_Lady._ If _Love_ be dead.
_Poet._ And I aver it.
_Lady._ Tell me, Bard, where Love lies buried.
_Poet._ Love lies buried where 'twas born:
O gentle Dame, think it no scorn,
If in my fancy I presume
To call thy bosom poor Love's tomb,--
And on that tomb to read the line,
"Here lies a Love that once seemed mine,
But caught a cold, as I divine,
And died at length of a decline!"
I here copy his autograph lines, as he wrote them in Mrs. Hall's album.
They will be found, too, as a note, in the "Biographia Literaria."
"ON THE PORTRAIT OF THE BUTTERFLY ON THE SECOND LEAF OF THIS ALBUM.
"The butterfly the ancient Grecians made
The soul's fair emblem, and its only name:
But of the soul escaped the slavish trade
Of earthly life! For in this mortal frame
Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame,
Manifold motions, making little speed,
And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed!
"S. T. COLERIDGE.
"30th April, 1830."
All who had the honor of the poet's friendship or acquaintance speak of
the marvellous gift which gave to this illustrious man almost a
character of inspiration. The wonderful eloquence of his conversation
can be comprehended only by those who have heard him speak. It was
sparkling at times, and at times profound; but the melody of his voice,
the impressive solemnity of his manner, the radiant glories of his
intellectual countenance, bore off, as it were, the thoughts of the
listener from his discourse; and it was rarely that he carried away from
the poet any of the gems that fell from his lips.
Montgomery describes the poetry of Coleridge as like electricity,
"flashing at rapid intervals with the utmost intensity of effect,"--and
contrasts it with that of Wordsworth, like galvanism, "not less
powerful, but rather continuous than sudden in its wonderful influence."
But of his poems it is needless for me to speak; some of them are
familiar to all readers of the English tongue throughout the world.
Wilson, in the "Noctes," says, "Wind him up, and away he
goes,--discoursing most excellent music, without a discord, full, ample,
inexhaustible, serious, and divine"; and in another place, "He becomes
inspired by his own silver voice, and pours out wisdom like a sea."
Wordsworth speaks of him "as quite an epicure in sound." The painter
Haydon speaks of his eloquence and "lazy luxury of poetical outpouring";
and Rogers ("Table-Talk") is reported to have said, "One morning,
breakfasting with me, he talked for three hours without intermission, so
admirably that I wish every word he uttered had been written down": but
he does not quote a single sentence of all the poet said;[G] and a
writer in the "Quarterly Review" expresses his belief that "nothing is
too high for the grasp of his conversation, nothing too low: it glanced
from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, with a speed and a splendor,
an ease and a power, that almost seemed inspired." (Nor did I ever find
him incoherent, as some have pretended; but I agree with De Quincey,
that he had the largest and most spacious intellect, the subtilest and
the most comprehensive that has yet existed among men.) Of Coleridge,
Shelley writes,--
"All things he seemed to understand,
Of old or new, at sea or land,
Save his own soul, which was a mist."
I have listened to him more than once for above an hour, of course
without putting in a single word: I would as soon have bellowed a loose
song while a nightingale was singing. There was rarely much change of
countenance; his face was at that time (it is said from his habit of
opium-eating) overladen with flesh, and its expression impaired; yet to
me it was so tender and gentle and gracious and loving, that I could
have knelt at the old man's feet almost in adoration. My own hair is
white now; yet I have much the same feeling as I had then, whenever the
form of the venerable man rises in memory before me. I cannot recall
now, and I believe could not recall at the time, so as to preserve, as a
cherished thing in my remembrance, a single sentence of the many
sentences I heard him utter; yet in his "Table-Talk" there is a world of
wisdom,--and that is only a collection of scraps, chance-gathered. If
any left his presence unsatisfied, it resulted rather from the
superabundance than the paucity of the feast.[H]
I can recall many evening rambles with him over the high lands that look
down on London; but the memory I cherish most is linked with a crowded
street, where the clumsy and the coarse jostled the old man eloquent, as
if he had been earthly, of the earth. It was in the Strand: he pointed
out to me the window of a room in the office of the "Morning Post,"
where he had consumed much midnight oil; and then for half an hour he
talked of the sorrowful joy he had often felt, when, leaving the office
as day was dawning, he heard the song of a caged lark that sang his
orisons from the lattice of an artisan, who was rising to begin his
labor as the poet was pacing homewards to rest after his work all night.
