COLERIDGE'S ARRIVAL AT HIGHGATE--PUBLICATION OF CHRISTABEL--BIOGRAPHIA
LITERARIA, &C.
I now approach one of the most eventful epochs in the Life of Coleridge,
and, I may well add, of my own.
In the year 1816, the following letter was addressed to me by a
physician: [1]
Hatton Garden, 9th April, 1816.
DEAR SIR,
A very learned, but in one respect an unfortunate gentleman, has
applied to me on a singular occasion. He has for several years been in
the habit of taking large quantities of opium. For some time past, he
has been in vain endeavouring to break himself off it. It is
apprehended his friends are not firm enough, from a dread, lest he
should suffer by suddenly leaving it off, though he is conscious of
the contrary; and has proposed to me to submit himself to any regimen,
however severe. With this view, he wishes to fix himself in the house
of some medical gentleman, who will have courage to refuse him any
laudanum, and under whose assistance, should he be the worse for it,
he may be relieved. As he is desirous of retirement, and a garden, I
could think of no one so readily as yourself. Be so good as to inform
me, whether such a proposal is absolutely inconsistent with your
family arrangements. I should not have proposed it, but on account of
the great importance of the character, as a literary man. His
communicative temper will make his society very interesting, as well
as useful. Have the goodness to favour me with an immediate answer;
and believe me, dear sir, your faithful humble servant,
JOSEPH ADAMS.
I had seen the writer of this letter but twice in my life, and had no
intention of receiving an inmate into my house. I however determined on
seeing Dr. Adams, for whether the person referred to had taken opium
from choice or necessity, to me he was equally an object of
commiseration and interest. Dr. Adams informed me that the patient had
been warned of the danger of discontinuing opium by several eminent
medical men, who, at the same time, represented the frightful
consequences that would most probably ensue. I had heard of the failure
of Mr. Wilberforce's case, under an eminent physician at Bath, in
addition to which, the doctor gave me an account of several others
within his own knowledge. After some further conversation it was agreed
that Dr. Adams should drive Coleridge to Highgate the following evening.
On the following evening came Coleridge 'himself' and alone. An old
gentleman, of more than ordinary acquirements, was sitting by the
fireside when he entered.--We met, indeed, for the first time, but as
friends long since parted, and who had now the happiness to see each
other again. Coleridge took his seat--his manner, his appearance, and
above all, his conversation were captivating. We listened with delight,
and upon the first pause, when courtesy permitted, my visitor withdrew,
saying in a low voice, "I see by your manners, an old friend has
arrived, and I shall therefore retire." Coleridge proposed to come the
following evening, but he 'first' informed me of the painful
opinion which he had received concerning his case, especially from one
medical man of celebrity. The tale was sad, and the opinion given
unprofessional and cruel--sufficient to have deterred most men so
afflicted from making the attempt Coleridge was contemplating, and in
which his whole soul was so deeply and so earnestly engaged. In the
course of our conversation, he repeated some exquisite but desponding
lines of his own. It was an evening of painful and pleasurable feeling,
which I can never forget. We parted with each other, understanding in a
few minutes what perhaps under different circumstances, would have cost
many hours to arrange; and I looked with impatience for the morrow,
still wondering at the apparent chance that had brought him under my
roof. I felt indeed almost spell-bound, without the desire of release.
My situation was new, and there was something affecting in the thought,
that one of such amiable manners, and at the same time so highly gifted,
should seek comfort and medical aid in our quiet home. Deeply
interested, I began to reflect seriously on the duties imposed upon me,
and with anxiety to expect the approaching day. It brought me the
following letter:
42, Norfolk Street, Strand, Saturday Noon.
[April 13, 1816.]
"MY DEAR SIR,
The first half hour I was with you convinced me that I should owe my
reception into your family exclusively to motives not less flattering
to me than honourable to yourself. I trust we shall ever in matters of
intellect be reciprocally serviceable to each other. Men of sense
generally come to the same conclusions; but they are likely to
contribute to each other's enlargement of view, in proportion to the
distance or even opposition of the points from which they set out.
Travel and the strange variety of situations and employments on which
chance has thrown me, in the course of my life, might have made me a
mere man of 'observation', if pain and sorrow and
self-miscomplacence had not forced my mind in on itself, and so formed
habits of 'meditation'. It is now as much my nature to evolve the
fact from the law, as that of a practical man to deduce the law from
the fact.
With respect to pecuniary remuneration, allow me to say, I must not at
least be suffered to make any addition to your family expences--
though I cannot offer any thing that would be in any way adequate to
my sense of the service; for that indeed there could not be a
compensation, as it must be returned in kind, by esteem and grateful
affection.
And now of myself. My ever wakeful reason, and the keenness of my
moral feelings, will secure you from all unpleasant circumstances
connected with me save only one, viz. the evasion of a specific
madness. You will never 'hear' any thing but truth from
me:--prior habits render it out of my power to tell an untruth, but
unless carefully observed, I dare not promise that I should not, with
regard to this detested poison, be capable of acting one. No sixty
hours have yet passed without my having taken laudanum, though for the
last week comparatively trifling doses. I have full belief that your
anxiety need not be extended beyond the first week, and for the first
week, I shall not, I must not be permitted to leave your house, unless
with you. Delicately or indelicately, this must be done, and both the
servants and the assistant must receive absolute commands from you.
The stimulus of conversation suspends the terror that haunts my mind;
but when I am alone, the horrors I have suffered from laudanum, the
degradation, the blighted utility, almost overwhelm me. If (as I feel
for the 'first time' a soothing confidence it will prove) I
should leave you restored to my moral and bodily health, it is not
myself only that will love and honour you; every friend I have, (and
thank God! in spite of this wretched vice [2] I have many and warm
ones, who were friends of my youth, and have never deserted me,) will
thank you with reverence. I have taken no notice of your kind
apologies. If I could not be comfortable in your house, and with your
family, I should deserve to be miserable. If you could make it
convenient, I should wish to be with you by Monday evening, as it
would prevent the necessity of taking fresh lodgings in town.
With respectful compliments to Mrs. Gillman and her sister, I remain,
dear sir,
Your much obliged,
S.T. COLERIDGE."
On the evening appointed, Coleridge came, bringing in his hand the proof
sheets of 'Christabel', which was now for the first time printed. The
fragment in manuscript was already known to many, for to many had
Coleridge read it, who had listened to it with delight--a delight so
marked that its success seemed certain. But the approbation of those
whom, in the worldly acceptation of the term, we call 'friends', is not
always to be relied upon. Among the most plausible connexions, there is
often a rivalship, both political and literary, which constrains the
sacrifice of sincerity, and substitutes secret for open censure. Of this
melancholy fact Coleridge had seen proof. The Fragment had not long been
published before he was informed, that an individual had been selected
(who was in truth a great admirer of his writings; and whose very life
had been saved through the exertions of Coleridge and Mr. Southey,) to
"'cut up'" Christabel in the Edinburgh Review. The subject being
afterwards mentioned in conversation, the reviewer confessed that he was
the writer of the article, but observed, that as he wrote for the
Edinburgh Review, he was compelled to write in accordance with the
character and tone of that periodical. This confession took place after
he had been extolling the Christabel as the finest poem of its kind in
the language, and ridiculing the public for their want of taste and
discrimination in not admiring it.--Truly has it been said,
"Critics upon all writers there are many,
Planters of truth or knowledge scarcely any."
Sir Walter Scott always spoke in high praise of the Christabel, and more
than once of his obligations to Coleridge; of this we have proof in his
Ivanhoe, in which the lines by Coleridge, entitled "The Knight's Tomb,"
were quoted by Scott before they were published, from which
circumstance, Coleridge was convinced that Sir Walter was the author of
the Waverly Novels. The lines were composed as an experiment for a
metre, and repeated by him to a mutual friend--this gentleman the
following day dined in company with Sir Walter Scott, and spoke of his
visit to Highgate, repeating Coleridge's lines to Scott, and observing
at the same time, that they might be acceptable to the author of
Waverley.
THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.
Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?--
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The Oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year;
And whistled and roar'd in the winter alone,
Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown.--
The Knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;--
His soul is with the saints, I trust.
'Poetical Works', Vol. ii. p. 64.
The late Mr. Sotheby informed me, that, at his house in a large party,
Sir Walter made the following remark:
"I am indebted to Coleridge for the mode of telling a tale by question
and answer. This was a new light to me, and I was greatly struck by
it."
Yet when Sir Walter said this, he must surely have forgotten many of our
ancient and most beautiful ballads, in which the questions are so
significant, and are made to develope the progress of the fable more
clearly than could be affected by the ordinary course of narration. In
fact every lover of our old poetry will recollect a hundred pieces in
which the same form of evolution is observed. Thus in 'Johnie of Breadis
Lee':
"What news, what news, ye grey-headed carle,
What news bring ye to me?"
And in 'Halbert the Grim':
"There is pity in many,--
Is there any in him?
No! ruth is a strange guest
To Halbert the Grim."
Scott particularly admired Coleridge's management of the supernatural.
The "flesh and blood reality," given to Geraldine, the life, the power
of appearing and disappearing equally by day as by night, constitutes
the peculiar merit of the Christabel: and those poets who admire, and
have reflected much on the supernatural, have ever considered it one of
the greatest efforts of genius. But the effect has ever been degraded by
unnatural combinations. Thus on the stage, where such creations are the
most frequent, it has been the custom for stage-managers to choose
'male' actors for the female parts. In 'Macbeth', men are called on to
stir the caldron and other witcheries requiring muscular power. Again,
when Macbeth listens to those extraordinary beings, who, with muttering
spells, with charms, foreknowledge and incantations imperfectly
announced to him his fate; he, with an air of command, says, "Speak!"
&c. They shew their power, and give their best answer by disappearing.
The manner of representing this is unnatural, as exhibited by our
managers. Coleridge observed, that it would be better to withdraw the
light from the stage, than to exhibit these miserable attempts at
vanishing, [3] though could the thought have been well executed, he
considered it a master-stroke of Shakspeare's. Yet it should be noticed,
that Coleridge's opinion was, that some of the plays of our
"myriad-minded" bard ought never to be acted, but looked on as poems to
be read, and contemplated; and so fully was he impressed with this
feeling, that in his gayer moments he would often say, "There should be
an Act of Parliament to prohibit their representation." [4] Here 'he'
excelled: he has no incongruities, no gross illusions. In the management
of the supernatural, the only successful poets among our own countrymen
have been Shakspeare and Coleridge. Scott has treated it well in the
Bride of Lammermoor, and in one or two other works.
Of the Christabel, as now published, Coleridge says, "The first part was
composed in 1797." This was the Annus Mirabilis of this great man; in it
he was in his best and strongest health. He returned from Germany in
1799, and in the year following wrote the 'second' part, in the preface
to which he observes, "Till very lately my poetic powers have been in a
state of suspended animation." The subject indeed remained present to
his mind, though from bad health and other causes, it was left as a mere
fragment of his poetic power. When in health he sometimes said, "This
poem comes upon me with all the loveliness of a vision;" and he
declared, that though contrary to the advice of his friends, he should
finish it: At other times when his bodily powers failed him, he would
then say, "I am reserved for other works than making verse."
In the preface to the Christabel, he makes the following observation:
"It is probable," he says, "that if the poem had been finished at
either of the former periods, 'i.e'. 1797 and 1800, or if even the
first and second part of this fragment had been published in the year
1800, the impression of its originality would have been much greater
than I dare at present expect. But for this, I have only my own
indolence to blame. The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose
of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile imitation from myself.
