Chapter IX: Part 9

On one occasion, Mr. Coleridge entered into some of his college scenes, to one of which I may here refer. He said that, perhaps, it was culpable in him not to have paid more attention to his dress than he did when at the University, but the great excluded the little. He said that he was once walking through a street in Cambridge, leaning on the arms of two _silk gowns_, when his own habiliments formed rather a ludicrous contrast. His cap had the merit of having once been new; and some untoward rents in his gown, which he had a month before intended to get mended, left a strong tendency, in some of its posterior parts, to trail along the ground in the form, commonly called "tatters." The three friends were settling the exact site of Troy, or some other equally momentous subject, when they were passed by two spruce gownsmen, one of whom said to the other, which just caught the ear of Mr. C., "That sloven thinks he can hide his ribbons by the gowns of his companions." Mr. C. darted an appalling glance at him, and passed on. He now learned the name, and acquired some particulars respecting the young man who had offended him, and hastened home to exercise his Juvenallian talent.

The next day he gave his satire to a friend, to show it to the young man, who became quite alarmed at the mistake he had made, and also at the ominous words, "He who wrote this can write more." The cauldron might boil over with fresh "bubble, bubble, toil and trouble." There was no time to lose. He therefore immediately proceeded to Mr. C.'s chambers; apologized for his inconsiderate expressions; thought him to have been some "rough colt," from the country, again begged his pardon, and received the hand of reconciliation. This young, miscalculating Cantabrigian, now became one of Mr. C.'s warmest friends, and rose to eminence.[75]

The satire was singularly cutting. I can recall but two unconnected lines:

"With eye that looks around with asking gaze,
And tongue that traffics in the trade of praise."[76]

Mr. Coleridge now told us of the most remarkable of his Cambridge eccentricities, that of his having enlisted as a soldier. He had previously stated to me many of the following particulars, yet not the whole; but (having taken a deep interest in this singular adventure,) in addition to that which I heard from Mr. C., who never told all the incidents of his military life to any one person, but on the contrary, detailed some few to one, and some few to another, I made a point of collecting from different friends, every scattered fact I could obtain, and shall now throw the whole into one narrative.

But before I proceed, I must take some notice of a statement on this subject, communicated to the public, by Mr. Bowles, wherein his account appears to clash with mine. Of this gentleman (with whose name and writings I have connected so many pleasant remembrances, from early life,) I wish to speak with the utmost respect; but the truth Mr. B. himself will be glad to learn.

Mr. Bowles states a circumstance relating to what he calls, "The most correct, sublime, chaste, and beautiful of Mr. Coleridge's poems; the 'Religious Musings;'" namely, that "it was written, non inter sylvas academi, but in the tap-room at Reading." This information could not have been received from Mr. C. but perhaps was derived from the imperfect recollection of Captain O.; but whoever the informant may have been, the assertion has not the merit of being founded on a shadow of accuracy. The poem of the "Religious Musings" was not written "in the tap-room at Reading," nor till long after Mr. C. had quitted his military life. It was written partly at Stowey; partly on Redcliff Hill; and partly in my parlour, where both Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Southey occasionally wrote their verses. This will have sufficiently appeared by Mr. C.'s own letters; to which I could add other decisive evidence, if the subject were of more consequence.

I now proceed with the narrative of Mr. Coleridge's military adventures, chiefly collected from himself, but not inconsiderably from the information of other of his more intimate friends; particularly R. Lovell; although I must apprise the reader that after a lapse of forty years, I cannot pledge myself for every individual word: a severity of construction which neither my memoranda nor memory would authorize. In order not to interrupt the reader, by stating that this was derived from one source, and that from another, (at this time hardly to be separated in my own mind) I shall narrate it as though Mr. Coleridge had related the whole at once, to Mr. Davy and myself.

* * * * *

Mr. Coleridge now told us of one of his Cambridge eccentricities which highly amused us. He said that he had paid his addresses to a Mary Evans, who, rejecting his offer, he took it so much in dudgeon, that he withdrew from the University to London, when, in a reckless state of mind, he enlisted in the 15th, Elliot's Light Dragoons. No objection having been taken to his height or age, he was asked his name. He had previously determined to give one that was thoroughly Kamschatkian, but having noticed that morning over a door in Lincoln's Inn Fields, (or the Temple) the name of "Cumberbatch," (not Comberback) he thought this word sufficiently outlandish, and replied "Silas Tomken Cumberbatch,"[77] and such was the entry in the regimental book.