Thirty years had passed; but that unforgotten melody, that dear bird's
song, gave him then as much true pleasure as when, to his wearied head
and heart, it was the matin hymn of Nature.
I remember once meeting him in Paternoster Row. He was inquiring his way
to Bread Street, Cheapside; and of course I endeavored to explain to
him, that, if he walked straight on for about two hundred yards and took
the fourth turning to the right, it would be the street he wanted. I
perceived him gazing so vague and unenlightened, that I could not help
expressing my surprise, as I looked earnestly at his forehead and saw
the organ of locality unusually prominent above the eyebrows. He took my
meaning, laughed, and said, "I see what you are looking at. Why, at
school my head was beaten into a mass of bumps, because I could not
point out Paris in a map of France." It is said that Spurzheim
pronounced him to be a mathematician, and affirmed that he could not be
a poet. Such opinion the great phrenologist could not have expressed;
for undoubtedly he had a large organ of ideality, although at first it
was not perceptible, in consequence of the great breadth and height of
his profound forehead.
More than once I met there that most remarkable man,--"martyr and
saint," as Mrs. Oliphant styles him, and as perhaps he was,--the Rev.
Edward Irving. The two, he and Coleridge, were singular contrasts,--in
appearance, that is to say, for their minds and souls were in
harmony.[I] The Scotch minister was tall, powerful in frame, and of
great physical vigor, "a gaunt and gigantic figure," his long, black,
curly hair hanging partially over his shoulders. His features were large
and strongly marked; but the expression was grievously marred, like that
of Whitefield, by a squint that deduced much from his "apostolic"
character, and must have operated prejudicially as regarded his mission.
His mouth was exquisitely cut. It might have been a model for a sculptor
who desired to portray strong will combined with generous sympathy. Yet
he looked what he was,--a brave man, a man whom no abuse could humble,
no injuries subdue, no oppression crush. To me he realized the idea of
the Baptist St. John; and I imagine the comparison must have been made
often.
In the pulpit, where, I lament to say, I heard Irving but once, and then
not under the peculiar influences that so often swayed and guided him,
he was undoubtedly an orator, thoroughly earnest in his work, and,
beyond all question, deeply and solemnly impressed with the truths of
the mission to which he was devoted. At times, no doubt, his manner,
action, and appearance bordered on the grotesque; but it was impossible
to listen without being carried away by the intense fervor and fiery
zeal with which he dwelt on the promises or annunciated the threats of
the Prophets, "his predecessors." His vehemence was often startling,
sometimes appalling. Leigh Hunt called him, with much truth, "the
Boanerges of the Temple." He was a soldier, as well as a servant, of the
cross. Few men of his age aroused more bitter or more unjust and
unchristian hostility. He was in advance of his time; perhaps, if he
were living now, he would still be so; for the spirituality of his
nature cannot yet be understood. There were not wanting those who
decried him as a pretender, a hypocrite, and a cheat. Those who knew him
best depose to the honesty of his heart, the depth of his convictions,
the fervor of his faith; and many yet live who will indorse this
eloquent tribute of his biographer:--"To him, mean thoughts and
unbelieving hearts were the only things miraculous and out of Nature";
he "desired to know nothing in heaven or earth, neither comfort nor
peace nor any consolation, but the will and work of the Master he
loved." Irving died comparatively young: there were but forty-two years
between his birth and death. More than thirty years have passed since he
was called from earth; and to this generation the name of Edward Irving
is little more than a sound, "signifying nothing." Yet it was a power in
his day; and the seed he scattered cannot all have fallen among thorns.
His love for Coleridge was devoted, a mingling of admiration, affection,
and respect.
They were made acquainted by a mutual friend, Basil Montagu, who himself
occupied no humble station in intellectual society. His "evenings" were
often rare mental treats. He presented the most refined picture of a
gentleman, tall, slight, courteous, seemingly ever smiling, yet without
an approach to insincerity. He had the esteem of his contemporaries, and
the homage of the finer spirits of his time. They were earned and
merited. Those who knew him knew also his wife. Mrs. Montagu was one of
the most admirable women I have ever known: she was likened to Mrs.
