In consequence of these conjoint invitations, I spent a week with Mr. C.
and Mr. W. at Allfoxden house, and during this time, (beside the reading
of MS. poems) they took me to Limouth, and Linton, and the Valley of
Stones. This beautiful and august scenery, might suggest many remarks, as
well as on our incidents upon the way, but I check the disposition to
amplify, from recollecting the extent to which an unconstrained
indulgence in narrative had formerly led me, in the affair of Tintern
Abbey.
At this interview it was determined, that the volume should be published
under the title of "Lyrical ballads," on the terms stipulated in a former
letter: that this volume should not contain the poem of "Salisbury
Plain," but only an extract from it; that it should not contain the poem
of "Peter Bell," but consist rather of sundry shorter poems, and, for the
most part, of pieces more recently written. I had recommended two
volumes, but one was fixed on, and that to be published anonymously. It
was to be begun immediately, and with the "Ancient Mariner;" which poem I
brought with me to Bristol. A day or two after I received the following.
"My dear Cottle,
You know what I think of a letter, how impossible it is to argue in it.
You must therefore take simple statements, and in a week or two, I shall
see you, and endeavour to reason with you.
Wordsworth and I have duly weighed your proposal, and this is an answer.
He would not object to the publishing of 'Peter Bell,' or the 'Salisbury
Plain' singly; but to the publishing of his poems in two volumes, he is
decisively repugnant and oppugnant.
He deems that they would want variety, &c. &c. If this apply in his case,
it applies with ten-fold more force to mine. We deem that the volumes
offered to you, are, to a certain degree, one work in kind, though not in
degree, as an ode is one work; and that our different poems are, as
stanzas, good, relatively rather than absolutely: mark you, I say in
kind, though not in degree. As to the Tragedy, when I consider it in
reference to Shakspeare's, and to one other Tragedy, it seems a poor
thing, and I care little what becomes of it. When I consider it in
comparison with modern dramatists, it rises: and I think it too bad to be
published, too good to be squandered. I think of breaking it up; the
planks are sound, and I will build a new ship of the old materials.
The dedication to the Wedgewoods, which you recommend, would be
indelicate and unmeaning. If, after four or five years, I shall have
finished some work of importance, which could not have been written, but
in an unanxious seclusion, to them I will dedicate it; for the public
will have owed the work to them who gave me the power of that unanxious
seclusion.
As to anonymous publications, depend on it, you are deceived.
Wordsworth's name is nothing to a large number of persons; mine stinks.
The 'Essay on Man,' the 'Botanic Garden,' the 'Pleasures of Memory,' and
many other most popular works, were published anonymously. However, I
waive all reasoning, and simply state it as an unaltered opinion, that
you should proceed as before, with the 'Ancient Mariner.'
The picture shall be sent.[48] For your love gifts and book-loans accept
our hearty love. The 'Joan of Arc' is a divine book; it opens lovelily. I
hope that you will take off some half dozen of our Poems on great paper,
even as the 'Joan of Arc.'
Cottle, my dear Cottle, I meant to have written you an Essay on the
Metaphysics of Typography, but I have not time. Take a few hints, without
the abstruse reasons for them, with which I mean to favour you. 18 lines
in a page, the line closely printed, certainly more closely printed than
those of the 'Joan;'[49] ('Oh, by all means, closer, _W. Wordsworth_')
equal ink, and large margins; that is beauty; it may even, under your
immediate care, mingle the sublime! And now, my dear Cottle, may God love
you and me, who am, with most unauthorish feelings,
Your true friend,
S. T. Coleridge.
P. S. I walked to Linton the day after you left us, and returned on
Saturday. I walked in one day, and returned in one."
A reference is made by Mr. Coleridge, in a letter (p. 177 [Letter
starting with "Neither Wordsworth nor myself...." Transcriber.]) to the
"caballing, long and loud" against Mr. Wordsworth, and which occasioned
him to remove from Somersetshire. To learn the nature of this annoyance,
may furnish some little amusement to the reader, while Mr. W. himself
will only smile at trifling incidents, that are now, perhaps, scarcely
remembered.
Mr. W. had taken the Allfoxden House, near Stowey, for one year, (during
the minority of the heir) and the reason why he was refused a
continuance, by the ignorant man who had the letting of it, arose, as Mr.