For there is among us a set of critics who seem to hold, that every
possible thought and image is traditional; who have no notion that
there are such things as fountains in the world, small as well as
great; and who would therefore charitably derive every rill, they
behold flowing, from a perforation made in some other man's tank. I am
confident, however, that as far as the present poem is concerned, the
celebrated poets whose writings I might be suspected of having
imitated, either in particular passages, or in the tone and the spirit
of the whole, would be among the first to vindicate me from the
charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would permit me to
address them in this dogged version of two monkish Latin hexameters:
'Tis mine and it is likewise your's,
But an if this will not do;
Let it be mine, good friend! for I
Am the poorer of the two."
I have only to add, that the metre of the Christabel is not, properly
speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its being founded on a
new principle; namely, that of counting in each line the accents, not
the syllables. Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, yet in
each line the accents will be found to be only four. Nevertheless,
this occasional variation in the number of syllables is not introduced
wantonly, or for the mere ends of convenience, but in correspondence
with some transition in the nature of the imagery or passion."
In conversation many of his brother poets would, like the reviewer, echo
his praises, while in secret, they were trying to deprive him of his
fair fame.
It has been said, that "Coleridge never explained the story of
Christabel." To his friends he did explain it; and in the Biographia
Literaria, he has given an account of its origin. [5]
The story of the Christabel is partly founded on the notion, that the
virtuous of this world save the wicked. The pious and good Christabel
suffers and prays for
"The weal of her lover that is far away,"
exposed to various temptations in a foreign land; and she thus defeats
the power of evil represented in the person of Geraldine. This is one
main object of the tale.
At the opening of the poem all nature is laid under a spell:
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awak'ned the crowing cock;
Tu-whit!--Tu-whoo!
And hark, again! The crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew--
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff-bitch,
From her kennel beneath the rock
Maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
The spell is laid by an evil being, not of this world, with whom
Christabel, the heroine, is about to become connected; and who in the
darkness of the forest is meditating the wreck of all her hopes
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest misletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.
There are persons who have considered the description of Christabel in
the act of praying, so far from the baron's castle, too great a poetical
license. He was fully aware that all baronial castles had their chapels
and oratories attached to them,--and that in these lawless times, for
such were the middle ages, the young lady who ventured unattended beyond
the precincts of the castle, would have endangered her reputation. But
to such an imaginative mind, it would have been scarcely possible to
pass by the interesting image of Christabel, presenting itself before
him, praying by moonlight at the old oak tree. But to proceed:
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is, she cannot tell.--
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek--
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were.
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she--
Beautiful exceedingly!
This description is exquisite. Now for the mystic demon's tale of art:
Mary mother, save me now!
(Said Christabel,) And who art thou?
The lady strange made answer meet,
And her voice was faint and sweet:--
Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!
Said Christabel, How camest thou here?
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet:--
My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine:
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They chok'd my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
And once we crossed the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some muttered words his comrades spoke
He placed me underneath this oak,
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell--
I thought I heard, some minutes past,
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she)
And help a wretched maid to flee.
Then Christabel stretched forth her hand
And comforted fair Geraldine:
O well, bright dame! may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal,
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father's hall.
She rose: and forth with steps they passed
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest
And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
All our household are at rest,
The hall as silent as the cell;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not well awakened be,
But we will move as if in stealth,
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me.
They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
A little door she opened straight,
All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was ironed within and without,
Where an army in battle array had marched out.
The lady sank, belike through pain,
And Christabel with might and main
Lifted her up, a weary weight,
Over the threshold of the gate:
Then the lady rose again,
And moved, as she were not in pain.
So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
Following the popular superstition that dogs are supposed to see ghosts,
and therefore see the supernatural, the mastiff yells, when Geraldine
appears:
Outside her kennell, the mastiff old
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake,
Yet she an angry moan did make!
And what can ail the mastiff bitch?
Never till now she uttered yell,
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Geraldine had already worked upon the kindness of Christabel, so that
she had lifted her over the threshold of the gate, which Geraldine's
fallen power had prevented her passing of herself, the place being holy
and under the influence of the Virgin.
"Praise we the Virgin all divine,
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress,
Alas! Alas! said Geraldine,
I cannot speak for weariness.
They pass the hall that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will!
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying;
But when the lady passed there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady's eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old nitch in the wall.
O! softly tread, said Christabel,
My father seldom sleepeth well."
Geraldine, who affects to be weary, arrives at the chamber of
Christabel--this room is beautifully ornamented,
"Carved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver's brain,
For a lady's chamber meet
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fasten'd to an angel's feet."
Such is the mysterious movement of this supernatural lady, that all this
is visible, and when she passed the dying brands, there came a fit of
flame, and Christabel saw the lady's eye.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But Christabel the lamp will trim.
She trimm'd the lamp and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.
O weary lady Geraldine,
I pray you drink this cordial wine,
It is a wine of virtuous powers;
My mother made it of wild flowers.
And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn?
Christabel answer'd--Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born,
I have heard the grey-hair'd friar tell,
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
O mother dear! that thou wert here!
I would, said Geraldine, she were!
The poet now introduces the real object of the supernatural
transformation: the spirit of evil struggles with the deceased and
sainted mother of Christabel for the possession of the lady. To render
the scene more impressive, the mother instantly appears, though she is
invisible to her daughter. Geraldine exclaims in a commanding voice
"Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!
I have power to bid thee flee?"
Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
Why stares she with unsettled eye
Can she the bodiless dead espy?
And why with hollow voice cries she,
"Off, woman, off! this hour is mine--
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
"Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me."
Here, Geraldine seems to be struggling with the spirit of Christabel's
mother, over which for a time she obtains the mastery.
Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
And rais'd to heaven her eyes so blue--
Alas! said she, this ghastly ride--
Dear lady! it hath wilder'd you!
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, "'Tis over now!"
Again the wild-flower wine she drank,
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countrée.
And thus the lofty lady spake--
All they who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake
And for the good which me befell,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself: for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.
Quoth Christabel, so let it be!
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.
But all this had given rise to so many different thoughts and feelings,
that she could not compose herself for sleep, so she sits up in her bed
to look at Geraldine who drew in her breath aloud, and unbound her
cincture. Her silken robe and inner vest then drop to her feet, and she
discovers her hideous form:
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her, shield sweet Christabel!
Yet Geraldine nor speaks--nor stirs;
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
She then lies down by the side of Christabel, and takes her to her arms,
saying in a low voice these words:
In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest
Thou heardst a low moaning,
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.
The conclusion to part the first is a beautiful and well drawn picture,
slightly recapitulating some of the circumstances of the opening of the
poem.
THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE FIRST.
It was a lovely sight to see,
The lady Christabel, when she
Was praying at the old oak tree.
Amid the jagged shadows
Of mossy leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight,
To make her gentle vows;
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resigned to bliss or bale--
Her face, oh call it fair, not pale,
And both blue eyes more bright than clear,
Each about to have a tear.
With open eyes (ah woe is me!)
Asleep and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis,
Dreaming that alone which is--
O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
The lady who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild
As a mother with her child.
A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady's prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine--
Thou'st had thy will! By tairn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.
At the ceasing of the spell, the joyousness of the birds is described,
and also the awakening of Christabel as from a trance.--During this rest
(her mother) the guardian angel is supposed to have been watching over
her. But these passages could not escape coarse minded critics, who put
a construction on them which never entered the mind of the author of
Christabel, whose poems are marked by delicacy.
The effects of the apparition of her mother, supposed to be seen by
Christabel in a vision, are thus described:
What if her guardian spirit 'twere,
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call:
For the blue sky bends over all!
Here terminates the first canto.
The passage from this sleep and the reappearance by day-light of
Geraldine, has always been considered a master-piece.
The second part begins with a moral reflection, and introduces Sir
Leoline, the father of Christabel, with the following observation, on
his rising in the morning:
Each matin bell, the Baron saith!
Knells us back to a world of death.
These words Sir Leoline first said
When he rose and found his lady dead.
These words Sir Leoline will say
Many a morn to his dying day.
After a popular custom of the country, the old bard Bracy is introduced.
Geraldine rises, puts on her silken vestments--tricks her hair, and not
doubting her spell, she awakens Christabel,
"Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?
I trust that you have rested well."
And Christabel awoke and spied
The same who lay down by her side--
O rather say, the same whom she
Rais'd up beneath the old oak tree!
Nay fairer yet, and yet more fair!
For she belike hath drunken deep
Of all the blessedness of sleep!
And while she spake, her looks, her air
Such gentle thankfulness declare;
That (so it seem'd) her girded vests
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.
"Sure I have sinn'd!" said Christabel,
"Now heaven be prais'd if all be well!"
And in low faultering tones, yet sweet,
Did she the lofty lady greet;
With such perplexity of mind
As dreams too lively leave behind.
Christabel then leaves her couch, and having offered up her prayers, she
leads fair Geraldine to meet the Baron.--They enter his presence room,
when her father rises, and while pressing his daughter to his breast, he
espies the lady Geraldine, to whom he gives such welcome as
"Might beseem so bright a dame!"
But when the Baron hears her tale, and her father's name, the poet
enquires feelingly:
Why wax'd Sir Leoline so pale,
Murmuring o'er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanc'd, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother:
They parted--never to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining--
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between;--
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.
Sir Leoline gazed for a moment on the face of Geraldine, and the
youthful Lord of Tryermaine again came back upon his heart. He is then
described as forgetting his age, and his noble heart swells with
indignation.
He then affectionately takes Geraldine in his arms, who meets the
embrace:
"Prolonging it with joyous look,
Which when she viewed, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
She shrunk and shudder'd and saw again
(Ah woe is me! Was it for thee,
Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)
Geraldine then appears to her in her real character, ('half' human
only,) the sight of which alarms Christabel. The Baron mistakes for
jealousy this alarm in his daughter, which was induced by fear of
Geraldine, and had been the sole cause of her unconsciously imitating
the "hissing sound:"
Whereat the Knight turn'd wildly round,
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
With eyes uprais'd, as one that pray'd.
This touch, this sight passed away, and left in its stead the vision of
her guardian angel (her mother) which had comforted her after rest, and
having sought consolation in prayer, her countenance resumes its natural
serenity and sweetness. The Baron surprised at these sudden transitions,
exclaims,
"What ails then my beloved child?"
Christabel makes answer:
"All will yet be well!"
I ween, she had no power to tell
Aught else: so mighty was the spell.
Yet the Baron seemed so captivated by Geraldine, as to "deem her a thing
divine." She pretended much sorrow, and feared she might have offended
Christabel, praying with humility to be sent home immediately.
"Nay!
Nay--by my soul!" said Leoline.
"Ho!--Bracy, the bard, the charge be thine!
Go thou with music sweet and loud
And take two steeds with trappings proud;
And take the youth whom thou lov'st best
To bear thy harp and learn thy song,
And clothe you both in solemn vest
And over the mountains haste along.
He is desired to continue his way to the castle of Tryermaine. Bracy is
thus made to act in a double capacity, as bard and herald: in the first,
he is to announce to Lord Roland the safety of his daughter in Langdale
Hall; in the second as herald to the Baron, he is to convey an apology
according to the custom of that day,
"He bids thee come without delay,
With all thy numerous array;
And take thy lovely daughter home,
And he will meet thee on the way,
With all his numerous array;
White with their panting palfrey's foam,
And by mine honour! I will say,
That I repent me of the day;
When I spake words of fierce disdain,
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!--
For since that evil hour hath flown,
Many a summer's sun hath shone;
Yet ne'er found I a friend again
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine."