Here, in his new capacity, laborious duties devolved on Mr. C. He endeavoured to think on Caesar, and Epaminondas, and Leonidas, with other ancient heroes, and composed himself to his fate; remembering, in every series, there must be a commencement: but still he found confronting him no imaginary inconveniences. Perhaps he who had most cause for dissatisfaction, was the drill sergeant, who thought his professional character endangered; for after using his utmost efforts to bring his raw recruit into something like training, he expressed the most serious fears, from his unconquerable awkwardness, that he never should be able to make _a soldier of him!_

Mr. C. it seemed, could not even rub down his own horse, which, however, it should be known, was rather a restive one, who, like Cowper's hare, "would bite if he could," and in addition, kick not a little. We could not suppose that these predispositions in the martial steed were at all aggravated by the unskilful jockeyship to which he was subjected, but the sensitive quadruped did rebel a little in the stable, and wince a little in the field! Perhaps the poor animal was something in the state of the horse that carried Mr. Wordsworth's "Idiot Boy," who, in his sage contemplations, "wondered"--"What he had got upon his back!" This rubbing down his horse was a constant source of annoyance to Mr. C., who thought that the most rational way was,--to let the horse rub himself down, shaking himself clean, and so to shine in all his native beauty; but on this subject there were two opinions, and his that was to decide carried most weight. If it had not been for the foolish and fastidious taste of the ultra precise sergeant, this whole mass of trouble might be avoided, but seeing the thing must be done, or punishment! he set about the herculean task with the firmness of a Wallenstein; but lo! the paroxysm was brief, in the necessity that called it forth. Mr. C. overcame this immense difficulty, by bribing a young man of the regiment to perform the achievement for him; and that on very easy terms; namely, by writing for him some "Love Stanzas," to send to his sweetheart!

Mr. Coleridge, in the midst of all his deficiencies, it appeared, was liked by the men, although he was the butt of the whole company; being esteemed by them as next of kin to a natural, though of a peculiar kind--a talking natural. This fancy of theirs was stoutly resisted by the love-sick swain, but the regimental logic prevailed; for, whatever they could do, with masterly dexterity, he could not do at all, ergo, must he not be a natural? There was no man in the regiment who met with so many falls from his horse, as Silas Tomken Cumberbatch! He often calculated with so little precision his due equilibrium, that, in mounting on one side, (perhaps the wrong stirrup) the probability was, especially if his horse moved a little, that he lost his balance, and, if he did not roll back on this side, came down ponderously on the other! when the laugh spread amongst the men, "Silas is off again!" Mr. C. had often heard of campaigns, but he never before had so correct an idea of hard service.

Some mitigation was now in store for Mr. C. arising out of a whimsical circumstance. He had been placed as a sentinel, at the door of a ball-room, or some public place of resort, when two of his officers, passing in, stopped for a moment, near Mr. C., talking about Euripides, two lines from whom, one of them repeated. At the sound of Greek, the sentinel instinctively turned his ear, when he said, with all deference, touching his lofty cap, "I hope your honour will excuse me, but the lines you have repeated are not quite accurately cited. These are the lines," when he gave them in their more correct form. "Besides," said Mr. C., "instead of being in Euripides, the lines will be found in the second antistrophe of the 'Aedipus of Sophocles.'" "Why, man, who are you?" said the officer, "old Faustus ground young again?" "I am your honour's humble sentinel," said Mr. C., again touching his cap.

The officers hastened into the room, and inquired of one and another, about that "odd fish," at the door; when one of the mess, (it is believed, the surgeon) told them, that he had his eye upon him, but he would neither tell where he came from, nor anything about his family of the Cumberbatches; "but," continued he, "instead of his being an 'odd fish,' I suspect he must be a 'stray bird' from the Oxford or Cambridge aviary." They learned also, the laughable fact, that he was bruised all over, by frequent falls from his horse. "Ah," said one of the officers, "we have had, at different times, two or three of these 'University birds' in our regiment." This suspicion was confirmed by one of the officers, Mr. Nathaniel Ogle, who observed that he had noticed a line of Latin, chalked under one of the men's saddles, and was told, on inquiring whose saddle it was, that it was "Cumberbatch's."

