It happened in this case, as it often does where a duty devolves equally
on two; both neglect it. The cottage at Clevedon, it appeared, had walls,
and doors, and windows; but only such furniture as became a philosopher
who was too well disciplined to covet inordinately, non-essentials.
Beside which there might have been more of system in this deliberate
renunciation of luxury. For would it have been consistent in those who
anticipated a speedy location on the marge of one of the great American
rivers, to intrench themselves in comforts that must so soon be exchanged
for little more than primeval supplies and the rugged privations of the
desert? (For even at this time Mr. C. still fondly dwelt on the joys of
the Susquehannah.)
Two days after his marriage, I received a letter from Mr. Coleridge
(which now lies before me) requesting the kindness of me to send him
down, with all dispatch, the following little articles.
"A riddle slice; a candle box; two ventilators; two glasses for the
wash-hand stand; one tin dust pan; one small tin tea kettle; one pair
of candlesticks; one carpet brush; one flower dredge; three tin
extinguishers; two mats; a pair of slippers; a cheese toaster; two
large tin spoons; a bible; a keg of porter; coffee; raisins;
currants; catsup; nutmegs; allspice; cinnamon; rice; ginger; and
mace."
With the aid of the grocer, and the shoemaker, and the brewer, and the
tinman, and the glassman, and the brazier, &c., I immediately sent him
all that he had required, and more; and the next day rode down to pay my
respects to the new-married couple; being greeted, not with the common,
and therefore vulgar, materials of cake and wine, but with that which
moved the spirit, hearty gratulations!
I was rejoiced to find that the cottage possessed every thing that heart
could desire. The situation also was peculiarly eligible. It was in the
western extremity, not in the centre of the village. It had the benefit
of being but one story high, and as the rent was only five pounds per
ann., and no taxes, Mr. Coleridge had the satisfaction of knowing, that
by fairly "mounting his Pegasus," he could write as many verses in a week
as would pay his rent for a year. There was also a small garden, with
several pretty flowers; and the "tallest rose tree," was not failed to be
pointed out, which "peeped at the chamber window," (and which has been
honoured with some beautiful lines). I observed, however, that the
parlour, from my perverted taste, looked rather awkward in being only
whitewashed, and the same effected in rather the "olden time;" to remedy
which fanciful inconvenience, on my return to Bristol, I sent an
upholsterer[8] down to this retired and happy abode with a few pieces of
sprightly paper, to tarnish the half immaculate sitting-room walls.
Mr. Coleridge being now comfortably settled at Clevedon, I shall there
for the present leave him to write verses on his beloved Sarah, while in
the mean time, I introduce the reader to an ingenious young barrister
whom I had known some years previously under the following peculiar
circumstances.
William Gilbert, author of the "Hurricane," was the son of the eminent
philanthropist, Nathaniel Gilbert, of Antigua, who is usually noticed as
"The excellent Gilbert who first set an example to the planters, of
giving religious instruction to the slaves." In the year 1787, a want of
self-control having become painfully evident, he was placed by his
friends in the Asylum of Mr. Richard Henderson at Hanham, near Bristol,
when I first knew him. He occasionally accompanied John Henderson into
Bristol, on one of which occasions he introduced him to my brother and
myself, as the "Young Counsellor!" I spent an afternoon with them, not
readily to be forgotten. Many and great talkers have I known, but William
Gilbert, at this time, exceeded them all. His brain seemed to be in a
state of boiling effervescence, and his tongue, with inconceivable
rapidity, passed from subject to subject, but with an incoherence that
was to me, at least, marvellous. For two hours he poured forth a verbal
torrent, which was only suspended by sheer physical exhaustion.
John Henderson must have perceived a thousand fallacies in his
impassioned harangue; but he allowed them all to pass uncommented upon,
for he knew there was no fighting with a vapour. He continued in the
Asylum about a year, when his mind being partially restored, his friends
removed him, and he wholly absented himself from Bristol, till the year
1796, when he re-appeared in that city.
Being so interesting a character, I felt pleasure in introducing him to
Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Southey, with whom he readily coalesced, and they,
I believe, truly respected him, soon however perceiving there was
"something unsound in Denmark;" but still there was so much general and
obvious talent about him, and his manners were so conciliating, that they
liked his company, and tolerated some few peculiarities for the sake of
the much that was good. The deference he paid Mr. C. and Mr. S. was some
evidence that reason had partly reassumed her seat in his mind, for when
before them, he withheld many of his most extravagant notions, and
maintained such a comparative restraint on his tongue, as evidently arose
from the respect with which he was impressed.
At one time he very gravely told me, that to his certain knowledge there
was in the centre of Africa, bordering on Abyssinia, a little to the
south-east, an extensive nation of the Gibberti, or Gilberti, and that
one day or other he intended to visit them, and claim kindred.[9]
One morning, information was brought to us that W. Gilbert, at an early
hour, had departed precipitately from Bristol, without speaking to any
one of his friends. We felt great concern at this unexpected movement,
and by comparing recent conversations, we thought it highly probable
that, in obedience to some astrological monition he had determined,
forthwith, to set off on a visit to his relatives in Africa. So convinced
was Mr. Southey that this long-cherished design had influenced poor
Gilbert in his sudden withdrawment, that he wrote to Mr. Roscoe, at
Liverpool, begging him to interfere, to prevent any African captain from
taking such a person as Mr. S. described. Mr. Roscoe appeared to have
taken much trouble; but after a vigilant inquiry, he replied, by saying
that no such person had sailed from, or appeared in Liverpool. So that we
remained in total uncertainty as to what was become of him; many years
afterwards it appeared he had gone to Charleston, United States, where he
died.