The lady fell, and clasped his knees,
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing,
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,
His gracious hail on all bestowing:--
Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,
Are sweeter than my harp can tell.
Yet might I gain a boon of thee,
This day my journey should not be,
So strange a dream hath come to me:
That I had vow'd with music loud
To clear yon wood from thing unblest,
Warn'd by a vision in my rest!
The dream is then related by Bracy; it is an outline of the past, and a
prophecy of the future.--The Baron listens with a smile, turns round,
and looks at Geraldine,
"His eyes made up of wonder and love;
And said in courtly accents fine,
Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,
With arms more strong than harp or song,
Thy sire and I will crush the snake!"
He kissed her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise,
Casting down her large bright eyes;
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine,
She turn'd her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o'er her right arm fell again;
And folded her arms across her chest,
And couch'd her head upon her breast.
And look'd askance at Christabel--
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
Then takes place that extraordinary change which, being read in a party
at Lord Byron's, is said to have caused Shelley to faint:
A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy,
And the lady's eyes, they shrunk in her head,
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye,
And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread
At Christabel she looked askance!--
One moment,--and the sight was fled!
But Christabel in dizzy trance,
Stumbling on the unsteady ground--
Shudder'd aloud, with a hissing sound;
And Geraldine again turn'd round,
And like a thing, that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief;
She roll'd her large bright eyes divine,
Wildly on Sir Leoline.
The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
She nothing sees--no sight but one!
The look, those shrunken serpent eyes, had made such a deep impression
on Christabel,
That all her features were resign'd
To the sole image in her mind:
And passively did imitate
That look of dull and treacherous hate.
And thus she stood in dizzy trance,
Still picturing that look askance.
But when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paus'd awhile and inly pray'd,
"By my mother's soul do I entreat
That thou this woman send away!"
She said, and more she could not say,
For what she knew she could not tell
O'er master'd by the mighty spell.
The poet now describes the Baron as suffering under the confused
emotions of love for Christabel, and anger at her apparent jealousy, and
the insult offered to the daughter of his friend, which so wrought upon
him that,
He roll'd his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere--
"Why, Bracy? dost thou loiter here?
"I bade thee hence!" The bard obey'd,
And turning from his own sweet maid,
The aged knight, Sir Leoline
Led forth the lady Geraldine!
Here ends the second canto.
In the conclusion to the second canto, he speaks of a child and its
father's fondness, so often expressed by "you little rogue," " you
little rascal," with an endearing kiss, says:
A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself;
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds and never seeks;
Makes such a vision to the sight,
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love's excess,
With words of unmeant bitterness.
The following relation was to have occupied a third and fourth canto,
and to have closed the tale.
Over the mountains, the Bard, as directed by Sir Leoline, "hastes" with
his disciple; but in consequence of one of those inundations supposed to
be common to this country, the spot only where the castle once stood is
discovered,--the edifice itself being washed away. He determines to
return. Geraldine being acquainted with all that is passing, like the
Weird Sisters in Macbeth, vanishes. Re-appearing, however, she waits the
return of the Bard, exciting in the mean time, by her wily arts, all the
anger she could rouse in the Baron's breast, as well as that jealousy of
which he is described to have been susceptible. The old Bard and the
youth at length arrive, and therefore she can no longer personate the
character of Geraldine, the daughter of Lord Roland de Vaux, but changes
her appearance to that of the accepted though absent lover of
Christabel. Next ensues a courtship most distressing to Christabel, who
feels--she knows not why--great disgust for her once favoured knight.
This coldness is very painful to the Baron, who has no more conception
than herself of the supernatural transformation. She at last yields to
her father's entreaties, and consents to approach the altar with this
hated suitor. The real lover returning, enters at this moment, and
produces the ring which she had once given him in sign of her
betrothment. Thus defeated, the supernatural being Geraldine disappears.
As predicted, the castle bell tolls, the mother's voice is heard, and to
the exceeding great joy of the parties, the rightful marriage takes
place, after which follows a reconciliation and explanation between the
father and daughter.
Lamb, who visited us soon after Coleridge's death, and not long before
his own, talking of the Christabel, observed, "I was very angry with
Coleridge, when I first heard that he had written a second canto, and
that he intended to finish it; but when I read the beautiful apostrophe
to the two friends, it calmed me." He was one of those who strongly
recommended Coleridge to leave as a fragment what he had so beautifully
begun. With the first edition of the Christabel was given Kubla Khan,
the dream within a dream, written in harmonious and fluent rhythm.
'The Pains of Sleep' was also added. This is a poem communicating a
portion of his personal sufferings. [6] All these were published in
1816.
In the introduction to 'The Lay of the last Minstrel', 1830, Sir
Walter says,
"Were I ever to take the unbecoming freedom of censuring a man of Mr.
Coleridge's extraordinary talents, it would be on account of the
caprice and indolence with which he has thrown from him, as in mere
wantonness, those unfinished scraps of poetry, which, like the Tasso
of antiquity, defied the skill of his poetical brethren to complete
them. The charming fragments which the author abandons to their fate,
are surely too valuable to be treated like the proofs of careless
engravers, the sweepings of whose studies often make the fortune of
some pains-taking collector. And in a note to the Abbot, alluding to
Coleridge's beautiful and tantalizing fragment of Christabel, he adds,
Has not our own imaginative poet cause to fear that future ages will
desire to summon him from his place of rest, as Milton longed
'To call up him who left half told
The story of Cambuscam bold.'"
Since writing the preceding pages, I have met with a critique on the
Christabel, written immediately after it was published, from which I
select a few passages, in the hope that they may further interest the
admirers of this poem:
'The publication of Christabel cannot be an indifferent circumstance
to any true lover of poetry--it is a singular monument of genius, and
we doubt whether the fragmental beauty that it now possesses can be
advantageously exchanged for the wholeness of a finished narrative. In
its present form it lays irresistible hold of the imagination. It
interests even by what it leaves untold.--The story is like a dream of
lovely forms, mixed with strange and indescribable terrors. The scene,
the personages, are those of old romantic superstition; but we feel
intimate with them, as if they were of our own day, and of our own
neighbourhood. It is impossible not to suppose that we have known
"sweet Christabel," from the time when she was "a fairy thing, with
red round cheeks," till she had grown up, through all the engaging
prettinesses of childhood, and the increasing charms of youth, to be
the pure and dignified creature, which we find her at the opening of
the poem. The scene is laid at midnight, in the yet leafless wood, a
furlong from the castle-gate of the rich Baron Sir Leoline, whose
daughter, "the lovely Lady Christabel," has come, in consequence of a
vow, to pray at the old oak tree, "for the weal of her lover that's
far away." In the midst of her orisons she is suddenly alarmed by a
moaning near her, which turns out to be the complaint of the Lady
Geraldine, who relates, that she had been carried off by warriors, and
brought to this wild wood, where they had left her with intent quickly
to return. This story of Geraldine's easily obtains credence from the
unsuspecting Christabel, who conducts her secretly to a chamber in the
castle. There the mild and beautiful Geraldine seems transformed in
language and appearance to a sorceress, contending with the spirit of
Christabel's deceased mother for the mastery over her daughter; but
Christabel's lips are sealed by a spell. What she knows she cannot
utter; and scarcely can she herself believe that she knows it.
On the return of morning, Geraldine, in all her pristine beauty,
accompanies the innocent but perplexed Christabel to the presence of
the Baron, who is delighted when he learns that she is the daughter of
his once loved friend, Sir Roland de Vaux, of Tryermaine.--We shall
not pursue the distress of Christabel, the mysterious warnings of
Bracy the Bard, the assumed sorrow of Geraldine, or the indignation of
Sir Leoline, at his daughter's seemingly causeless jealousy--what we
have principally to remark with respect to the tale is, that, wild and
romantic and visionary as it is, it has a truth of its own, which
seizes on and masters the imagination from the beginning to the end.
The poet unveils with exquisite skill the finer ties of imagination
and feeling by which they are linked to the human heart.
The elements of our sensibility, to all that concerns fair
Christabel, are of the purest texture; they are not formally announced
in a set description, but they accompany and mark her every movement
throughout the piece--Incessu patuit Dea.--She is the support of her
noble father's declining age--sanctified by the blessing of her
departed mother--the beloved of a valorous and absent knight--the
delight and admiration of an inspired bard--she is a being made up of
tenderness, affection, sweetness, piety! There is a fine
discrimination in the descriptions of Christabel and Geraldine,
between the lovely and the merely beautiful. There is a moral
sensitiveness about Christabel, which none but a true poet could
seize. It would be difficult to find a more delicate touch of this
kind in any writer, than her anxious exclamation when, in passing the
hall with Geraldine, a gleam bursts from the dying embers.
Next in point of merit to the power which Mr. Coleridge has displayed,
in interesting us by the moral beauty of his heroine, comes the skill
with which he has wrought the feelings and fictions of superstition
into shape. The witchlike Geraldine lying down by the side of
Christabel, and uttering the spell over her, makes the reader thrill
with indefinable horror.
We find another striking excellence of this poem, and which powerfully
affects every reader, by placing, as it were before his eyes, a
distinct picture of the events narrated, with all their appendages of
sight and sound--the dim forest--the massive castle-gate--the angry
moan of the sleeping mastiff--the sudden flash of the dying
embers--the echoing hall--the carved chamber, with its curious
lamp--in short, all that enriches and adorns this tale, with a
luxuriance of imagination seldom equalled.' [7]
Whilst in the full enjoyment of his creative powers, Coleridge wrote in
a letter to a friend the following critique on "the Hymn before Sunrise
in the Vale of Chamouni," which is supposed to have been composed about
the time of the Christabel, though not published till 1816, in the
Sibylline Leaves. It will serve to shew how freely he assented to the
opinions of his friends, and with what candour he criticised his own
poems, recording his opinions whether of censure or of praise:--
"In a copy of verses, entitled 'a Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of
Chamouni,' I describe myself under the influence of strong devotional
feelings, gazing on the mountain, till as if it had been a shape
emanating from and sensibly representing her own essence, my soul had
become diffused through the mighty vision and there,
'As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven.'
Mr. Wordsworth, I remember, censured the passage as strained and
unnatural, and condemned the hymn in toto, (which, nevertheless, I
ventured to publish in my 'Sibylline Leaves,') as a specimen of the
mock sublime. It may be so for others, but it is impossible that I
should myself find it unnatural, being conscious that it was the image
and utterance of thoughts and emotions in which there was no mockery.
Yet, on the other hand, I could readily believe that the mood and
habit of mind out of which the hymn rose, that differs from Milton's
and Thomson's and from the psalms, the source of all three, in the
author's addressing himself to 'individual' objects actually present
to his senses, while his great predecessors apostrophize 'classes' of
things presented by the memory, and generalized by the understanding;
--I can readily believe, I say, that in this there may be too much of
what our learned 'med'ciners' call the 'idiosyncratic' for true
poetry.--For, from my very childhood, I have been accustomed to
'abstract', and as it were, unrealize whatever of more than common
interest my eyes dwelt on, and then by a sort of transfusion and
transmission of my consciousness to identify myself with the object;
and I have often thought within the last five or six years, that if
ever I should feel once again the genial warmth and stir of the poetic
impulse, and refer to my own experiences, I should venture on a yet
stranger and wilder allegory than of yore--that I would allegorize
myself as a rock, with its summit just raised above the surface of
some bay or strait in the Arctic Sea, 'while yet the stern and
solitary night brooked no alternate sway'--all around me fixed and
firm, methought, as my own substance, and near me lofty masses, that
might have seemed to 'hold the moon and stars in fee,' and often in
such wild play with meteoric lights, or with the quiet shine from
above, which they made rebound in sparkles, or dispand in off-shoot,
and splinters, and iridiscent needle shafts of keenest glitter, that
it was a pride and a place of healing to lie, as in an apostle's
shadow, within the eclipse and deep substance-seeming gloom of 'these
dread ambassadors from earth to heaven, great hierarchs!' And though
obscured, yet to think myself obscured by consubstantial forms, based
in the same foundation as my own. I grieved not to serve them--yea,
lovingly and with gladsomeness I abased myself in their presence: for
they are my brothers, I said, and the mastery is theirs by right of
older birth, and by right of the mightier strivings of the hidden fire
that uplifted them above me."