The officers now kindly took pity on the 'poor scholar' and had Mr. C. removed to the medical department, where he was appointed assistant in the regimental hospital. This change was a vast improvement in Mr. C.'s condition; and happy was the day, also, on which it took place, for the sake of the sick patients; for Silas Tomken Cumberbatch's amusing stories, they said, did them more good than all the doctor's physic! Many ludicrous dialogues sometimes occurred between Mr. C. and his new disciples; particularly with one who was "the geographer." The following are some of these dialogues.

If he began talking to one or two of his comrades; for they were all on a perfect equality, except that those who went through their exercise the best, stretched their necks a little above the "awkward squad;" in which ignoble class Mr. C. was placed, as the preeminent member, almost by acclamation; if he began to speak, notwithstanding, to one or two, others drew near, increasing momently, till by-and-bye the sick-beds were deserted, and Mr. C. formed the centre of a large circle.

On one occasion, he told them of the Peloponnesian war, which lasted twenty-seven years, "There must have been famous promotion there," said one poor fellow, haggard as a death's head. Another, tottering with disease, ejaculated, "Can you tell, Silas, how many rose from the ranks?"

He now still more excited their wonderment, by recapitulating the feats of Archimedes. As the narrative proceeded, one restrained his scepticism, till he was almost ready to burst, and then vociferated, "Silas, that's a lie!" "D'ye think so?" said Mr. C. smiling, and went on with his story. The idea, however, got amongst them, that Silas's fancy was on the stretch, when Mr. C. finding that this tact would not do, changed his subject, and told them of a famous general, called Alexander the Great. As by a magic spell, the flagging attention was revived, and several, at the same moment, to testify their eagerness, called out, "The general! The general!" "I'll tell you all about him," said Mr. C. when impatience marked every countenance. He then told them whose son this Alexander the Great was; no less than Philip of Macedon. "I never heard of him," said one. "I think I have," said the "geographer," ashamed of being thought ignorant, "Silas, was'nt he a Cornish man? I knew one of the Alexanders at Truro!"

Mr. C. now went on describing to them, in glowing colours, the valour, and the wars, and the conquests of this famous general. "Ah," said one man, whose open mouth had complimented the speaker, for the preceding half hour; "Ah," said he, "Silas, this Alexander must have been as great a man as our Colonel!"

Mr. C. now told them of the "Retreat of the Ten Thousand." "I don't like to hear of retreat," said one. "Nor I," said a second: "I'm for marching on." Mr. C. now told of the incessant conflicts of these brave warriors, and of the virtues of the "square." "They were a parcel of crack men," said one. "Yes," said another, "their bayonets fixed, and sleeping on their arms day and night." "I should like to know," said a fourth, "what rations were given with all that hard fighting;" on which an Irishman replied, "to be sure, every time the sun rose, two pounds of good ox beef, and plenty of whiskey."

At another time he told them of the invasion of Xerxes, and his crossing the _wide_ Hellespont. "Ah," said a young recruit, a native of an obscure village in Kent, who had acquired a decent smattering of geography,--knowing well that the world was round, and that the earth was divided into land and water, and, furthermore, that there were more countries on the globe than England, and who now wished to raise his pretensions a little before his comrades; said this young man of Kent; "Silas, I know where that 'Helspont' is. I think it must be the mouth of the Thames, for _'tis_ very wide."

Mr. C. now told them of the herces of Thermopylae, when the geographer interrupted him, by saying, "Silas, I think I know, too, where that 'Thermopple' is; isn't it somewhere up in the north?" "You are quite right, Jack," said Mr. C. "it is to the north of the Line." A conscious elevation marked his countenance, and he rose at once, five degrees in the estimation of his friends.

In one of these interesting conversaziones, when Mr. C. was sitting at the foot of a bed, surrounded by his gaping comrades, who were always solicitous of, and never wearied with, his stories, the door suddenly burst open, and in came two or three gentlemen, (his friends) looking for some time, in vain, amid the uniform dresses, for their man. At length, they pitched on Mr. C. and taking him by the arm, led him, in silence, out of the room, (a picture indeed, for a Wilkie!) As the supposed _deserter_ passed the threshold, one of the astonished auditors uttered, with a sigh, "poor Silas! I wish they may let him off with a cool five hundred!" Mr. C.'s ransom was soon joyfully adjusted by his friends, and now the wide world once more lay before him.[78]

A very old friend of Mr. Coleridge has recently furnished me with the two following anecdotes of Mr. C. which were also new to me.