Coleridge informed me, from a whimsical cause, or rather a series of
causes. The wiseacres of the village had, it seemed, made Mr. W. the
subject of their serious conversation. One said that "He had seen him
wander about by night, and look rather strangely at the moon! and then,
he roamed over the hills, like a partridge." Another said, "He had heard
him mutter, as he walked, in some outlandish brogue, that nobody could
understand!" Another said, "It's useless to talk, Thomas, I think he is
what people call a 'wise man.'" (a conjuror!) Another said, "You are
every one of you wrong. I know what he is. We have all met him, tramping
away toward the sea. Would any man in his senses, take all that trouble
to look at a parcel of water! I think he carries on a snug business in
the smuggling line, and, in these journies, is on the look out for some
wet cargo!" Another very significantly said, "I know that he has got a
private still in his cellar, for I once passed his house, at a little
better than a hundred yards distance, and I could smell the spirits, as
plain as an ashen fagot at Christmas!" Another said, "However that was,
he is sure_ly_ a desperd French jacobin, for he is so silent and dark,
that nobody ever heard him say one word about politics!" And thus these
ignoramuses drove from their village, a greater ornament than will ever
again be found amongst them.
In order to continue the smile on the reader's countenance, I may be
allowed to state a trifling circumstance, which at this moment forces
itself on my recollection.
A visit to Mr. Coleridge, at Stowey, in the year 1797, had been the means
of my introduction to Mr. Wordsworth. Soon after our acquaintance had
commenced, Mr. W. happened to be in Bristol, and asked me to spend a day
or two with him at Allfoxden. I consented, and drove him down in a gig.
We called for Mr. Coleridge, Miss Wordsworth, and the servant, at Stowey,
and they walked, while we rode on to Mr. W.'s house at Allfoxden, distant
two or three miles, where we purposed to dine. A London alderman would
smile at our prepation, or bill of fare. It consisted, of philosophers'
viands; namely, a bottle of brandy, a noble loaf, and a stout piece of
cheese; and as there were plenty of lettuces in the garden, with all
these comforts we calculated on doing very well.
Our fond hopes, however, were somewhat damped, by finding, that our
"stout piece of cheese" had vanished! A sturdy _rat_ of a beggar, whom we
had relieved on the road, with his olfactories all alive, no doubt,
_smelt_ our cheese, and while we were gazing at the magnificent clouds,
contrived to abstract our treasure! Cruel tramp! An ill return for our
pence! We both wished the rind might not choke him! The mournful fact was
ascertained a little before we drove into the courtyard of the house. Mr.
Coleridge bore the loss with great fortitude, observing, that we should
never starve with a loaf of bread, and a bottle of brandy. He now, with
the dexterity of an adept, admired by his friends around, unbuckled the
horse, and, putting down the shafts with a jerk, as a triumphant
conclusion of his work, lo! the bottle of brandy that had been placed
most carefully behind us on the seat, from the force of gravity, suddenly
rolled down, and before we could arrest this spirituous avalanche,
pitching right on the stones, was dashed to pieces. We all beheld the
spectacle, silent and petrified! We might have collected the broken
fragments of glass, but the brandy! that was gone! clean gone![50]
One little untoward thing often follows another, and while the rest stood
musing, chained to the place, regaling themselves with the Cogniac
effluvium, and all miserably chagrined, I led the horse to the stable,
when a fresh perplexity arose. I removed the harness without difficulty,
but after many strenuous attempts, I could not get off the collar. In
despair, I called for assistance, when aid soon drew near. Mr. Wordsworth
first brought his ingenuity into exercise, but after several unsuccessful
efforts, he relinquished the achievement, as a thing altogether
impracticable. Mr. Coleridge now tried his hand, but showed no more
grooming skill than his predecessors; for after twisting the poor horse's
neck almost to strangulation, and to the great danger of his eyes, he
gave up the useless task, pronouncing that the horse's head must have
grown, (gout or dropsy!) since the collar was put on! for, he said, it
was a downright impossibility for such a huge Os Frontis to pass through
so narrow a collar! Just at this instant the servant girl came near, and
understanding the cause of our consternation, "La, Master," said she,
"you do not go about the work in the right way. You should do like as
this," when turning the collar completely upside down, she slipped it off
in a moment, to our great humiliation and wonderment; each satisfied,
afresh, that there were heights of knowledge in the world, to which we
had not yet attained.
