Mr. Coleridge used occasionally to regret, with even pungency of feeling,
that he had no relation in the world, to whom, in a time of extremity, he
could apply "for a little assistance." He appeared like a being dropped
from the clouds, without tie or connection on earth; and during the years
in which I knew him, he never once visited any one of his relations, nor
exchanged a letter with them. It used to fill myself and others with
concern and astonishment, that such a man should, apparently, be
abandoned. On some occasions I urged him to break through all
impediments, and go and visit his friends at Ottery; this his high spirit
could not brook. I then pressed him to dedicate his Poems to one of his
relatives, his brother George, of whom he occasionally spoke with
peculiar kindness. He was silent; but some time after, he said in a
letter, "You, I am sure will be glad to learn, that I shall follow your
advice."
In the poem which thus arose, what can be more touching than these lines
in his dedication to his brother? (Second edition.)
"To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed
A different fortune, and more different mind--
Me from the spot where first I sprang to light
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fixed
Its first domestic loves; and hence through life
Chasing chance--started friendships. A brief while,
Some have preserved me from life's pelting ills."
In certain features of their character, there was a strong resemblance
between Chatterton and S. T. Coleridge, with a reverse in some points,
for Chatterton was loved and cherished by his family, but neglected by
the world. In the agony of mind which Mr. C. sometimes manifested on this
subject, I have wished to forget those four tender lines in his Monody on
Chatterton.
"Poor Chatterton! farewell! Of darkest hues,
This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb:
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse,
Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom!"
Mr. C. would not have felt so much, if his own natural and unshaken
affections had been less ardent.
Before I enter on an important incident in Mr. Coleridge's Bristol life,
I must previously observe, that his mind was in a singular degree
distinguished for the habit of projecting. New projects and plans, at
this time, followed each other in rapid succession, and while the
vividness of the impression lasted, the very completion could scarcely
have afforded more satisfaction than the vague design. To project, with
him, was commonly sufficient. The execution, of so much consequence in
the estimation of others, with him was a secondary point. I remember him
once to have read to me, from his pocket book; a list of eighteen
different works which he had resolved to write, and several of them in
quarto, not one of which he ever effected. At the top of the list
appeared the word "Pantisocracy! 4to." Each of these works, he could have
talked, (for he often poured forth as much as half an 8vo. volume in a
single evening, and that in language sufficiently pure and connected to
admit of publication) but talking merely benefits the few, to the
exclusion of the many. The work that apparently advanced the nearest to
completion, was "Translations of the modern Latin Poets;" two vols. 8vo.
This work, which no man could better have accomplished than himself, he
so far proceeded in, as to allow of the Proposals being issued. It was to
be published by subscription, and he brought with him from Cambridge a
very respectable list of university subscribers. His excuses for not
showing any part of the work, justified the suspicion that he had not
advanced in it further than these said "Proposals."
Another prominent feature in Mr. Coleridge's mind, was procrastination.
It is not to be supposed that he ever made a promise or entered on an
engagement without intending to fulfil it, but none who knew him could
deny that he wanted much of that steady, persevering determination which
is the precursor of success, and the parent of all great actions. His
strongest intentions were feebly supported after the first paroxysms of
resolve, so that any judicious friend would strenuously have dissuaded
him from an undertaking that involved a race with time. Mr. Coleridge,
however, differently regarded his mental constitution, and projected at
this time a periodical miscellany, called "The Watchman."
When the thought of this magazine first suggested itself to his mind, he
convened his chief friends one evening at the Rummer Tavern, to determine
on the size, price, and time of publishing, with all other preliminaries,
essential to the launching this first-rate vessel on the mighty deep.
Having heard of the circumstance the next day, I rather wondered at not
having also been requested to attend, and while ruminating on the
subject, I received from Mr. C. the following communication.
"My dear friend,
I am fearful that you felt hurt at my not mentioning to you the proposed
'Watchman,' and from my not requesting you to attend the meeting. My dear
friend, my reasons were these. All who met were expected to become
subscribers to a fund; I knew there would be enough without you, and I
knew, and felt, how much money had been drawn from you lately.
God Almighty love you!