The inspecting officer of his regiment, on one occasion, was examining the guns of the men, and coming to one piece which was rusty, he called out in an authoritative tone, "Whose rusty gun[79] is this?" when Mr. Coleridge said, "is it _very_ rusty, Sir?" "Yes Cumberbatch, it _is_" said the officer, sternly. "Then, Sir," replied Mr. C. "it must be mine!" The oddity of the reply disarmed the officer, and the poor scholar escaped without punishment.

Mr. Coleridge was a remarkably awkward horseman, so much so, as generally to attract notice. Some years after this, he was riding along the turnpike road, in the county of Durham, when a wag, approaching him, noticed his peculiarity, and (quite mistaking his man) thought the rider a fine subject for a little sport; when, as he drew near, he thus accosted Mr. C. "I say, young man, did you meet a _tailor_ on the road?" "Yes," replied Mr. C. (who was never at a loss for a rejoinder) "I did; and he told me, if I went a little further I should meet a _goose!_" The assailant was struck dumb, while the traveller jogged on.

Mr. C. gave me these, his translations from the German.

ON A BAD READER OF HIS OWN VERSES.

Hoarse Maevius reads his hobbling verse
To all, and at all times,
And deems them both divinely smooth,
His voice, as well as rhymes.

But folks say Maevius is no ass!
But Maevius makes it clear,
That he's a monster of an ass,
An ass without an ear.

* * * * *

If the guilt of all lying consists in deceit,
Lie on--'tis your duty, sweet youth!
For believe me, then only we find you a cheat,
When you cunningly tell us the truth.

"As Dick and I at Charing Cross were walking,
Whom should we see on t'other side pass by,
But INFORMATOR with a stranger talking,
So I exclaimed--"O, what a lie!"
Quoth Dick, "What, can you hear him?" Stuff!
I saw him open his mouth--an't that enough?"

* * * * *

ON OBSERVING A LADY LICKING HER LAP-DOG,

Thy Lap-dog Rufa, is a dainty beast;
It don't surprise me in the least,
To see thee lick so dainty clean a beast,
But that so dainty clean a beast licks thee--
Yes--that surprises me.

* * * * *

Jack writes his verses with more speed
Than the printer's boy can set 'em;
Quite as fast as we can read,
But only--not so fast as we forget 'em.

Mr. Coleridge accompanied these epigrams with the translation of one of LESSING'S pieces, where the felicity of the expression, in its English form, will excite in most readers a suspicion, that no German original, could equal the poem in its new dress.

MY LOVE.

I ask'd my love, one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay!
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece;
Iphigenia, Clelia, Chloris,
Laura, Lesbia, or Doris,
Dorimene, or Lucrece?
Ah! replied my gentle fair,
Beloved! what are names but air!
Take whatever suits the line:
Call me Clelia, call me Chloris,
Laura, Lesbia, or Doris,
Only, only, call me thine.

Mr. C. told me that he intended to translate the whole of Lessing. I smiled. Mr. C. understood the symbol, and smiled in return.

The above poem is thus printed in the last edition of 1835, by which the two may be compared, and the reader will perhaps think that the alterations are not improvements.

NAMES.

I asked my fair one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay?
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece:
Lalage, Nesera, Chloris,
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,
Arethusa, or Lucrece.

Ah, replied my gentle fair,
Beloved, what are names but air?
Choose thou whatever suits the line;
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalage, or Doris,
Only, only, call me thine.

Some time after this, Mr. Coleridge being in an ill state of health, recollected that a friend of his, Sir John Stoddart, was the Judge at Malta,[80] and he determined to repair to that island. Here he was introduced to Sir Alexander Ball, the Governor, who happened at that time to be in want of a Secretary, and being greatly pleased with Mr. Coleridge, he immediately engaged him in that capacity.[81]

* * * * *

I shall here for the present leave the narrative of Mr. C. in other and better hands, and proceed to remark, that Mr. Davy and Mr. Coleridge continued their friendly feeling toward each other, through life. Mr. Davy, in a letter to Mr. Poole, (1804.) thus expresses himself:

"I have received a letter from Coleridge within the last three weeks. He writes from Malta, in good spirits, and as usual, from the depth of his being. God bless him! He was intended for a great man. I hope and trust he will, at some period, appear such."