This poem has excited much discussion, and many individuals have
expressed different opinions as to its origin. Some assert that it is
borrowed from our own great poets; whilst German readers say, that it is
little more than a free translation from a poem of Frederica Brun. That
it is founded on Frederica Brun's poem cannot be doubted; but those who
compare the two poems must at once feel, that to call Coleridge's a
translation, containing as it does new thoughts, exciting different
feelings, and being in fact a new birth, a glorification of the
original, would be a misuse of words. I insert the following note of
Coleridge's, which appears applicable to the subject:
"In looking at objects of nature, while I am thinking, as at yonder
moon dim-glimmering through the dewy window-pane, I seem rather to be
seeking, as it were 'asking', a symbolical language for something
within me that already and for ever exists, than observing any thing
new. Even when that latter is the case, yet still I have always an
obscure feeling, as if that new phoenomenon were the dim awaking of a
forgotten or hidden truth of my inner nature.--It is still interesting
as a word, a symbol! It is the [Greek: logos], the Creator! and the
Evolver! What is the right, the virtuous feeling and consequent
action, when a man having long meditated and perceived a certain truth
finds another, a foreign writer, who has handled the same with an
approximation to the truth, as he had previously conceived it? Joy!
Let truth make her voice audible! While I was preparing the pen to
write this remark I lost the train of thought which had led me to it.
I meant to have asked something else, now forgotten for the above
answers itself--it needed no new answer, I trust, in my heart."
'15th April, 1805'.
Coleridge, who was an honest man, was equally honest in literature; and
had he thought himself indebted to any other author, he would have
acknowledged the same.
Born a poet, and a philosopher, by reflection, the mysterious depths of
nature and the enquiry into these depths were among his chief delights.
And from boyhood he had felt that it was the business of this life, to
prepare for that which is to come. His schoolfellow, Lamb, also
observed, that from his youth upward, "he hungered for eternity,"
sincerely and fervently praying to be so enlightened as to attain it.
Though usually described "as doing nothing,"--"an idler," "a dreamer,"
and by many such epithets--he sent forth works which, though they had
cost him years of thought, never brought him any suitable return. In a
note written in 1825, speaking of himself, he says,
"A man of letters, friendless, because of no faction: repeatedly, and
in strong language inculpated of hiding his light under a bushel, yet
destined to see publication after publication abused by the Edinburgh
Review, as the representative of one party, and not even noticed by
the Quarterly Review, as the representative of the other--and to
receive as the meed of his labours for the cause of freedom against
despotism and jacobinism, of the church against infidelity and schism;
and of principle against fashion and sciolism, slander, loss, and
embarrassment."
If, however, we were to collect the epithets applied to Milton in his
time, they would now appear incredible;--so when the misconceptions
arising from slander shall have ceased, the name of Coleridge will be
enrolled among those of our most illustrious men. The poet has said of
Gay, "in wit, a 'man'; simplicity, a 'child'."
But such was the extent and grasp of Coleridge's intellectual powers,
that of him it may be said, "In wit, a giant; in simplicity, a very
child." Though conscious of his own powers, with other men, he walked
most humbly, and whatever their station or acquirements, he would talk
to them as equals. He seemed but slightly connected with the things of
the world, for which, save the love of those dear to him, he cared but
little, living in this affection for his friends, and always feeling and
acting in the spirit of that humility he has so beautifully described.
"That humility which is the mother of charity," and which was in-woven
in his being, revealing itself in all his intercourse throughout the
day--for he looked on man as God's creature. All that he thought and
taught was put forth in the same spirit and with the strongest sense of
duty, so that they might learn of him with pleasure. Whatever be
considered the faulty part of his own character, he freely acknowledged
to others, with an admonition to avoid the like. His sensitive nature
induced a too great proneness to a self-accusing spirit; yet in this was
there no affected humility, though it might unfortunately dispose some
to think evil of him where little or none existed, or form an excuse to
others for their neglect of him. With respect to other men, however, all
his feelings and judgments ever gave proof of the very reverse. The
natural piety of his mind, led him most frequently to dwell on the
thought of time and eternity, and was the cause of his discussions
'ending' generally with theology.
During the first week of his residence at Highgate, he conversed
frequently on the Trinity and on Unitarianism, and in one of these
conversations, his eye being attracted by a large cowry, very handsomely
spotted:
"Observe," said he, "this shell, and the beauty of its exterior here
pourtrayed. Reverse it and place it to your ear, you will find it
empty, and a hollow murmuring sound issuing from the cavity in which
the animal once resided. This shell, with all its beautiful spots, was
secreted by the creature when living within it, but being plucked out,
nothing remains save the hollow sound for the ear. Such is
Unitarianism; it owes any beauty it may have left to the Christianity
from which it separated itself. The teachers of Unitarianism have
severed from 'their' Christianity its 'Life', [8] by removing the
doctrine of St. John; and thus mutilated, 'they' call the residue the
religion of Christ, implying the whole of the system, but omitting in
their teaching the doctrine of redemption."
This illustration reminds me of what took place between two men well
known in the literary world, who were at a dinner party together, both
dissenters,--one a Unitarian. In the evening, tea was brought on a large
silver waiter. They were popular writers of the day. One of them
observing the salver facetiously cried out, "See how we authors swim."
"Read the inscription on it," said the kindhearted Unitarian: his friend
did so, and seeing that it had been presented in token of satisfaction
for his friend's labours in the "Improved Version of the New Testament,"
emphatically exclaimed, "Take it away! I am a Unitarian, because I am a
Trinitarian; you have hitherto at least adopted a misnomer." Twenty-five
years since the Unitarians were of two creeds; one class materialists,
the other immaterialists, but both agreeing that Christ was only an
inspired 'man'. If I am rightly informed, they are not more orthodox at
the present day.
When Coleridge was among the Unitarians, his deeper course of reasoning
had not yet commenced. During his school education he became a Socinian;
the personality of the Trinity had staggered him, and he in consequence
preached for a short time at different Unitarian meetings; but in the
course of examination, he found that the doctrines he had to deliver
were mere moral truths, while he was "craving for a 'faith'," his heart
being with Paul and John, though his head was with Spinoza. In after
life, speaking of his conversion to Christianity, he often repeated--He
did not believe in the Trinity, because to him at that time, the belief
seemed contradictory to reason and scripture. "What care I," said he,
"for Rabbi Paul, or Rabbi John, if they be opposed to moral sense." This
was going a step beyond the Socinians, but this step was the means of
his being reclaimed from error, for having by his course of reasoning
gradually diminished "even this faith," that which remained with him was
so small, that it altogether sank into unbelief; and he then felt
compelled to retrace his steps from the point whence he had started. Led
by further enquiries after truth, deeper meditation revealed to him the
true value of the scriptures; and at the same time his philosophic views
enlarging, he found that the doctrine of the Trinity was not contrary to
reason--to reason in its highest sense; and he then discovered how far
he had misbelieved, or had been, as he stated, puffed up by Socinian
views. On quitting Shrewsbury and returning to Bristol, he seceded from
the Unitarians, and observed, that if they had attempted to play the
same tricks with a neighbour's will, which they had done with the New
Testament, they would deserve to be put in the pillory. He continued
attached to the writings of St. John and St. Paul, for thirty-four years
of his life, [9] and having grown in strength with increase of years, he
died in the faith of these apostles. And yet but lately did it appear in
print, that "he was ever shifting his opinions."
When at Cambridge, his acquaintance with Mr. Frend led him to study the
philosophy of Hartley, and he became one of his disciples. Perhaps the
love of Coleridge for his college, "the ever honoured Jesus," might have
had some share in the cause of his early predilection in favour of
Hartley. He too was the son of a clergyman, was admitted to Jesus at the
age of fifteen, and became a fellow in 1705. According to the account
given of him by his biographer, Coleridge in several respects seems to
have resembled him. All his early studies were intended to fit him for
the church, but scruples arose in his mind, because he could not
conscientiously subscribe to the thirty-nine articles: he therefore gave
up all thoughts of the clerical profession, and entered the medical, for
which, as Coleridge himself states, he also had had the most ardent
desire. Hartley, when he had taken his degree, practised physic; and his
knowledge, his general acquirements, his sensibility, and his
benevolence, made him an ornament to the profession. In this profession
too, Coleridge, had circumstances allowed him to enter it, must have
been pre-eminent. Hartley, like Coleridge, was formed for sympathy and
all the charities of life--his countenance was benign--his manners were
gentle--and his eloquence pathetic and commanding. He first practised at
Newark, and afterwards removed to Bury St. Edmonds, where he ended his
career, dying in 1757, at the age of fifty-two. He was much afflicted
with stone, and was in part the means of procuring from the government
five thousand pounds for Mrs. Stevens, as a reward for the secret of
preparing the solvent, sold and advertised in her name. In 1740, he
published the work on which his fame rests, under the title of
'Observations on Man, his frame, his duty, and his expectations.' In it
he expounded his doctrine of vibrations, and attempted by reasoning to
explain the origin and propagation of sensation, built on gratuitous
assumption of certain vibrations of the brain and nerves, coupled by
association. Coleridge on his visit to Germany, soon made himself master
of this subject. In his Biographia Literaria, he devotes a chapter to
the examination of the work, and having seen the hollowness of the
argument, abandoned it. While in Germany, Coleridge also studied Des
Cartes, and saw the source of Locke's Theory, from which he entirely
differed. He next turned his attention to Spinoza, but with a mind so
logically formed, and so energetic in the search after truth, it was
impossible for him to dwell long on a philosophy thus constructed--and
Coleridge was still left to yearn for a resting place on which to base
his faith. After he had successively studied in the schools of Locke,
Berkeley, Leibnitz, and Hartley, and could find in one of them an
abiding place for his reason;
"I began," says he, "to ask myself, Is a system of philosophy, as
differing from mere history and classification, possible? If possible,
what are its necessary conditions? I was for a while disposed to
answer the first question in the negative, and to admit that the sole
practicable employment for the human mind was to observe, to
recollect, and to classify. Christianity however is not a theory, or a
speculation, but a life--not a philosophy of life, but a life and a
living process." [10]
Spinoza being one of the writers which Coleridge, in his passage from
Socinianism to Christianity, had studied, the reader will probably be
interested with the following note, written by himself on the subject:
"Paradoxical, as it assuredly is, I am convinced that Spinoza's
innocence and virtue, guarded and matured into invincible habit of
being, by a life of constant meditation and of intellectual pursuit,
were the conditions or temptations, 'sine quibus non' of his forming
and maintaining a system subversive of all virtue. He saw so clearly
the 'folly' and 'absurdity' of wickedness, and felt so weakly and
languidly the passions tempting to it, that he concluded, that nothing
was wanting to a course of well-doing, but clear conceptions and the
'fortitudo intellectualis'; while his very modesty, a prominent
feature in his character, rendered him, as it did Hartley, less averse
to the system of necessity. Add to these causes his profound
admiration of pure mathematics, and the vast progress made in it so
unspeakably beneficial to mankind, their bodies as well as souls, and
souls as well as bodies; the reflection that the essence of
mathematical science consists in discovering the absolute properties
of forms and proportions, and how pernicious a bewilderment was
produced in this 'sublime' science by the wild attempt of the
Platonists, especially the later (though Plato himself is far from
blameless in this respect,) to explain the 'final' cause of
mathematical 'figures' and of numbers, so as to subordinate them to a
principle of origination out of themselves; and the further comparison
of the progress of this SCIENCE, ('pura Mathesis') which excludes all
consideration of final cause, with the unequal and equivocal progress
of those branches of literature which rest on, or refer to final
causes; and that the uncertainty and mixture with error, appeared in
proportion to such reference--and if I mistake not, we shall have the
most important parts of the history of Spinoza's mind. It is a duty
which we owe to truth, to distinguish Spinoza from the Voltaires,
Humes, and the whole nest of 'popular' infidels, to make manifest how
precious a thing is the sincere thirst of truth for the sake of truth
undebased by vanity, appetite, and the ambition of forming a sect of
'arguescents' and trumpeters--and that it is capable, to a wonderful
degree, of rendering innoxious the poisonous pangs of the worst
errors--nay, heaven educing good out of the very evil--the important
advantages that have been derived from such men. Wise and good men
would never have seen the true basis and bulwark of the right cause,
if they had not been made to know and understand the whole weight and
possible force of the wrong cause; nor would have even purified their
own system from these admissions, on which the whole of Spinozism is
built, and which admissions were common to all parties, and therefore
fairly belonging to Spinoza.--Now I affirm that none but an eminently
pure and benevolent mind could have constructed and perfected such a
system as that of the ethics of Spinoza. Bad hearted men always 'hate'
the religion and morality which they attack--but hatred dims and
'inturbidates' the logical faculties. There is likewise a sort of
lurking terror in such a heart, which renders it far too painful to
keep a steady gaze on the being of God and the existence of
immortality--they dare only attack it as Tartars, a hot valiant
inroad, and then they scour off again. Equally painful is
self-examination, for if the wretch be 'callous', the 'facts' of
psychology will not present themselves--if not, who could go on year
after year in a perpetual process of deliberate self-torture and
shame. The very torment of the process would furnish facts subversive
of the system, for which the process was instituted. The mind would at
length be unable to disguise from itself the unequivocal 'fact' of its
own shame and remorse, and this once felt and distinctly acknowledged,
Spinozism is blown up as by a mine."
