I must now enter on a subject of profound interest. I had often spoken to
Hannah More of S. T. Coleridge, and proceeded with him, one morning to
Barley Wood, her residence, eleven miles from Bristol. The interview was
mutually agreeable, nor was there any lack of conversation; but I was
struck with something singular in Mr. Coleridge's eye. I expressed to a
friend, the next day, my concern at having beheld him, during his visit
to Hannah More, so extremely paralytic, his hands shaking to an alarming
degree, so that he could not take a glass of wine without spilling it,
though one hand supported the other! "That," said he, "arises from the
immoderate quantity of OPIUM he takes."
It is remarkable, that this was the first time the melancholy fact of Mr.
Coleridge's excessive indulgence in opium had come to my knowledge. It
astonished and afflicted me. Now the cause of his ailments became
manifest. On this subject, Mr. C. may have been communicative to others,
but to me he was silent. I now saw it was mistaken kindness to give him
money, as I had learned that he indulged in his potions according to the
extent of his means, so that to be temperate, it was expedient that he
should be poor.
I ruminated long upon this subject, with indescribable sorrow; and having
ascertained from others, not only the existence of the evil, but its
extent, so as to render doubt impossible, such was the impression of duty
on my mind, I determined, however hazardous, to write to Mr. Coleridge,
and that faithfully, otherwise, I considered myself not a friend, but an
enemy. At the end of his course, therefore, I addressed to him the
following letter, under the full impression that it was a case of "life
and death," and that if some strong effort were not made to arouse him
from his insensibility, speedy destruction must inevitably follow..
Nothing but so extreme a case, could have prompted, or could justify,
such a letter as the following.
"Bristol, April 25, 1814.
Dear Coleridge,
I am conscious of being influenced by the purest motives in addressing to
you the following letter. Permit me to remind you that I am the oldest
friend you have in Bristol, that I was such when my friendship was of
more consequence to you than it is at present, and that at that time, you
were neither insensible of my kindnesses, nor backward to acknowledge
them. I bring these things to your remembrance, to impress on your mind,
that it is still a _friend_ who is writing to you; one who ever has been
such, and who is now going to give you the most decisive evidence of his
sincerity.
When I think of Coleridge, I wish to recall the image, of him, such as he
appeared in past years; now, how has the baneful use of opium thrown a
dark cloud over you and your prospects. I would not say anything
needlessly harsh or unkind, but I must be _faithful_. It is the
irresistible voice of conscience. Others may still flatter you, and hang
upon your words, but I have another, though a less gracious duty to
perform. I see a brother sinning a sin unto death, and shall I not warn
him? I see him perhaps on the borders of eternity, in effect, despising
his Maker's law, and yet indifferent to his perilous state!
In recalling what the expectations concerning you once were, and the
excellency with which, seven years ago, you wrote and spoke on religious
truth, my heart bleeds to see how you are now fallen; and thus to notice,
how many exhilarating hopes are almost blasted by your present habits.
This is said, not to wound, but to arouse you to reflection.
I know full well the evidences of the pernicious drug! You cannot be
unconscious of the effects, though you may wish to forget the cause. All
around you behold the wild eye! the sallow countenance! the tottering
step! the trembling hand! the disordered frame! and yet will you not be
awakened to a sense of your danger, and I must add, your guilt? Is it a
small thing, that one of the finest of human understandings should be
lost! That your talents should be buried! That most of the influences to
be derived from your present example, should be in direct opposition to
right and virtue! It is true you still talk of religion, and profess the
warmest admiration of the church and her doctrines, in which it would not
be lawful to doubt your sincerity; but can you be unaware, that by your
unguarded and inconsistent conduct, you are furnishing arguments to the
infidel; giving occasion for the enemy to blaspheme; and (amongst those
who imperfectly know you) throwing suspicion over your religious
profession! Is not the great test in some measure against you, 'By their
fruits ye shall know them?' Are there never any calm moments, when you
impartially judge of your own actions by their consequences?
Not to reflect on you; not to give you a moment's _needless_ pain, but,
in the spirit of friendship, suffer me to bring to your recollection,
some of the sad effects of your undeniable intemperance.