Siddons, and forcibly recalled the portraits of that admirably gifted
woman. Tall and stately, and with evidence, which Time had by no means
obliterated, of great beauty in youth, her expression somewhat severe,
yet gracious in manner and generous in words. She had been the honored
associate of many of the most intellectual men and women of the age; and
not a few of them were her familiar friends.[J]
Whenever it was my privilege to be admitted to the evening meetings at
Highgate, I met some of the men who were then famous, and have since
become parts of the literature of England.
I attended one of the lectures delivered by Coleridge at the Royal
Institution, and I strive to recall him as he stood before his audience.
There was but little animation; his theme did not seem to stir him into
life; even the usual repose of his countenance was rarely broken up; he
used little or no action; and his voice, though mellifluous, was
monotonous: he lacked, indeed, that earnestness without which no man is
truly eloquent.
At the time I speak of, he was growing corpulent and heavy: being seldom
free from pain, he moved apparently with difficulty, yet liked to walk
up and down and about the room as he talked, pausing now and then as if
oppressed by suffering.
I need not say that I was a silent listener during the evenings at
Highgate to which I have referred, when there were present some of those
who now "rule us from their urns"; but I was free to gaze on the
venerable man,--one of the humblest, but one of the most fervid,
perhaps, of the worshippers by whom he was surrounded,--and to treasure
in memory the poet's gracious and loving looks, the "thick, waving,
silver hair," the still, clear, blue eye; and on such occasions I used
to leave him as if I were in a waking dream, trying to recall, here and
there, a sentence of the many weighty and mellifluous sentences I had
heard,--seldom with success,--and feeling at the moment as if I had been
surfeited with honey.
The portrait of Coleridge is best drawn by his friend Wordsworth, and it
sufficiently pictures him:--
"A noticeable man, with large, gray eyes,
And a _pale_ face, that seemed undoubtedly
As if a _blooming_ face it ought to be;
Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear,
Depressed by weight of moving phantasy;
Profound his forehead was, though not severe."
Wordsworth elsewhere speaks of him as "the brooding poet with the
heavenly eyes," and as, "often too much in love with his own dejection."
The earliest word-portrait we have of him was drawn by Wordsworth's
sister in 1797:--"At first I thought him very plain,--that is, for about
three minutes. He is pale, thin, has a wide mouth, thick lips, longish,
loose-growing, half-curling, rough, black hair. His eye is large and
full, and not dark, but gray;--such an eye as would receive from a heavy
soul the dullest expression, but it speaks every emotion of his animated
mind. He has fine, dark eyebrows, and an overhanging forehead."
This is De Quincey's sketch of him in 1807:--"In height he seemed about
five feet eight inches, in reality he was an inch and a half taller.[K]
His person was broad and full, and tended even to corpulence; his
complexion was fair, though not what painters technically call fair,
because it was associated with black hair; his eyes were soft and large
in their expression, and it was by a peculiar appearance of haze or
dimness which mixed with their light." "A lady of Bristol," writes De
Quincey, "assured me she had not seen a young man so engaging in his
exterior as Coleridge when young, in 1796. He had then a blooming and
healthy complexion, beautiful and luxuriant hair, falling in natural
curls over his shoulders."
Lockhart says,--"Coleridge has a grand head, but very ill-balanced, and
the features of the face are coarse; although, to be sure, nothing can
surpass the depth of meaning in his eyes, and the unutterable dreamy
luxury of his lips."
Hazlitt describes him in early manhood as "with a complexion clear and
even light, a forehead broad and high, as if built of ivory, with large
projecting eyebrows, and his eyes rolling beneath them like a sea with
darkened lustre. His mouth was rather open, his chin good-humored and
round, and his nose small. His hair, black and glossy as the raven's
wing, fell in smooth masses over his forehead,--long, liberal hair,
peculiar to enthusiasts."
Sir Humphry Davy, writing of Coleridge in 1808, says,--"His mind is a
wilderness, in which the cedar and the oak, which might aspire to the
skies, are stunted in their growth by underwood, thorns, briers, and
parasitical plants; with the most exalted genius, enlarged views,
sensitive heart, and enlightened mind, he will be the victim of want of
order, precision, and regularity."
Leigh Hunt speaks of his open, indolent, good-natured mouth, and of his
forehead as "prodigious,--a great piece of placid marble."