We were now summoned to dinner, and a dinner it was, such as every
_blind_ and starving man in the three kingdoms would have rejoiced to
_behold_. At the top of the table stood a superb brown loaf. The centre
dish presented a pile of the true coss lettuces, and at the bottom
appeared an empty plate, where the "stout piece of cheese" _ought_ to
have stood! (cruel mendicant!) and though the brandy was "clean gone,"
yet its place was well, if not _better_ supplied by an abundance of fine
sparkling Castalian champagne! A happy thought at this time started into
one of our minds, that some condiment would render the lettuces a little
more palatable, when an individual in the company, recollected a
question, once propounded by the most patient of men, "How can that which
is unsavoury be eaten without _salt?_" and asked for a little of that
valuable culinary article. "Indeed, sir," Betty replied, "I quite forgot
to buy salt." A general laugh followed the announcement, in which our
host heartily joined. This was nothing. We had plenty of other good
things, and while crunching our succulents, and munching our crusts, we
pitied the far worse condition of those, perchance as hungry as
ourselves, who were forced to dine, off aether alone. For our next meal,
the mile-off village furnished all that could be desired, and these
trifling incidents present the sum and the result of half the little
passing disasters of life.
The "Lyrical Ballads" were published about Midsummer, 1798. In September
of the same year, Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Wordsworth left England for
Germany, and I quitted the business of a bookseller. Had I not once been
such, this book would never have appeared.
* * * * *
The narrative of Mr. Coleridge being concluded to the time when he left
Bristol, with Mr. Wordsworth, to visit Germany, I shall now, for the
present, leave him; and direct the reader's attention to Mr. Southey, by
introducing a portion of his long-continued correspondence with myself;
but it may not be inappropriate to offer a few preliminary remarks:--
The following letters will exhibit the genuine character of Mr. Southey
through the whole of his literary life. In the earlier periods, a playful
hilarity will be found; but this buoyancy of spirit, when prevailing to
excess, (in the constitutionally cheerful, such as was Mr. S.) is
generally modified, if not subdued, by the sobering occurrences of after
life. Letters, like the present, possess some peculiar advantages.
Whenever, as in this instance, epistles are written through a series of
years, to one person, the writer's mind is presented, under different
aspects, while the identity is preserved. This benefit is greatly
diminished, when, in a promiscuous correspondence, letters are addressed
to a diversity of persons; often of different habits, and pursuits, where
the writer must be compelled, occasionally, to moderate his expressions;
to submit in some measure to mental restraint, by the necessity he is
under to curb the flow of his spontaneous feeling. Besides this freedom
from comparative bondage, one other advantage is derived from these
continuous, and unconstrained letters to a single friend. A writer, in
all his letters, from addressing one, for the most part, of congenial
sympathies, expresses himself with less reserve; with more of the
interior poured out; and consequently he maintains a freedom from that
formality of essay-like sentences, which often resemble beautiful
statues, fair, but cold and wanting life.
When, during the Revolutionary war, disgusted with the excesses of the
Trench, Mr. Southey saw it right, from a Foxite, to become a Pittite,
some who did not know him, ascribed his change of sentiment to unworthy
motives; of this number was my esteemed friend the late Rev. John Foster,
who whilst freely admitting Mr. Southey's great attainments and
distinguished genius, regarded his mind as injuriously biassed. He
thought Mm a betrayer of his political friends. No countervailing effect
was produced by affirming his uprightness, and the temperance with which
he still spake of those from whom he was compelled to differ. He was told
that Mr. Southey was no blind political partisan, but an honest
vindicator of what, in his conscience, he believed to be right--that no
earthly consideration could have tempted him to swerve from the plain
paths of truth and justice. An appeal was made to his writings, which
manifested great moderation: and as it respected the Church, the London,
and the Baptist Missionary Societies, it might be said, that he
courageously stood forth to vindicate them in the Quarterly, at a
critical time, when those Societies had been assailed by Sydney Smith, in
the Edinburgh Review. All proved unavailing. At length I submitted to Mr.
Foster's inspection, Mr. Southey's correspondence for more than forty
years, where, in the disclosure of the heart's deepest recesses, the
undisguised character distinctly appears. He read, he admired, he
recanted. In a letter to myself on returning the MS. he thus wrote: "The
letters exhibit Southey as a man of sterling worth,--of sound
principles;--faithfulness to old friendship, generosity, and, I trust I
may say, genuine religion." And Mr. F. ever after expressed the same
sentiments to his friends. It is confidently hoped that similar instances
of unfavourable prepossession, may be corrected by the same means.
In his "Friend" Mr. Coleridge thus refers to his early schemes of
Pantisocracy.