Coleridge had a great abhorrence of vice, and Spinoza having, in his
writings, strongly marked its debasing effects, he was from sympathy on
these points led to study his philosophy: but when on further research,
he discovered that his ethics led to Pantheism and ended in the denial
of the Deity--he abandoned these views, and gave up the study of
Spinoza. Perhaps the contemplation of such writers led him to compose
the following lines:
But some there are who deem themselves most free,
When they within this gross and visible sphere
Chain down the winged thought, scoffing ascent,
Proud in their meanness: and themselves they cheat
With noisy emptiness of learned phrase,
Their subtle fluids, impacts, essences,
Self-working tools, uncaused effects, and all
Those blind Omniscients, those Almighty slaves,
Untenanting creation of its GOD.
SIBYLLINE LEAVES--('Destiny of Nations'.)
The errors of this writer, however, as before observed, produced this
great advantage; he recommenced his studies with greater care and
increased ardour, and in the Gospel of St. John, discovered the
truth--the truth, as Wordsworth powerfully sings,
"That flashed upon that inward eye,
Which is the bliss of solitude."
Having now discovered in the Scriptures this truth, to him at that time
new and important, he pursued his philosophical researches--continually
finding what he sought for in the one, borne out and elucidated by the
other.
After he had corrected the proof sheets of the 'Christabel', the
'Sibylline Leaves', and the 'Biographia Literaria'; they were brought to
London, and published by Rest Fenner, Paternoster Row. [11]
One of those periodical distresses, which usually visit this country
about once in nine years, took place about this time, 1816,--and he was
in consequence requested by his publisher to write on the subject. He
therefore composed two Lay Sermons, addressed to the higher and to the
middle classes of society, and had the intention of addressing a third
to the lower classes. The first sermon he named "the Statesman's Manual,
or the Bible the best guide to political skill and foresight." The
pamphlet was as might have been expected, "cut up." He was an unpopular
writer on an unpopular subject. Time was, when reviews directed the
taste of the reading public, now, on the contrary, they judge it
expedient to follow it.
But it may be well to place before the reader the expression of
Coleridge's own feelings, written after these several attacks, it may
also serve to show the persecution to which he was liable:
"I published a work a large portion of which was professedly
metaphysical. (First Lay Sermon.) [12]
A delay," said he, "occurred between its first annunciation and its
appearance; and it was reviewed by anticipation with a malignity, so
avowedly and so exclusively personal, as is, I believe, unprecedented
even in the present contempt of all common humanity that disgraces and
endangers the liberty of the press. 'After' its appearance the author
of this lampoon was chosen to review it in the Edinburgh Review: and
under the single condition, that he should have written what he
himself really thought, and have criticised the work as he would have
done had its author been indifferent to him, I should have chosen that
man myself, both from the vigour and the originality of his mind, and
from his particular acuteness in speculative reasoning, before all
others. But I can truly say, that the grief with which I read this
rhapsody of predetermined insult, had the rhapsodist himself for its
whole and sole object: and that the indignant contempt which it
excited in me was as exclusively confined to his employer and
suborner. I refer to this Review at present, in consequence of
information having been given me, that the innuendo of my 'potential
infidelity,' grounded on one passage of my first Lay Sermon, has been
received and propagated with a degree of credence, of which I can
safely acquit the originator of the calumny. I give the sentences as
they stand in the Sermon, premising only that I was speaking
exclusively of miracles worked for the outward senses of men. It was
only to overthrow the usurpation exercised in and through the senses,
that the senses were miraculously appealed to. REASON AND RELIGION ARE
THEIR OWN EVIDENCE. The natural sun is in this respect a symbol of the
spiritual: Ere he is fully arisen, and while his glories are still
under veil, he calls up the breeze to chase away the usurping vapours
of the night season, and thus converts the air itself into the
minister of its own purification: not surely in proof or elucidation
of the light from heaven, but to prevent its interception. Wherever,
therefore, similar circumstances coexist with the same moral causes,
the principles revealed, and the examples recorded, in the inspired
writings, render miracles superfluous: and if we neglect to apply
truths in the expectation of wonders, or under pretext of the
cessation of the latter, we tempt God and merit the same reply which
our Lord gave to the Pharisees on a like occasion.'
In the sermon and the notes both the historical truth and the
necessity of the miracles are strongly and frequently asserted. 'The
testimony of books of history (namely, relatively to the signs and
wonders with which Christ came,) is one of the strong and stately
'pillars' of the church; but it is not the 'foundation'.' Instead,
therefore, of defending myself, which I could easily effect by a
series of passages, expressing the same opinion, from the fathers and
the most eminent protestant divines, from the Reformation to the
Revolution, I shall merely state what my belief is, concerning the
true evidences of Christianity.
1st. Its consistency with right reason, I consider as the outer court
of the temple, the common area within which it stands.
2ndly. The miracles, with and through which the religion was first
revealed and attested, I regard as the steps, the vestibule, the
portal of the temple.
3rdly. The sense, the inward feeling, in the soul of each believer, of
its exceeding 'desirableness'--the experience, that he 'needs'
something, joined with the strong foretokening, that the redemption
and the graces propounded to us in Christ are 'what' he needs--this I
hold to be the true foundation of the spiritual edifice.
With the strong 'a priori' probability that flows in from 1 and 3, on
the correspondent historical evidence of 2, no man can refuse or
neglect to make the experiment without guilt. But,
4thly, it is the experience derived from a practical conformity to the
conditions of the gospel--it is the opening eye; the dawning light;
the terrors and the promises of spiritual growth; the blessedness of
loving God as God, the nascent sense of sin hated as sin, and of the
incapability of attaining to either without Christ; it is the sorrow
that still rises up from beneath, and the consolation that meets it
from above; the bosom treacheries of the principal in the warfare, and
the exceeding faithfulness and long-suffering of the uninterested
ally;--in a word, it is the actual _trial_ of the faith in Christ,
with its accompaniments and results, that must form the arched roof,
and the faith itself is the completing keystone. In order to an
efficient belief in Christianity, a man must have been a Christian,
and this is the seeming argumentum in circulo, incident to all
spiritual truths, to every subject not presentable under the forms of
time and space, as long as we attempt to master by the reflex acts of
the understanding, what we can only 'know' by the act of 'becoming'.
'Do the will of my Father, and ye shall know whether I am of God.'
These four evidences I believe to have been, and still to be, for the
world, for the whole church, all necessary, all equally necessary; but
that at present, and for the majority of Christians born in Christian
countries, I believe the third and the fourth evidences to be the most
operative, not as superseding, but as involving a glad undoubting
faith in the two former. Credidi, ideóque intellexi, appears to me the
dictate equally of philosophy and religion, even as I believe
redemption to be the antecedent of sanctification, and not its
consequent. All spiritual predicates may be construed indifferently as
modes of action, or as states of being. Thus holiness and blessedness
are the same idea, now seen in relation to act, and now to existence."
Biog. Liter. Vol. ii. p. 303.
His next publication was the 'Zapolya', which had a rapid sale, and he
then began a second edition of the 'Friend'--if, indeed, as he observes,
"a work, the greatest part of which is new in substance, and the whole
in form and arrangement, can be described as an edition of the former."
At the end of the autumn of 1817, Coleridge issued the following
prospectus, and hoped by delivering the proposed lectures to increase
his utility; they required efforts indeed which he considered it a duty
to make, notwithstanding his great bodily infirmities, and the heartfelt
sorrow by which he had, from early life, been more or less oppressed:--
"There are few families, at present, in the higher and middle classes
of English society, in which literary topics and the productions of
the Fine Arts, in some one or other of their various forms, do not
occasionally take their turn in contributing to the entertainment of
the social board, and the amusement of the circle at the fire-side.
The acquisitions and attainments of the intellect ought, indeed, to
hold a very inferior rank in our estimation, opposed to moral worth,
or even to professional and specific skill, prudence, and industry.
But why should they be opposed, when they may be made subservient
merely by being subordinated? It can rarely happen that a man of
social disposition; altogether a stranger to subjects of taste (almost
the only ones on which persons of both sexes can converse with a
common interest), should pass through the world without at times
feeling dissatisfied with himself. The best proof of this is to be
found in the marked anxiety which men, who have succeeded in life
without the aid of these accomplishments, shew in securing them to
their children. A young man of ingenuous mind will not wilfully
deprive himself of any species of respect. He will wish to feel
himself on a level with the average of the society in which he lives,
though he may be ambitious of 'distinguishing' himself only in
his own immediate pursuit or occupation.
Under this conviction, the following Course of Lectures was planned.
The several titles will best explain the particular subjects and
purposes of each; but the main objects proposed, as the result of all,
are the two following:
I. To convey, in a form best fitted to render them impressive at the
time, and remembered afterwards, rules and principles of sound
judgment, with a kind and degree of connected information, such as the
hearers, generally speaking, cannot be supposed likely to form,
collect, and arrange for themselves, by their own unassisted studies.
