In consequence of Mr. Coleridge's journey to the north, to collect
subscribers for the "Watchman," an incident occurred, which produced a
considerable effect on his after life. During Mr. C.'s visit to
Birmingham, an accident had introduced him to the eldest son of Mr.
Lloyd, the eminent banker of that town. Mr. Lloyd had intended his son
Charles to unite with him in the bank, but the monotonous business of the
establishment, ill accorded with the young man's taste, which had taken a
decidedly literary turn. If the object of Charles Lloyd had been to
accumulate wealth, his disposition might have been gratified to the
utmost, but the tedious and unintellectual occupation of adjusting
pounds, shillings, and pence, suited, he thought, those alone who had
never, eagle-like, gazed at the sun, or bathed their temples in the dews
of Parnassus. The feelings of this young man were ardent; his reading and
information extensive; and his genius, though of a peculiar cast,
considerable. His mind appeared, however, subject to something of that
morbid sensibility which distinguished Cowper. The admiration excited in
Mr. L. by Mr. Coleridge's pre-eminent talents, induced him to relinquish
his connexion with the bank; and he had now arrived in Bristol to seek
Mr. C. out, and to improve his acquaintance with him.
To enjoy the enviable privilege of Mr. Coleridge's conversation, Mr.
Lloyd proposed even to domesticate with him; and made him such a
pecuniary offer, that Mr. C. immediately acceded to the proposal; and to
effect this, as an essential preliminary, removed from Redcliff-hill, to
a house on Kingsdown.
In this his new abode, Mr. Coleridge appeared settled and comfortable.
Friends were kind and numerous. Books, of all kinds, were at his command.
Of the literary society now found in Bristol, he expressed himself in
terms of warm approval, and thought, in this feature, that it was
surpassed by no city in the kingdom. His son Hartley, also, was now born;
and no small accession to his comfort arose from his young and
intelligent domestic associate, Charles Lloyd. This looked something like
permanence; but the promise was fallacious, for Mr. Coleridge now
experienced another removal.
His friend, Mr. Thomas Poole, of Nether Stowey, near Bridgwater, was
desirous of obtaining Mr. C. again, as a permanent neighbour, and
recommended him to take a small house at Stowey, then to be let, at seven
pounds a year, which he thought would well suit him. Mr. Poole's personal
worth; his friendly and social manners; his information, and taste for
literature; all this, combined with the prospect of a diminished expense
in his establishment, unitedly, formed such powerful inducements, that
Mr. C. at once decided, and the more so, as Mr. Lloyd had consented to
accompany him. To this place, consequently, the whole party repaired.
On Mr. Coleridge reaching his new abode, I was gratified by receiving
from him the following letter.
"Stowey, 1796.
My dear Cottle,
We arrived safe. Our house is set to rights. We are all--wife, bratling,
and self, remarkably well. Mrs. Coleridge likes Stowey, and loves Thomas
Poole and his mother, who love her. A communication has been made from
our orchard into T. Poole's garden, and from thence to Cruikshank's, a
friend of mine, and a young married man, whose wife is very amiable, and
she and Sara are already on the most cordial terms; from all this you
will conclude we are happy. By-the-bye, what a delightful poem, is
Southey's 'Musings on a Landscape of Gaspar Poussin.' I love it almost
better than his 'Hymn to the Penates.' In his volume of poems. The
following, namely,
'The Six Sonnets on the Slave Trade.--The Ode to the Genius of
Africa.--To my own Miniature Picture.--The Eight
Inscriptions.--Elinor, Botany-bay Eclogue.--Frederick, ditto.--The
Ten Sonnets, (pp. 107-116.) On the death of an Old Spaniel.--The
Soldier's Wife, Dactylics.--The Widow, Sapphics.--The Chapel
Bell.--The Race of Banco. Rudiger.'
All these Poems are worthy the Author of 'Joan of Arc.' And
'The Musings on a Landscape,' &c. and
'The Hymn to the Penates,'
deserve to have been published after 'Joan of Arc,' as proofs of
progressive genius.
God bless you,