"Truth I pursued, as fancy led the way
And wiser men than I went worse astray."
"From my earliest manhood I perceived that if the people at large
were neither ignorant nor immoral, there could be no motive for a
sudden and violent change of Government; and if they were, there
could be no hope but a change for the worse. My feelings and
imagination did not remain unkindled in this general conflagration
(the French Revolution) and I confess I should be more inclined to be
ashamed than proud of myself if they had. I was a sharer in the
general vortex, though my little world described the path of its
revolution in an orbit of its own. What I dared not expect from
constitutions of Government and whole nations, I hoped from religion,
and a small company of chosen individuals, formed a plan, as harmless
as it was extravagant, of trying the experiment of human
perfectibility on the banks of the Susquehannah; where our little
society, in its second generation, was to have combined the innocence
of the patriarchal age with the knowledge and genuine refinements of
European culture; and where I dreamt that in the sober evening of my
life, I should behold the cottages of Independence in the undivided
dale of liberty,
'And oft, soothed sadly by the dirgeful wind
Muse on the sore ills I had left behind.'
Strange fancies! and as vain as strange! Yet to the intense interest
and impassioned zeal, which called forth and strained every faculty
of my intellect for the organization and defence of this scheme, I
owe much of whatever I at present possess,--my clearest insight into
the nature of individual man, and my most comprehensive views of his
social relations, of the true uses of trade and commerce, and how far
the wealth and relative power of nations promote or impede their
inherent strength."
The following is Mr. Coleridge's estimate of Mr. Southey.
"Southey stands second to no man, either as an historian or as a
bibliographer; and when I regard him as a popular essayist, I look in
vain for any writer who has conveyed so much information, from so
many and such recondite sources, with so many just and original
reflections, in a style so lively and poignant, yet so uniformly
classical and perspicuous; no one, in short, who has combined so much
wisdom, with so much wit; so much truth and knowledge, with so much
life and fancy. His prose is always intelligible, and always
entertaining. It is Southey's almost unexampled felicity, to possess
the best gifts of talent and genius, free from all their
characteristic defects. As son, brother, husband, father, master,
friend, he moves with firm, yet light steps, alike unostentatious,
and alike exemplary. As a writer he has uniformly made his talents
subservient to the best interests of humanity, of public virtue, and
domestic piety; his cause has ever been the cause of pure religion,
and of liberty, of national independence, and of national
illumination."--_Bio. Lit._
The reader has several times heard of Pantisocracy; a scheme perfectly
harmless in itself, though obnoxious to insuperable objections. The
ingenious devisers of this state of society, gradually withdrew from it
their confidence; not in the first instance without a struggle; but cool
reflection presented so many obstacles, that the plan, of itself, as the
understanding expanded, gradually dissolved into "thin air." A friend had
suggested the expediency of first trying the plan in Wales, but even this
less exceptionable theatre of experiment was soon abandoned, and sound
sense obtained its rightful empire.
It was mentioned in a former part, that Mr. Southey was the first to
abandon the scheme of American colonization; and that, in confirmation,
towards the conclusion of 1795, he accompanied his uncle, the Rev.
Herbert Hill, Chaplain to the English factory at Lisbon, through some
parts of Spain and Portugal; of which occurrence, Mr. S.'s entertaining
"Letters" from those countries are the result; bearing testimony to his
rapid accumulation of facts, and the accuracy of his observations on
persons and things.
The very morning on which Mr. Southey was married to Miss Edith
Fricker,[51] he left his wife in the family of kind friends, and set off
with his Uncle, to pass through Spain to Lisbon. But this procedure marks
the delicacy and the noble character of his mind; as will appear from the
following letter, received from him, just before he embarked.
"Falmouth, 1795.
My dear friend,
I have learnt from Lovell the news from Bristol, public and private, and
both of an interesting nature. My marriage is become public. You know
that its publicity can give me no concern. I have done my duty. Perhaps
you may think my motives for marrying (at that time) not sufficiently
strong. One, and that to me of great weight, I believe was not mentioned
to you. There might have arisen feelings of an unpleasant nature, at the
idea of receiving support from one not legally a husband; and (do not
show this to Edith) should I perish by shipwreck, or any other casualty,
I have relations whose prejudices would then yield to the anguish of
affection, and who would then love and cherish, and yield all possible
consolation to my widow. Of such an evil there is but a possibility, but
against possibility it was my duty to guard.[52]
Farewell,
Yours sincerely,