It might be presumption to say, that any important part of these
Lectures could not be derived from books; but none, I trust, in
supposing, that the same information could not be so surely or
conveniently acquired from such books as are of commonest occurrence,
or with that quantity of time and attention which can be reasonably
expected, or even wisely desired, of men engaged in business and the
active duties of the world.
II. Under a strong persuasion that little of real value is derived by
persons in general from a wide and various reading; but still more
deeply convinced as to the actual 'mischief' of unconnected and
promiscuous reading, and that it is sure, in a greater or less degree,
to enervate even where it does not likewise inflate; I hope to satisfy
many an ingenuous mind, seriously interested in its own development
and cultivation, how moderate a number of volumes, if only they be
judiciously chosen, will suffice for the attainment of every wise and
desirable purpose: that is, 'in addition' to those which he studies
for specific and professional purposes. It is saying less than the
truth to affirm, that an excellent book (and the remark holds almost
equally good of a Raphael as of a Milton) is like a well-chosen and
well-tended fruit-tree. Its fruits are not of one season only. With
the due and natural intervals, we may recur to it year after year, and
it will supply the same nourishment and the same gratification, if
only we ourselves return with the same healthful appetite.
The subjects of the Lectures are indeed very 'different', but not (in
the strict sense of the term) 'diverse': they are 'various', rather
than 'miscellaneous'. There is this bond of connexion common to them
all,--that the mental pleasure which they are calculated to excite is
not dependant on accidents of fashion, place or age, or the events or
the customs of the day; but commensurate with the good sense, taste,
and feeling, to the cultivation of which they themselves so largely
contribute, as being all in 'kind', though not all in the same
'degree', productions of GENIUS.
What it would be arrogant to promise, I may yet be permitted to
hope,--that the execution will prove correspondent and adequate to the
plan. Assuredly my best efforts have not been wanting so to select and
prepare the materials, that, at the conclusion of the Lectures, an
attentive auditor, who should consent to aid his future recollection
by a few notes taken either during each Lecture or soon after, would
rarely feel himself, for the time to come, excluded from taking an
intelligent interest in any general conversation likely to occur in
mixed society.
S.T. COLERIDGE."
SYLLABUS OF THE COURSE.
LECTURE I. 'Tuesday Evening, January' 27, 1818.--On the manners,
morals, literature, philosophy, religion, and the state of society in
general, in European Christendom, from the eighth to the fifteenth
century (that is, from A.D. 700 to A.D. 1400), more particularly in
reference to England, France, Italy, and Germany: in other words, a
portrait of the (so called) dark ages of Europe.
II. On the tales and metrical romances common, for the most part, to
England, Germany, and the North of France; and on the English songs
and ballads; continued to the reign of Charles the First.--A few
selections will be made from the Swedish, Danish, and German
languages, translated for the purpose by the Lecturer.
III. Chaucer and Spenser; of Petrarch; of Ariosto, Pulci, and Boiardo.
IV. V. and VI. On the Dramatic Works of SHAKSPEARE. In these Lectures
will be comprised the substance of Mr. Coleridge's former Courses on
the same subject, enlarged and varied by subsequent study and
reflection.
VII. On Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger; with the
probable causes of the cessation of Dramatic 'Poetry' in England with
Shirley and Otway, soon after the Restoration of Charles the Second.
VIII. Of the Life and 'all' the Works of CERVANTES, but chiefly of his
Don Quixote. The Ridicule of Knight-Errantry shewn to have been but a
secondary object in the mind of the Author, and not the principal
Cause of the Delight which the Work continues to give in all Nations,
and under all the Revolutions of Manners and Opinions.
IX. On Rabelais, Swift, and Sterne: on the Nature and Constituents of
genuine Humour, and on the Distinctions of the Humorous from the
Witty, the Fanciful, the Droll, the Odd, &c.
X. Of Donne, Dante, and Milton.
XI. On the Arabian Nights Entertainments, and on the 'romantic' use of
the supernatural in Poetry, and in works of fiction not poetical. On
the conditions and regulations under which such Books may be employed
advantageously in the earlier Periods of Education.
XII. On tales of witches, apparitions, &c. as distinguished from the
magic and magicians of asiatic origin. The probable sources of the
former, and of the belief in them in certain ages and classes of men.
Criteria by which mistaken and exaggerated facts may be distinguished
from absolute falsehood and imposture. Lastly, the causes of the
terror and interest which stories of ghosts and witches inspire, in
early life at least, whether believed or not.
XIII. On colour, sound, and form, in nature, as connected with POESY:
the word, 'Poesy' used as the 'generic' or class term, including
poetry, music, painting, statuary, and ideal architecture, as its
species. The reciprocal relations of poetry and philosophy to each
other; and of both to religion, and the moral sense.
XIV. On the corruptions of the English language since the reign of
Queen Anne, in our style of writing prose. A few easy rules for the
attainment of a manly, unaffected, and pure language, in our genuine
mother-tongue, whether for the purposes of writing, oratory, or
conversation. Concluding Address."
These lectures, from his own account, were the most profitable of any he
had before given, though delivered in an unfavorable situation; but
being near the Temple, many of the students were his auditors. It was
the first time I had ever heard him in public. He lectured from notes,
which he had carefully made; yet it was obvious, that his audience was
more delighted when, putting his notes aside, he spoke extempore;--many
of these notes were preserved, and have lately been printed in the
Literary Remains. In his lectures he was brilliant, fluent, and rapid;
his words seemed to flow as from a person repeating with grace and
energy some delightful poem. If, however, he sometimes paused, it was
not for the want of words, but that he was seeking the most appropriate,
or their most logical arrangement.
The attempts to copy his lectures verbatim have failed, they are but
comments. Scarcely in anything could he be said to be a mannerist, his
mode of lecturing was his own. Coleridge's eloquence, when he gave
utterance to his rich thoughts, flowing like some great river, which
winds its way majestically at its own "sweet will," though occasionally
slightly impeded by a dam formed from its crumbling banks, but over
which the accumulated waters pass onward with increased force, so
arrested his listeners, as at times to make them feel almost breathless.
Such seemed the movement of Coleridge's words in lecture or in earnest
discourse, and his countenance retained the same charms of benignity,
gentleness, and intelligence, though this expression varied with the
thoughts he uttered, and was much modified by his sensitive nature. His
quotations from the poets, of high character, were most feelingly and
most luminously given, as by one inspired with the subject. In my early
intimacy with this great man, I was especially struck with the store of
knowledge he possessed, and on which I ever found one might safely rely.
I begged him to inform me by what means the human mind could retain so
much, to which he always gave the following answer:
"The memory is of two kinds," (a division I have ever found useful),
"the one kind I designate the passive memory, the other the creative,
with the first I retain the names of 'things', 'figures', and
'numbers', &c. and this in myself I believe to be very defective. With
the other I recall facts, and theories, &c. by means of their law or
their principle, and in tracing these, the images or facts present
themselves to me."
Coleridge, as a motto to the first essay in 'The Friend', quotes the
following observation from the life of Petrarch:
"Believe me," says this writer, "it requires no little confidence to
promise help to the struggling, counsel to the doubtful, light to the
blind, hope to the desponding, refreshment to the weary; these are
great things if they are accomplished, trifles if they exist but in
promise. I, however, aim not so much to prescribe a law for others, as
to set forth the law of my own mind." At this Coleridge always aimed,
and continuing the quotation from Petrarch, "Let the man who shall
approve of it, abide, and let him to whom it shall appear not
reasonable, reject it. 'Tis my earnest wish, I confess, to employ my
understanding and acquirements in that mode and direction in which I
may be able to benefit the largest number possible of my
fellow-creatures."
Such was Coleridge's wish, and with this view, and with this end, he
constantly employed his time.
His mind was occupied with serious thoughts--thoughts connected with the
deep truths he was endeavouring to inculcate. His heart was from his
early youth full of sympathy and love, and so remained till his latest
hour. To his friend, when in trouble or sorrow, this sympathy and solace
were freely given; and when he received, or thought he received, a
benefit, or a kindness, his heart overflowed with gratitude--even slight
services were sometimes over-valued by him. I have selected the
following from among many letters written at different periods, as
characteristic of the man, and evincing those religious, grateful, and
affectionate feelings which are so strongly marked in all he has ever
written, for, from his youth upward, he was wedded to the lovely and the
beautiful. In his letters, these feelings were occasionally expressed
with much liveliness, terseness, and originality.
In doing this, I believe, I must anticipate some of the incidents of his
life; the first letter written was addressed to a friend, who was in
great anguish of mind from the sudden death of his mother, and was
written thirty years before his decease:
"Your letter, my friend, struck me with a mighty horror. It rushed
upon me and stupified my feelings. You bid me write you a religious
letter; I am not a man who would attempt to insult the greatness of
your anguish by any other consolation. Heaven knows that in the
easiest fortunes there is much dissatisfaction and weariness of
spirit; much that calls for the exercise of patience and resignation;
but in storms, like these, that shake the dwelling and make the heart
tremble, there is no middle way between despair and the yielding up of
the whole spirit unto the guidance of faith. And surely it is a matter
of joy, that your faith in Jesus has been preserved; the Comforter
that should relieve you is not far from you. But as you are a
Christian, in the name of that Saviour, who was filled with bitterness
and made drunken with wormwood, I conjure you to have recourse in
frequent prayer to 'his God and your God,' [13] the God of mercies,
and father of all comfort. Your poor father is, I hope, almost
senseless of the calamity; the unconscious instrument of Divine
Providence knows it not, and your mother is in heaven. It is sweet to
be roused from a frightful dream by the song of birds, and the
gladsome rays of the morning. Ah, how infinitely more sweet to be
awakened from the blackness and amazement of a sudden horror, by the
glories of God manifest, and the hallelujahs of angels.
As to what regards yourself, I approve altogether of your abandoning
what you justly call vanities. I look upon you as a man, called by
sorrow and anguish and a strange desolation of hopes into quietness,
and a soul set apart and made peculiar to God; we cannot arrive at any
portion of heavenly bliss without in some measure imitating Christ.
And they arrive at the largest inheritance who imitate the most
difficult parts of his character, and bowed down and crushed under
foot, cry in fulness of faith, 'Father, thy will be done.'
I wish above measure to have you for a little while here--no visitants
shall blow on the nakedness of your feelings--you shall be quiet, and
your spirit may be healed. I see no possible objection, unless your
father's helplessness prevent you, and unless you are necessary to
him. If this be not the case, I charge you write me that you will
come.
I charge you, my dearest friend, not to dare to encourage gloom or
despair--you are a temporary sharer in human miseries, that you may be
an eternal partaker of the Divine nature. I charge you, if by any
means it be possible, come to me. I remain, your affectionate,
S.T. COLERIDGE."