Mr. Davy, after a continuance in Bristol of more than two years, sent me the following letter, with a copy of "Burns's Life and Works," by Dr. Currie.

"Dear Cottle,

I have been for the last six weeks so much hurried by business, and the prospect of a change of situation, that I have not had time to call on you. I am now on the point of leaving the Hotwells, and had designed to see you this morning, but engagements have unluckily prevented me. I am going to the Royal Institution, where, if you come to London, it will give me much pleasure to see you.

Will you be pleased to accept the copy of 'Burns's Life and Poems,' sent with this, and when you are reading with delight the effusions of your brother bard, occasionally think of one who is, with sincere regard and affection, your friend,

H. Davy.

March 9th, 1801."

In a letter of Sir H. Davy, addressed to his friend Mr. Poole, 1803, he thus writes of S. T. C.

"Coleridge has left London for Keswick. During his stay in town, I saw him seldomer than usual; when I did see him, it was generally in the midst of large companies, where he is the image of power and activity. His eloquence is unimpaired; perhaps it is softer and stronger. His will is less than ever commensurate with his ability. Brilliant images of greatness float upon his mind, like images of the morning clouds on the waters. Their forms are changed by the motion of the waves, they are agitated by every breeze, and modified by every sun-beam. He talked in the course of an hour, of beginning three works; and he recited the poem of Christabel unfinished, and as I had before heard it. What talent does he not waste in forming visions, sublime, but unconnected with the real world! I have looked to his efforts, as to the efforts of a creating being; but as yet he has not laid the foundation for the new world of intellectual forms."

In the following letter received by me from Sir H. Davy, so late as June, 1823, he refers to Mr. Coleridge.

"My dear Sir,

... I have often thought on the subject of the early history of our planet, and have some peculiar views, but I have some reserve in talking here about it, as all our knowledge on such matter is little more than ignorance.

What I stated to the Royal Society, in awarding the medal to Professor Buckland, has not been correctly given in the Journals. I merely said that the facts lately brought forward, proved the occurrence of that great catastrophe which had been recorded in sacred and profane history, and of which traditions were current, even amongst the most barbarous nations. I did not say they proved the truth of the Mosaic account of the deluge, that is to say, of the history of the Ark of Noah, and the preservation of animal life. This is revelation; and no facts, that I know of, have been discovered in science that bear upon this question, and the sacred history of the race of Shem. My idea was to give to Caesar what belonged to Caesar, &c. &c., and not to blend divine truths with the fancies of men.

I met Coleridge this morning, looking very well. I had not seen him for years. He has promised to dine with me on Monday....

Very sincerely yours,

H. Davy.

June 11th, 1823."

Sir H. Davy was the chief agent in prevailing on Mr. Coleridge to give a course of lectures on Shakspeare, at the Royal Institution, which he did, eighteen in number, in the year 1808. Sir H. D. in writing to Mr. Poole, this year, thus refers to him.

"Coleridge, after disappointing his audience twice from illness, is announced to lecture again this week. He has suffered greatly from excessive sensibility, the disease of genius. 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, briars, 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. I cannot think of him without experiencing the mingled feelings of admiration, regard, and pity."

To this testimony in confirmation of Mr. Coleridge's intellectual eminence, some high and additional authorities will be added; such as to entitle him to the name of the Great Conversationalist. Professor Wilson thus writes:

"If there be any man of great and original genius alive at this
moment, in Europe, it is S. T. Coleridge. Nothing can surpass the
melodious richness of words, which he heaps around his images; images
that are not glaring in themselves, but which are always affecting to
the very verge of tears, because they have all been formed and
nourished in the recesses of one of the most deeply musing spirits,
that ever breathed forth its inspirations, in the majestic language
of England."

