AT THE GRAVE OF COLERIDGE
Among the deeply meditative, melodious, and eloquent poems of Wordsworth
there is one---about the burial of Ossian--that glances at the question
of fitness in a place of sepulchre. Not always, for the illustrious
dead, has the final couch of rest been rightly chosen. We think with
resignation, and with a kind of pride, of Keats and Shelley in the
little Protestant burial-ground at Rome. Every heart is touched at the
spectacle of Garrick and Johnson sleeping side by side in Westminster
Abbey. It was right that the dust of Dean Stanley should mingle with the
dust of poets and of kings; and to see--as the present writer did, only
a little while ago--fresh flowers on the stone that covers him, in the
chapel of Henry the Seventh, was to feel a tender gladness and solemn
content. Shakespeare's grave, in the chancel of Stratford church,
awakens the same ennobling awe and melancholy pleasure; and it is with
kindred feeling that you linger at the tomb of Gray. But who can be
content that poor Letitia Landon should sleep beneath the pavement of a
barrack, with soldiers trampling over her dust? One might almost think,
sometimes, that the spirit of calamity, which follows certain persons
throughout the whole of life, had pursued them even in death, to haunt
about their repose and to mar all the gentleness of association that
ought to hallow it. Chatterton, a pauper and a suicide, was huddled into
a workhouse graveyard, the very place of which--in Shoe Lane, covered
now by Farringdon Market--has disappeared. Otway, miserable in his love
for Elizabeth Barry, the actress, and said to have starved to death in
the Minories, near the Tower of London, was laid in a vault of St.
Clement Danes, in the middle of the Strand, where never the green leaves
rustle, but where the roar of the mighty city pours on in continual
tumult. That church holds also the remains of William Mountfort, the
actor, slain in a brawl by Lord Mohun; of Nat Lee, "the mad poet"; of
George Powell, the tragedian, of brilliant and deplorable memory; and of
the handsome Hildebrand Horden, cut off by a violent death in the
springtime of his youth. Hildebrand Horden was the son of a clergyman of
Twickenham and lived in the reign of William and Mary. Dramatic
chronicles say that he was possessed of great talent as an actor, and of
remarkable personal beauty. He was stabbed, in a quarrel, at the Rose
Tavern; and after he had been laid out for the grave, such was the
lively feminine interest in his handsome person, many ladies came, some
masked and others openly, to view him in his shroud. This is mentioned
in Colley Cibber's _Apology._ Charles Coffey, the dramatist, author of
_The Devil upon Two Sticks,_ and other plays, lies in the vaults of St.
Clement; as likewise does Thomas Rymer, historiographer for William
III., successor to Shadwell, and author of Foedera, in seventeen
volumes. In the church of St. Clement you may see the pew in which Dr.
Johnson habitually sat when he attended divine service there. It was his
favourite church. The pew is in the gallery; and to those who honour the
passionate integrity and fervent, devout zeal of the stalwart old
champion of letters, it is indeed a sacred shrine. Henry Mossop, one of
the stateliest of stately actors, perishing, by slow degrees, of penury
and grief,--which he bore in proud silence,--found a refuge, at last, in
the barren gloom of Chelsea churchyard. Theodore Hook, the cheeriest
spirit of his time, the man who filled every hour of life with the
sunshine of his wit and was wasted and degraded by his own brilliancy,
rests, close by Bishop Sherlock, in Fulham churchyard,--one of the
dreariest spots in the suburbs of London. Perhaps it does not much
signify, when once the play is over, in what oblivion our crumbling
relics are hidden away. Yet to most human creatures these are sacred
things, and many a loving heart, for all time to come, will choose a
consecrated spot for the repose of the dead, and will echo the tender
words of Longfellow,--so truly expressive of a universal and reverent
sentiment--
"Take them, O Grave, and let them lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves,
As garments by the soul laid by
And precious only to ourselves."
One of the most impressive of the many literary pilgrimages that I have
made was that which brought me to the house in which Coleridge died, and
the place where he was buried. The student needs not to be told that
this poet, born in 1772, the year after Gray's death, bore the white
lilies of pure literature till 1834, when he too entered into his rest.