"MY DEAR SIR,
Accept my thanks for your kind remembrance of me, and for the proof of
it in the present of your tribute of friendship, I have read it with
uninterrupted interest, and with satisfaction scarcely less
continuous. In adding the three last words, I am taking the word
satisfaction in its strictest sense: for had I written pleasure, there
would have been no ground for the limitation. Indeed as it was, it is
a being scrupulous over much. For at the two only passages at which I
made a moment's 'halt' (viz. p. 3, [14], and p. 53, last line but
five,) she had seldom--oppressive awe, my not 'objection' but
'stoppage' at the latter amounted only to a doubt, a 'quære', whether
the trait of character here given should not have been followed by
some little comment, as for instance, that such a state of feeling,
though not desirable in a regenerate person, in whom belief had
wrought love, and love obedience, must yet be ranked amongst those
constitutional differences that may exist between the best and wisest
Christians, without any corresponding difference in their spiritual
progress. One saint fixes his eyes on the 'palm', another saint thinks
of the previous 'conflict', and closes them in prayer. Both are waters
of the same fountain--'this' the basin, 'that' the salient column,
both equally dear to God, and both may be used as examples for men,
the one to invite the thoughtless sceptic, the other to alarm the
reckless believer. You will see, therefore, that I do not object to
the sentence itself; but as a matter of 'feeling', it met me too
singly and suddenly. I had not anticipated such a trait, and the
surprise counterfeited the sensation of perplexity for a moment or
two. On as little objection to any thing you have said, did the
'desiderium' the sense of not being quite satisfied, proceed in regard
to the 44. p. 3. In the particular instance in the application of the
sentiment, I found nothing to question or qualify. It was the rule or
principle which a certain class of your readers might be inclined to
deduce from it, it was the possible generalization of the particular
instance that made me pause. I am jealous of the disposition to turn
Christianity or Religion into a particular 'business' or line. 'Well,
Miss, how does your pencil go on, I was delighted with your last
landscape.' 'Oh, sir, I have quite given 'up' that, I have got into
the religious line.' Now, my dear sir, the rule which I have deduced
from the writings of St. Paul and St. John, and (permit me also to
add) of Luther, would be this. Form and endeavour to strengthen into
an habitual and instinct-like feeling, the sense of the utter
incompatibility of Christianity with every thing wrong or unseemly,
with whatever betrays or fosters the mind of flesh, the predominence
of the 'animal' within us, by having habitually present to the mind,
the full and lively conviction of its perfect compatibility with
whatever is innocent of its harmony, with whatever
contra-distinguishes the HUMAN from the animal; of its sympathy and
coalescence with the cultivation of the faculties, affections, and
fruitions, which God hath made 'peculiar' to 'man', either wholly or
in their ordained 'combination' with what is peculiar to humanity, the
blurred, but not obliterated signatures of our original title deed,
(and God said, man will we make in our own image.) What?--shall
Christianity exclude or alienate us from those powers, acquisitions,
and attainments, which Christianity is so pre-eminently calculated to
elevate and enliven and sanctify?
Far, very far, am I from suspecting in you, my dear sir, any
participation in these prejudices of a shrivelled proselyting and
censorious religionist. But a numerous and stirring faction there is,
in the so called Religious Public, whose actual and actuating
principles, with whatever vehemence they may disclaim it in words, is,
that redemption is a something not yet effected--that there is neither
sense nor force in our baptism--and that instead of the Apostolic
command, 'Rejoice, and again I say unto you, rejoice'; baptized
Christians are to be put on sackcloth and ashes, and try, by torturing
themselves and others, to procure a rescue from the devil. Again, let
me thank you for your remembrance of me, and believe me from the hour
we first met at Bristol, with esteem and regard,
Your sincere friend,
S. T. COLERIDGE."
Ramsgate, 28th Oct. 1822.
DEAR FRIEND,
Words I know are not wanted between you and me. But there are
occasions so awful, there may be instances and manifestations of
friendship so affecting, and drawing up with them so long a train from
behind, so many folds of recollection as they come onward on one's
mind, that it seems but a mere act of justice to oneself, a debt we
owe to the dignity of our moral nature to give them some record; a
relief which the spirit of man asks and demands to contemplate in some
outward symbol, what it is inwardly solemnizing. I am still too much
under the cloud of past misgivings, too much of the stun and stupor
from the recent peals and thunder-crush still remains, to permit me to
anticipate others than by wishes and prayers. What the effect of your
unwearied kindness may be on poor M.'s mind and conduct, I pray
fervently, and I feel a cheerful trust that I do not pray in vain,
that on my own mind and spring of action, it will be proved not to
have been wasted. I do inwardly believe, that I shall yet do something
to thank you, my dear--in the way in which you would wish to be
thanked--by doing myself honour.--Dear friend and brother of my soul,
God only knows how truly, and in the depth, you are loved and prized
by your affectionate friend,
S. T. COLERIDGE."
During the first lecture of the course in 1817, a young man of modest
demeanor sent him a letter, and afterwards introduced himself, stating
ti that he was a student in literature, and from his conversation, he
struck Coleridge as one much more attached to the better part of our
nature than to the love of gain. An intimacy consequently took place,
and Coleridge addressed many letters to him, from which will be selected
such as are critical or autobiographical. Fortunately they have been
preserved, and are too valuable not to form a part of this volume.
The following is an answer to the first letter Coleridge received from
him:
"Wednesday Morning, Jan. 28th, 1818.
DEAR SIR,
Your friendly letter was first delivered to me at the lecture-room
door on yesterday evening, ten minutes before the lecture, and my
spirits were so sadly depressed by the circumstance of my hoarseness,
that I was literally incapable of reading it. I now express my
acknowledgments, and with them the regret that I had not received the
letter in time to have availed myself of it.
When I was young I used to laugh at flattery, as, on account of its
absurdity, I now abhor it, from my repeated observations of its
mischievous effects. Amongst these, not the least is, that it renders
honourable natures more slow and reluctant in expressing their real
feelings in praise of the deserving, than, for the interests of truth
and virtue, might be desired. For the weakness of our moral and
intellectual being, of which the comparatively strongest are often the
most, and the most painfully, conscious, needs the confirmation
derived from the coincidence and sympathy of the friend, as much as
the voice of honour within us denounces the pretences of the
flatterer. Be assured, then, that I write as I think, when I tell you
that, from the style and thoughts of your letter, I should have drawn
a very different conclusion from that which you appear to have done,
concerning both your talents and the cultivation which they have
received. Both the matter and manner are manly, simple, and correct.
Had I the time in my own power, compatibly with the performance of
duties of immediate urgency, I would endeavour to give you, by letter,
the most satisfactory answer to your questions that my reflections and
the experience of my own fortunes could supply. But, at all events, I
will not omit to avail myself of your judicious suggestion in my last
lecture, in which it will form a consistent part of the subject and
purpose of the discourse. Meantime, believe me, with great respect,
Your obliged fellow-student of the true and the beseeming
S. T. COLERIDGE."
"Sept. 20th, 1818.
DEAR SIR,
Those who have hitherto chosen to take notice of me, as known to them
only by my public character, have for the greater part taken out, not,
indeed, a poetical, but a critical, license to make game of me,
instead of sending game to me. Thank heaven! I am in this respect more
tough than tender. But, to be serious, I heartily thank you for your
polite remembrance; and, though my feeble health and valetudinarian
stomach force me to attach no little value to the present itself, I
feel still more obliged by the kindness that prompted it.
I trust that you will not come within the purlieus of Highgate without
giving me the opportunity of assuring you personally that I am, with
sincere respect,
Your obliged,
S. T. COLERIDGE."
Following the chronological order I proposed, I am led to speak again of
Lamb, who having at this time collected many little poems and essays,
scattered in different publications, he reprinted and published them in
two small volumes, which he dedicated to Coleridge; and those of my
readers who have not seen this work will, doubtless, find it
interesting. The simplicity of this dedication, and above all the
biographical portion of it, seem to render it appropriate to this work,
and it is therefore subjoined.
TO S. T. COLERIDGE, Esq.
MY DEAR COLERIDGE,
You will smile to see the slender labors of your friend designated by
the title of 'Works'; but such was the wish of the gentlemen who have
kindly undertaken the trouble of collecting them, and from their
judgment could be no appeal.
It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself, a
volume containing the 'early pieces' which were first published among
your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you and them. My friend
Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a sort of
warfare) under cover of the greater Ajax. How this association, which
shall always be a dear and proud recollection to me, came to be
broken;--who snapped the three-fold cord,--whether yourself (but I
know that was not the case,) grew ashamed of your former
companions,--or whether (which is by much the more probable) some
ungracious bookseller was author of the separation, I cannot
tell;--but wanting the support of your friendly elm, (I speak for
myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or no fruits; the
sap (if ever it had any) has become in a manner dried up and extinct:
and you will find your old associate in his second volume, dwindled
into prose and criticism. Am I right in assuming this as the cause? or
is it that, as years come upon us, (except with some more
healthy-happy spirits,) life itself loses much of its poetry for us?
we transcribe but what we read in the great volume of Nature: and, as
the characters grow dim, we turn of and look another way. You,
yourself, write no Christabels, nor Ancient Marriners, now. Some of
the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the general
reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances, which I should be
sorry should be ever totally extinct--the memory
Of summer days and of delightful years.
Even so far back as to those old suppers at our old----Inn, when
life was fresh, and topics exhaustless,--and you first kindled in me,
if not the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty and kindliness,
What words have I heard Spoke at the Mermaid?
The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time,
but either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is the same, who
stood before me three-and-twenty years ago--his hair a little
confessing the hand of time, but still shrouding the same capacious
brain,--his heart not altered, scarcely where it "alteration finds."
One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original form,
though I have heard you complain of a certain over-imitation of the
antique in the style. If I could see any way of getting rid of the
objection, without re-writing it entirely, I would make some
sacrifices. But when I wrote John Woodville, I never proposed to
myself any distinct deviation from common English. I had been newly
initiated in the writings of our elder dramatists; Beaumont, and
Fletcher, and Massinger, were then a 'first love'; and from what I was
so freshly conversant in, what wonder if my language imperceptibly
took a tinge? The very 'time', which I had chosen for my story, that
which immediately followed the Restoration, seemed to require in an
English play, that the English should be of rather an older cast, than
that of the precise year in which it happened to be written. I wish it
had not some faults which I can less vindicate than the language.
I remain, my dear Coleridge, Yours, with unabated esteem, C. LAMB.
In Feb. 1819, application was made to Mr. Coleridge to give a course of
lectures at the Russell Institution, to which he sent the following
reply, addressed to Mr. Britton:
Highgate, 28th Feb., 1819.
DEAR SIR,
First permit me to remove a very natural, indeed almost inevitable,
mistake, relative to my lectures; namely, that I 'have' them, or that
the lectures of one place or season are in any way repeated in
another. So far from it, that on any point that I had ever studied
(and on no other should I dare discourse--I mean, that I would not
lecture on any subject for which I had to 'acquire' the main
knowledge, even though a month's or three months' previous time were
allowed me; on no subject that had not employed my thoughts for a
large portion of my life since earliest manhood, free of all outward
and particular purpose)--on any point within my habit of thought, I
should greatly prefer a subject I had never lectured on, to one which
I had repeatedly given; and those who have attended me for any two
seasons successively will bear witness, that the lecture given at the
London Philosophical Society, on the 'Romeo and Juliet', for instance,
was as different from that given at the Crown and Anchor, as if they
had been by two individuals who, without any communication with each
other, had only mastered the same principles of philosophical
criticism. This was most strikingly evidenced in the coincidence
between my lectures and those of Schlegel; such, and so close, that it
was fortunate for my moral reputation that I had not only from five to
seven hundred ear witnesses that the passages had been given by me at
the Royal Institution two years before Schlegel commenced his lectures
at Vienna, but that notes had been taken of these by several men and
ladies of high rank. The fact is this; during a course of lectures, I
faithfully employ all the intervening days in collecting and digesting
the materials, whether I have or have not lectured on the same subject
before, making no difference.
