flexible,
passing from marble smoothness into a hundred wreathes and lines and
dimples correspondent to the feelings and sentiments he is uttering."
Coleridge, in the preface to 'The Remorse', states that the
"tragedy was written in the summer and autumn of the year 1797, at
Nether Stowey, in the county of Somerset. By whose recommendation, and
of the manner in which both the play and the author were treated by
the recommender, let me be permitted to relate: that I knew of its
having been received only from a third person; that I could procure
neither answer nor the manuscript; and that but for an accident, I
should have had no copy of the work itself. That such treatment would
damp a young man's exertions may be easily conceived: there was no
need of after-misrepresentation and calumny, as an additional
sedative."
Coleridge contributed many pieces to Southey's 'Omniana', (all marked
with an asterisk,) and was engaged in other literary pursuits; he had
notwithstanding much bodily suffering. The 'cause' of this was the
organic change slowly and gradually taking place in the structure of the
heart itself. But it was so masked by other sufferings, though at times
creating despondency, and was so generally overpowered by the excitement
of animated conversation, as to leave its real cause undiscovered. [29]
Notwithstanding this sad state, he rolled forth volumes from a mind ever
active--at times intensely so,--still he required the support of those
sympathies which "free the hollow heart from paining."
Soon after the performance of 'The Remorse', he retired with his kind
friend, Mr. Morgan, to the village of Calne, partly to be near the Rev.
W.L. Bowles, whose sonnets so much attracted his attention in early
life. While residing here, he opened a communication with Mr. Gutch, a
bookseller, at Bristol, and in consequence, he collected the poems
published by the title of 'The Sibylline Leaves', and also composed the
greater part of the 'Biographia Literaria'. Here he likewise dictated to
his friend, Mr. Morgan, the 'Zapolya', which was submitted to Mr.
Douglas Kinnaird, who was then the critic for Drury Lane.--Mr. Kinnaird
rejected the play, assigning some ludicrous objections to the
metaphysics. The subject is alluded to by Coleridge at the end of the
Biographia Literaria, and with that allusion I close the present chapter:
O we are querulous creatures! Little less
Than all things can suffice to make us happy:
And little more than nothing is enough
To make us wretched.
[Footnote 1:
Alas! for myself at least I know and feel, that wherever there is a
wrong not to be forgiven, there is a grief that admits neither of cure
nor comforting.
'Private Record, 1806.']
[Footnote 2: It appears that Mr. Alexander Macauley, the secretary, an
honest and amiable man, died suddenly, without "moan or motion," and
Coleridge filled his situation till the arrival of a new secretary,
appointed and confirmed by the ministers in England.]
[Footnote 3: 1805.
"For months past so incessantly employed in official tasks,
subscribing, examining, administering oaths, auditing," &c.]
[Footnote 4: April 22, 1804.
"I was reading when I was taken ill, and felt an oppression of my
breathing, and convulsive snatching in my stomach and limbs. Mrs.
Ireland noticed this laborious breathing."]
[Footnote 5: I would fain request the reader to peruse the poem,
entitled "A Tombless Epitaph," to be found in Coleridge's 'Poetical
Works', 1834, page 200.]
[Footnote 6: Coleridge when asked what was the difference between fame
and reputation, would familiarly reply, "Fame is the fiat of the good
and wise," and then with energy would quote the following beautiful
lines from Milton:--
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in Heaven expect thy meed.
'Lycidas.']
[Footnote 7: "The following memoranda written in pencil, and apparently
as he journeyed along, but now scarcely legible, may perhaps have an
interest for some readers:--
"Sunday, December 15th, 1805.
"Naples, view of Vesuvius, the Hail-mist--Torre del Greco--bright amid
darkness--the mountains above it flashing here and there from their
snows; but Vesuvius, it had not thinned as I have seen at Keswick, but
the air so consolidated with the massy cloud curtain, that it appeared
like a mountain in basso relievo, in an interminable wall of some
pantheon."]