"Not less marvellously gifted, though in a far different manner, is
Coleridge, who by a strange error has usually been regarded of the
same (lake) school. Instead, like Wordsworth, of seeking the sources
of sublimity and beauty in the simplest elements of humanity, he
ranges through all history and science, investigating all that has
really existed, and all that has had foundation only in the wildest,
and strangest minds, combining, condensing, developing and
multiplying the rich products of his research with marvellous
facility and skill; now pondering fondly over some piece of exquisite
loveliness, brought from an unknown recess, now tracing out the
hidden germ of the eldest, and most barbaric theories, and now
calling fantastic spirits from the vasty deep, where they have slept
since the dawn of reason. The term 'myriad-minded' which he has
happily applied to Shakspeare, is truly descriptive of himself. He is
not one, but legion, 'rich with the spoils of time,' richer in his
own glorious imagination and sportive fantasy. There is nothing more
wonderful than the facile majesty of his images, or rather of his
world of imagery, which, whether in his poetry or his prose, start up
before us, self-raised, and all perfect, like the palace of Aladdin.
He ascends to the sublimest truths by a winding track of sparkling
glory, which can only be described in his own language.

'The spirit's ladder
That from this gross and visible world of dust,
Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds
Builds itself up; on which the unseen powers
Move up and down on heavenly ministries--
The circles in the circles, that approach
The central sun from ever narrowing orbit.'

In various beauty of versification he has never been exceeded.
Shakspeare doubtless in liquid sweetness and exquisite continuity,
and Milton in pure majesty and classic grace--but this, in one
species of verse only; and taking all his trials of various metres,
the swelling harmony of his blank verse, the sweet breathing of his
gentle odes, and the sybil-like flutter, with the murmuring of his
wizard spells, we doubt if even these great masters have so fully
developed the sources of the English tongue. He has yet completed no
adequate memorial of his Genius, yet it is most unjust to say he has
done little or nothing.

To refute this assertion, there are his 'Wallenstein;' his love poems
of intensest beauty; his 'Ancient Mariner,' with his touches of
profoundest tenderness amidst the wildest and most bewildering
terrors; his holy and sweet tale of 'Christabel,' with its
enchantments, and richer humanities; the depths, the sublimities, and
the pensive sweetness of his 'Tragedy;' the heart-dilating sentiments
scattered through his 'Friend;' and the stately imagery which breaks
upon us at every turn of the golden paths of his metaphysical
labyrinth. And if he has a power within him mightier than that which
even these glorious creations indicate, shall he be censured because
he has deviated from the ordinary course of the age in its
development, and instead of committing his imaginative wisdom to the
press, has delivered it from his living lips? He has gone about in
the true spirit of an old Greek bard, with a noble carelessness of
self, giving fit utterance to the divine spirit within, him. Who that
has ever heard can forget him? His mild benignity, the unbounded
variety of his knowledge, the fast succeeding products of his
imagination, the child-like simplicity with which he rises from the
dryest and commonest theme into the wildest magnificence of thought,
pouring on the soul a stream of beauty and wisdom to mellow and
enrich it for ever? The seeds of poetry, the materials for thinking,
which he has thus scattered will not perish. The records of his fame
are not in books only, but on the fleshly tablets of young hearts,
who will not suffer it to die even in the general ear, however base
and unfeeling criticism may deride their gratitude."--_Mr. Sergeant
Talfourd._

Dr. Dibdin has given an animated description of Coleridge's lecturing and conversation, which concurs with the universal opinion.

"I once came from Kensington in a snow-storm to hear Mr. Coleridge
lecture on Shakspeare, I might have sat as wisely, and more
comfortably by my own fire-side--for no Coleridge appeared.----I
shall never forget the effect his conversation made upon me at the
first meeting, at a dinner party. It struck me as something not only
quite out of the ordinary course of things, but an intellectual
exhibition altogether matchless. The viands were unusually costly,
and the banquet was at once rich and varied; but there seemed to be
no dish like Coleridge's conversation to feed upon--and no
information so instructive as his own. The orator rolled himself up
as it were in his chair, and gave the most unrestrained indulgence to
his speech; and how fraught with acuteness and originality was that
speech, and in what copious and eloquent periods did it flow. The
auditors seemed to be wrapt in wonder and delight, as one
conversation, more profound or clothed in more forcible language than
another, fell from his tongue. He spoke nearly for two hours with
unhesitating and uninterrupted fluency. As I returned homewards, to
Kensington, I thought a second Johnson had visited the earth, to make
wise the sons of men; and regretted that I could not exercise the
powers of a second Boswell to record the wisdom and the eloquence
that fell from the orator's lips.