The day of the lecture, till the hour of commencement, I devote to the
consideration, what of the mass before me is best fitted to answer the
purposes of a lecture, that is, to keep the audience awake and
interested during the delivery, and to leave a sting behind, that is,
a disposition to study the subject anew, under the light of a new
principle. Several times, however, partly from apprehension respecting
my health and animal spirits, partly from the wish to possess copies
that might afterwards be marketable among the publishers, I have
previously written the lecture; but before I had proceeded twenty
minutes, I have been obliged to push the MS. away, and give the
subject a new turn. Nay, this was so notorious, that many of my
auditors used to threaten me, when they saw any number of written
papers on my desk, to steal them away; declaring they never felt so
secure of a good lecture as when they perceived that I had not a
single scrap of writing before me. I take far, far more pains than
would go to the set composition of a lecture, both by varied reading
and by meditation; but for the words, illustrations, &c., I know
almost as little as any one of the audience (that is, those of
anything like the same education with myself) what they will be five
minutes before the lecture begins. Such is my way, for such is my
nature; and in attempting any other, I should only torment myself in
order to disappoint my auditors--torment myself during the delivery, I
mean; for in all other respects it would be a much shorter and easier
task to deliver them from writing. I am anxious to preclude any
semblance of affectation; and have therefore troubled you with this
lengthy preface before I have the hardihood to assure you, that you
might as well ask me what my dreams were in the year 1814, as what my
course of lectures was at the Surrey Institution. 'Fuimus Troes'."
The following anecdote will convey to my readers a more accurate notion
of Coleridge's powers, when called upon to lecture, even without
previous notice. Early one morning he received two letters, which he
sent me to read; one to inform him that he was 'expected' that same
evening to deliver a lecture at the rooms of the London Philosophical
Society, where it was supposed that four or five hundred persons would
be present: the other contained a list of the gentlemen who had already
given a lecture in the course; to which was added, the subject on which
each had addressed the audience. I well knew that Coleridge, not
expecting this sudden appeal, would be agitated, as he was always
excited before delivering a lecture, and that this would probably bring
on a return of his inward suffering. After consulting together, we
determined to go to town at seven o'clock in the evening, to make some
enquiries respecting this unexpected application, and arrived at the
house of the gentleman who had written the letter. His servant informed
us that he was not at home, but would return at eight o'clock, the hour
fixed for the commencement of the lecture. We then proceeded to the
society's room, which we found empty. It was a long one, partitioned off
by a pole, the ends of which were fastened to the side-walls, and from
this pole was nailed a length of baize which reached the floor, and in
the centre was fixed a square piece of board to form a desk. We passed
under this baize curtain to observe the other arrangements, from whence
we could easily discern the audience as they entered. When we looked
over the pole which formed the partition, we saw rows of benches across
the room, prepared for about four or five hundred persons--on the side
were some short ones, one above the other, intended for the committee.
The preparations looked formidable--and Coleridge was anxiously waiting
to be informed of the subject on which he was to lecture. At length the
committee entered, taking their seats--from the centre of this party Mr.
President arose, and put on a president's hat, which so disfigured him
that we could scarcely refrain from laughter. He thus addressed the
company:--"This evening, Mr. Coleridge will deliver a lecture on the
'Growth of the Individual Mind.'" Coleridge at first seemed startled,
and turning round to me whispered, "a pretty stiff subject they have
chosen for me." He instantly mounted his standing-place, and began
without hesitation; previously requesting me to observe the effect of
his lecture on the audience. It was agreed, that, should he appear to
fail, I was to clasp his ancle, but that he was to continue for an hour
if the countenances of his auditors indicated satisfaction. If I rightly
remember his words, he thus began his address:
"The lecture I am about to give this evening is purely extempore.
Should you find a nominative case looking out for a verb--or a
fatherless verb for a nominative case, you must excuse it. It is
purely extempore, though I have thought and read much on this subject."
I could see the company
begin to smile, and this at once seemed to inspire him with
confidence. This beginning appeared to me a sort of mental curvetting,
while preparing his thoughts for one of his eagle flights, as if with
an eagle's eye he could steadily look at the mid-day sun. He was most
brilliant, eloquent, and logically consecutive. The time moved on so
swiftly, that on looking at my watch, I found an hour and a half had
passed away, and therefore waiting only a desirable moment (to use his
own playful words;) I prepared myself to punctuate his oration." As
previously agreed, I pressed his ancle, and thus gave hire the hint he
had requested-when bowing graciously, and with a benevolent and
smiling countenance he presently descended.
The lecture was quite new to me, and I believe quite new to himself,
at least so far as the arrangement of his words were concerned. The
floating thoughts were most beautifully arranged, and delivered on the
spur of the moment. What accident gave rise to the singular request,
that he should deliver this lecture impromptu, I never learnt; nor did
it signify, as it afforded a happy opportunity to many of witnessing
in part the extent of his reading, and the extraordinary strength of
his powers.
At this time an intimate and highly accomplished friend of my wife's,
who was also a very sensible woman, a fine musician, and considered
one of the best private performers in the country, came on a visit.
The conversation turned on music, and Coleridge, speaking of himself,
observed, "I believe I have no ear for music, but have a taste for
it." He then explained the delight he received from Mozart, and how
greatly he enjoyed the dithyrambic movement of Beethoven; but could
never find pleasure in the fashionable modern composers. It seemed to
him "playing tricks with music--like nonsense verses--music to please
me," added he, "must have a subject." Our friend appeared struck with
this observation, "I understand you, sir," she replied, and
immediately seated herself at the piano. "Have the kindness to listen
to the three following airs, which I played on a certain occasion
extempore, as substitutes for words. Will you try to guess the meaning
I wished to convey, and I shall then ascertain the extent of my
success." She instantly gave us the first air,--his reply was
immediate. "That is clear, it is solicitation."--"When I played this
air," observed the lady, "to a dear friend whom you know, she turned
to me, saying, 'what do you want?'--I told her the purport of my air
was to draw her attention to her dress, as she was going out with me
to take a drive by the seashore without her cloak." Our visitor then
called Coleridge's attention to her second air; it was short and
expressive. To this he answered, "that is easily told--it is
remonstrance." "Yes," replied she, "for my friend again shewing the
same inattention, I played this second extemporaneous air, in order to
remonstrate with her." We now listened to the third and last air. He
requested her to repeat it, which she did.--"That," said he, "I cannot
understand." To this she replied,--"it is I believe a failure," naming
at the same time the subject she had wished to convey. Coleridge's
answer was--"That is a sentiment, and cannot be well expressed in
music."
The evening before our friend left us, Coleridge had a long
conversation with her on serious and religious subjects. Fearing,
however, that he might not have been clearly understood, he the next
morning brought down the following paper, written before he had
retired to rest:--
'S. T. Coleridge's confession of belief; with respect to the true
grounds of Christian morality', 1817.
1. I sincerely profess the Christian faith, and regard the New
Testament as containing all its articles, and I interpret the words
not only in the obvious, but in the 'literal' sense, unless where
common reason, and the authority of the Church of England join in
commanding them to be understood FIGURATIVELY: as for instance,
'Herod is a Fox.'
2. Next to the Holy Scriptures, I revere the Liturgy, Articles, and
Homilies of the Established Church, and hold the doctrines therein
expressly contained.
3. I reject as erroneous, and deprecate as 'most' dangerous, the
notion, that our 'feelings' are to be the ground and guide of our
actions. I believe the feelings themselves to be among the things
that are to be grounded and guided. The feelings are effects, not
causes, a part of the 'instruments' of action, but never can without
serious injury be perverted into the 'principles' of action. Under
'feelings', I include all that goes by the names of 'sentiment',
sensibility, &c. &c. These, however pleasing, may be made and often
are made the instruments of vice and guilt, though under proper
discipline, they are fitted to be both aids and ornaments of virtue.
They are to virtue what beauty is to health.
4. All men, the good as well as the bad, and the bad as well as the
good, act with motives. But what is motive to one person is no
motive at all to another. The pomps and vanities of the world supply
'mighty' motives to an ambitious man; but are so far from being a
'motive' to a humble Christian, that he rather wonders how they can
be even a temptation to any man in his senses, who believes himself
to have an immortal soul. Therefore that a title, or the power of
gratifying sensual luxury, is the motive with which A. acts, and no
motive at all to B.--must arise from the different state of the
moral being in A. and in B.--consequently motives too, as well as
'feelings' are 'effects'; and they become causes only in a secondary
or derivative sense.
5. Among the motives of a probationary Christian, the practical
conviction that all his intentional acts have consequences in a
future state; that as he sows here, he must reap hereafter; in plain
words, that according as he does, or does not, avail himself of the
light and helps given by God through Christ, he must go either to
heaven or hell; is the 'most' impressive, were it only from pity to
his own soul, as an everlasting sentient being.
6. But that this is a motive, and the most impressive of motives to
any given person, arises from, and supposes, a commencing state of
regeneration in that person's mind and heart. That therefore which
'constitutes' a regenerate STATE is the true PRINCIPLE ON which, or
with a 'view' to which, actions, feelings, and motives ought to be
grounded.
7. The different 'operations' of this radical principle, (which
principle is called in Scripture sometimes faith, and in other
places love,) I have been accustomed to call good impulses because
they are the powers that impel us to do what we ought to do.
8. The impulses of a full grown Christian are 1. Love of God. 2.
Love of our neighbour for the love of God. 3. An undefiled
conscience, which prizes above every comprehensible advantage 'that
peace' of God which passeth all understanding.
9. Every consideration, whether of hope or of fear, which is, and
which 'is adopted' by 'us', poor imperfect creatures! in our present
state of probation, as MEANS of 'producing' such impulses in our
hearts, is so far a right and 'desirable' consideration. He that is
weak must take the medicine which is suitable to his existing
weakness; but then he ought to know that it is a 'medicine', the
object of which is to remove the disease, not to feed and perpetuate
it.
10. Lastly, I hold that there are two grievous mistakes,--both of
which as 'extremes' equally opposite to truth and the Gospel,--I
equally reject and deprecate. The first is, that of Stoic pride,
which would snatch away his crutches from a curable cripple before
he can walk without them. The second is, that of those worldly and
temporizing preachers, who would disguise from such a cripple the
necessary truth that crutches are not legs, but only temporary aids
and substitutes."
[Footnote 1: I give the letter as I received it,--of course it was never
intended for the public eye.]
[Footnote 2: This is too strong an expression. It was not idleness, it
was not sensual indulgence, that led Coleridge to contract this habit.
No, it was latent disease, of which sufficient proof is given in this
memoir.]
[Footnote 3: Those who have witnessed the witches scampering off the
stage, cannot forget the ludicrous appearance they make.]
[Footnote 4: Of the historical plays, he observes:
"It would be a fine national custom to act such a series of dramatic
histories in orderly succession, in the yearly Christmas holidays, and
could not but tend to counteract that mock cosmopolitism, which, under
a positive term, really implies nothing but a negation of, or
indifference to, the particular love of our country."
'Literary Remains', Vol. ii. p. 161.]
[Footnote 5: Vide Vol. ii. p. 1.--Also p. 103 of this work.]
[Footnote 6: He had long been greatly afflicted with nightmare; and,
when residing with us, was frequently roused from this painful sleep by
any one of the family who might hear him.]
[Footnote 7: From an anonymous criticism published soon after the
'Christabel'.]
[Footnote 8: In the "Improved Version of the New Testament," the spirit
of this Evangelist is perverted.]
[Footnote 9: He used to say, in St. John is the philosophy of
Christianity; in St. Paul, the moral reflex.]
[Footnote 10: The last lines are in the 'Aids to Reflection'. The former
six lines are from a note written from his conversation.]
[Footnote 11: The 'Christabel' was published by Murray, but the
'Sibylline Leaves' and the 'Biog. Liter.' by Rest Fenner.]
[Footnote 12: The first was published in 1816, and the second in 1817.]
[Footnote 13: 'Vide' St. John, ch. xx. ver. 17.]