[Footnote 8: The order for Coleridge's arrest had already been sent
from Paris, but his escape was so contrived by the good old Pope, as to
defeat the intended indulgence of the Tyrant's vindictive appetite,
which would have preyed equally on a Duc D'Enghien, and a contributor to
a public journal. In consequence of Mr. Fox having asserted in the House
of Commons, that the rupture of the Truce of Amiens had its origin in
certain essays written in the Morning Post, which were soon known to
have been Coleridge's, and that he was at Rome within reach, the ire of
Buonaparte was immediately excited.]
[Footnote 9: Though his Note Books are full of memoranda, not an entry
or date of his arrival at Rome is to be found. To Rome itself and its
magnificence, he would often refer in conversation. Unfortunately there
is not a single document to recall the beautiful images he would place
before your mind in perspective, when inspired by the remembrance of its
wonder-striking and splendid objects. He however preserved some short
essays, which he wrote when in Malta, Observations on Sicily, Cairo, &c.
&c. political and statistical, which will probably form part of the
literary remains in train of publication.
Malta, on a first view of the subject, seemed to present a situation so
well fitted for a landing place, that it was intended to have adopted
this mode, as in 'The Friend', of dividing the present memoir; but
this loss of MS. and the breaches of continuity, render it
impracticable.]
[Footnote 10: At this time all his writings were strongly tinctured with
Platonism.]
[Footnote 11: Each party claimed him as their own; for party without
principles must ever be shifting, and therefore they found his opinions
sometimes in accordance with their own, and sometimes at variance. But
he was of no party--his views were purely philosophical.]
[Footnote 12: The character of Buonaparte was announced in the same
paper.]
[Footnote 13: Those who spoke after Pitt were Wilberforce, Tierney,
Sheridan, &c.]
[Footnote 14: This speech of Mr. Pitt's is extracted from the 'Morning
Post', February 18th, 1800.]
[Footnote 15: The following exquisite image on Leighton was found in one
of Coleridge's note books, and is also inserted in his Literary
Remains:
"Next to the inspired Scriptures, yea, and as the vibration of that
once struck hour remaining on the air, stands Archbishop Leighton's
commentary on the first epistle of Peter."]
[Footnote 16: In his later days, Mr. Coleridge would have renounced the
opinions and the incorrect reasoning of this letter].
[Footnote 17: Article ii.
The Son which is the word of the Father, 'begotten' from
Everlasting of the Father, &c.
Art. v.
The Holy Ghost 'proceeding' from the Father and the Son, &c.]
[Footnote 18: It was a favourite citation with Mr. Coleridge,
"I in them, and thou in me, that they may be made perfect in one."
Vide St. John, xvii. 2.]
[Footnote 19: At Mr. Poole's house, Mr. De Quincey remained two days. Of
his visit he gives a full account; at the same time charging Coleridge
with the meanness of plagiarism, but which charges since their
publication have been ably refuted in an article in the British
Magazine, signed J.C.H. Vide No. 37, page 15.]
[Footnote 20: Vide 'Tait's Magazine', No. 8.]
[Footnote 21: These have not been found.]
[Footnote 22: This little Paper Book has not yet been found.]
[Footnote 23: In the 'Quarterly Review' for July, 1837, will be
found an able article on the 'Literary Remains of S.T. Coleridge,'
and on "Mr. Cottle's Early Recollections," in which are extracted these
very paragraphs from the "Friend," but which had been sent to the press
before this number appeared.]
[Footnote 24: This poem is supposed to have been written in 1813, when
on a visit to some friends at Bexhill, Sussex.]
[Footnote 25: 'Reminiscences of a Literary Life', Vol. i. p. 253.]
[Footnote 26: If "indisposition were generally preying upon him," as at
this time was indeed the fact, could this occasional failure in the
delivery of a lecture (though naturally very disappointing to his
audience,) be fairly attributed to indolence?]
[Footnote 27: About this time, when party spirit was running high,
Coleridge was known to be the author of the following Jeu d'Esprit,
"Dregs half way up and froth half way down, form Whitbread's Entire."]
[Footnote 28: It was Mr. Rae who took it for his benefit, some time
after Mr. Coleridge's residence at Highgate.]
[Footnote 29:
"'My heart', or 'some part' about it, seems breaking, as if
a weight were suspended from it that stretches it, such is the
'bodily feeling', as far as I can express it by words."
Letter addressed to Mr. Morgan.]