The last nineteen years of the life of Coleridge were spent in a house
at Highgate; and there, within a few steps of each other, the visitor
may behold his dwelling and his tomb. The house is one in a block of
dwellings, situated in what is called the Grove--a broad, embowered
street, a little way from the centre of the village. There are gardens
attached to these houses, both in the front and the rear, and the smooth
and peaceful roadside walks in the Grove itself are pleasantly shaded by
elms of noble size and abundant foliage. These were young trees when
Coleridge saw them, and all this neighbourhood, in his day, was but
thinly settled. Looking from his chamber window he could see the dusky
outlines of sombre London, crowned with the dome of St. Paul's on the
southern horizon, while, more near, across a fertile and smiling valley,
the gray spire of Hampstead church would bound his prospect, rising
above the verdant woodland of Caen.[1] In front were beds of flowers, and
all around he might hear the songs of birds that filled the fragrant air
with their happy, careless music. Not far away stood the old church of
Highgate, long since destroyed, in which he used to worship, and close
by was the Gate House inn, primitive, quaint, and cosy, which still is
standing, to comfort the weary traveller with its wholesome hospitality.
[1] "Come in the first stage, so as either to walk, or to be driven in
Mr. Gilman's gig, to Caen wood and its delicious groves and alleys, the
finest in England, a grand cathedral aisle of giant lime-trees, Pope's
favourite composition walk, when with the old Earl."--_Coleridge to
Crabb Robinson. Highgate, June_ 1817
Illustration: "The White Hart."
Highgate, with all its rural peace, must have been a bustling place in
the old times, for all the travel went through it that passed either
into or out of London by the great north road,--that road in which
Whittington heard the prophetic summons of the bells, and where may
still be seen, suitably and rightly marked, the site of the stone on
which he sat to rest. Here, indeed, the coaches used to halt, either to
feed or to change horses, and here the many neglected little taverns
still remaining, with their odd names and their swinging signs, testify
to the discarded customs of a bygone age. Some years ago a new road was
cut, so that travellers might wind around the hill, and avoid climbing
the steep ascent to the village; and since then the grass has begun to
grow in the streets. But such bustle as once enlivened the solitude of
Highgate could never have been otherwise than agreeable diversion to its
inhabitants; while for Coleridge himself, as we can well imagine, the
London coach was welcome indeed, that brought to his door such
well-loved friends as Charles Lamb, Joseph Henry Green, Crabb Robinson,
Wordsworth, or Talfourd.
To this retreat the author of _The Ancient Mariner_ withdrew in 1815, to
live with his friend James Gilman, a surgeon, who had undertaken to
rescue him from the demon of opium, but who, as De Quincey intimates,
was lured by the poet into the service of the very fiend whom both had
striven to subdue. It was his last refuge, and he never left it till he
was released from life. As you ramble in that quiet neighbourhood your
fancy will not fail to conjure up his placid figure,--the silver hair,
the pale face, the great, luminous, changeful blue eyes, the somewhat
portly form clothed in black raiment, the slow, feeble walk, the sweet,
benignant manner, the voice that was perfect melody, and the
inexhaustible talk that was the flow of a golden sea of eloquence and
wisdom. Coleridge was often seen walking there, with a book in his hand;
and the children of the village knew him and loved him. His presence is
impressed forever upon the place, to haunt and to hallow it. He was a
very great man. The wings of his imagination wave easily in the opal air
of the highest heaven. The power and majesty of his thought are such as
establish forever in the human mind the conviction of personal
immortality. Yet how forlorn the ending that this stately soul was
enforced to make! For more than thirty years he was the slave of opium.
It blighted his home; it alienated his wife; it ruined his health; it
made him utterly wretched. "I have been, through a large portion of my
later life," he wrote, in 1834, "a sufferer, sorely afflicted with
bodily pains, languor, and manifold infirmities." But behind all
this,--more dreadful still and harder to bear,--was he not the slave of
some ingrained perversity of the mind itself, some helpless and hopeless
irresolution of character, some enervating spell of that sublime yet
pitiable dejection of Hamlet, which kept him forever at war with
himself, and, last of all, cast him out upon the homeless ocean of
despair, to drift away into ruin and death? There are shapes more awful
than his, in the records of literary history,--the ravaged, agonising
form of Swift, for instance, and the wonderful, desolate face of Byron;
but there is no figure more forlorn and pathetic.
This way the memory of Coleridge came upon me, standing at his grave. He
should have been laid in some wild, free place, where the grass could
grow above him and the trees could wave their branches over his head.
They placed him in a ponderous tomb, of gray stone, in Highgate
churchyard, and in later times they have reared a new building above
it,--the grammar-school of the village,--so that now the tomb, fenced
round with iron, is in a cold, barren, gloomy crypt, accessible indeed
from the churchyard, through several arches, but grim and doleful in all
its surroundings; as if the evil and cruel fate that marred his life
were still triumphant over his ashes.