I know you have a correct love of honest independence, without which,
there can be no true nobility of mind; and yet for opium, you will sell
this treasure, and expose yourself to the liability of arrest, by some
'dirty fellow,' to whom you choose to be indebted for 'ten pounds!' You
had, and still have, an acute sense of moral right and wrong, but is not
the feeling sometimes overpowered by self-indulgence? Permit me to remind
you, that you are not more suffering in your mind than you are in your
body, while you are squandering largely your money in the purchase of
opium, which, in the strictest equity, should receive _a different
direction._
I will not again refer to the mournful effects produced on your own
health from this indulgence in opium, by which you have undermined your
strong constitution; but I must notice the injurious consequences which
this passion for the narcotic drug has on your literary efforts. What you
have already done, excellent as it is, is considered by your friends and
the world, as the bloom, the mere promise of the harvest. Will you suffer
the fatal draught, which is ever accompanied by sloth, to rob you of your
fame, and, what to you is a higher motive, of your power of doing good;
of giving fragrance to your memory, amongst the worthies of future years,
when you are numbered with the dead?
[And now I would wish in the most delicate manner, to remind you of the
injurious effects which these habits of yours produce on your family.
From the estimation in which, you are held by the public, I am clear in
stating, that a small daily exertion on your part, would be sufficient to
obtain for you and them, honour, happiness, and independence. You are
still comparatively, a young man, and in such a cause, labour is sweet.
Can you withhold so small a sacrifice? Let me sincerely advise you to
return home, and live in the circle once more, of your wife and family.
There may have been faults on one, possibly on both sides; but calumny
itself has never charged criminality. Let all be forgotten, a small
effort for the Christian. If I can become a mediator, command me. If you
could be prevailed on to adopt this plan, I will gladly defray your
expenses to Keswick, and I am sure, with better habits, you would be
hailed by your family, I was almost going to say, as an angel from
heaven. It will also look better in the eyes of the world, who are always
prompt with their own constructions, and these constructions are rarely
the most charitable. It would also powerfully promote your own peace of
mind.
There is this additional view, which ought to influence you, as it would
every generous mind. Your wife and children are domesticated with
Southey. He has a family of his own, which by his literary labour, he
supports, to his great honour; and to the extra provision required of him
on your account, he cheerfully submits; still, will you not divide with
him the honour? You have not extinguished in your heart the Father's
feelings. Your daughter is a sweet girl. Your two boys are promising; and
Hartley, concerning whom you once so affectionately wrote, is eminently
clever. These want only a father's assistance to give them credit and
honourable stations in life. Will you withhold so equitable and small a
boon. Your eldest son will soon be qualified for the university, where
your name would inevitably secure him patronage, but without your aid,
how is he to arrive there; and afterward, how is he to be supported?
Revolve on these things, I entreat you, calmly, on your pillow.][93]
And now let me conjure you, alike by the voice of friendship, and the
duty you owe yourself and family: above all, by the reverence you feel
for the cause of Christianity; by the fear of God, and the awfulness of
eternity, to renounce from this moment opium and spirits, as your bane!
Frustrate not the great end of your existence. Exert the ample abilities
which God has given you, as a faithful steward; so will you secure your
rightful pre-eminence amongst the sons of genius; recover your
cheerfulness; your health; I trust it is not too late! become reconciled
to yourself; and through the merits of that Saviour, in whom you profess
to trust, obtain, at last, the approbation of your Maker! My dear
Coleridge, be wise before it be too late! I do hope to see you a
renovated man! and that you will still burst your inglorious fetters, and
justify the best hopes of your friends.
Excuse the freedom with which I write. If at the first moment it should
offend, on reflection, you will approve at least of the motive, and,
perhaps, in a better state of mind, thank and bless me. If all the good
which I have prayed for, should not be effected by this letter, I have at
least discharged an imperious sense of duty. I wish my manner were less
exceptionable, as I do that the advice through the blessing of the
Almighty, might prove effectual. The tear which bedims my eye, is an
evidence of the sincerity with which I subscribe myself
Your affectionate friend,