The manner of Coleridge was emphatic rather than dogmatic, and thus
he was generally and satisfactorily listened to. It might be said of
Coleridge, as Cowper has so happily said of Sir Philip Sidney, that
he was 'the warbler of poetic prose.' There was always this
characteristic feature in his multifarious conversation,--it was
always delicate, reverend, and courteous. The chastest ear could
drink in no startling sound; the most serious believer never had his
bosom ruffled by one sceptical or reckless assertion. Coleridge was
eminently simple in his manner. Thinking and speaking were his
delight; and he would sometimes seem, during the more fervid
movements of discourse, to be abstracted from all, and everything
around and about him, and to be basking in the sunny warmth of his
own radiant imagination."--_Dr. Dibdin_.

"Last Thursday, my Uncle, S. T. C. dined with us; and ---- and ----
came to meet him. I have heard him more brilliant, but he was very
fine, and delighted both, ---- and ---- very much. It is impossible
to carry off, or commit to paper, his long trains of argument; indeed
it is not possible to understand them, he lays the foundation so
deep, and views every question in so original a manner. Nothing can
be finer than the principles which he lays down in morals and
religion. His deep study of scripture is very astonishing; ---- and
---- were but as children in his hands, not merely in general views
of theology, but in minute criticism.... Afterwards in the
drawing-room, he sat down by Professor Rigaud, with whom he entered
into a discussion of 'Kant's system of Metaphysics.' The little knots
of the company were speedily silent. Mr. Coleridge's voice grew
louder; and, abstruse as the subject was, yet his language was so
ready, so energetic, and eloquent, and his illustrations so very apt
and apposite, that the ladies even paid him the most solicitous, and
respectful attention.... This is nearly all I recollect of our
meeting with this most interesting, most wonderful man. Some of his
topics and arguments I have enumerated, but the connexion and the
words are lost. And nothing that I can say can give any notion of his
eloquence and manner."--_Mr. Justice Coleridge.--Table Talk_.

"To the honoured memory of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the Christian
Philosopher, who through dark and winding paths of speculation was
led to the light, in order that others by his guidance might reach
that light, without passing through the darkness, these sermons on
the work of the spirit are dedicated with deep thankfulness and
reverence by one of the many pupils whom his writings have helped to
discern the sacred concord and unity of human and Divine truth.

"Of recent English writers, the one with whose sanction I have
chiefly desired whenever I could, to strengthen my opinions, is the
great religious philosopher to whom the mind of our generation in
England owes more than to any other man. My gratitude to him I have
endeavoured to express by dedicating the following sermons to his
memory; and the offering is so far at least appropriate, in that the
main work of his life was to spiritualize, not only our philosophy,
but our theology; to raise them both above the empiricism into which
they had long been dwindling, and to set them free from the technical
trammels of logical systems. Whether he is as much studied by the
genial young men of the present day, as he was twenty or thirty years
ago, I have no adequate means of judging: but our theological
literature teems with errors, such as could hardly have been
committed by persons whose minds had been disciplined by his
philosophical method, and had rightly appropriated his principles. So
far too as my observation has extended, the third and fourth volumes
of his 'Remains,' though they were hailed with delight by Arnold on
their first appearance, have not yet produced their proper effect on
the intellect of the age. It may be that the rich store of profound
and beautiful thought contained in them has been weighed down, from
being mixed with a few opinions on points of Biblical criticism,
likely to be very offensive to persons who know nothing about the
history of the Canon. Some of these opinions, to which Coleridge
himself ascribed a good deal of importance, seem to me of little
worth; some to be decidedly erroneous. Philological criticism, indeed
all matters requiring a laborious and accurate investigation of
details were alien from the bent and habits of his mind; and his
exegetical studies, such as they were, took place at a period when he
had little better than the meagre Rationalism of Eichhorn and
Bertholdt to help him. Of the opinions which he imbibed from them,
some abode with him through life. These however, along with
everything else that can justly be objected to in the 'Remains,' do
not form a twentieth part of the whole, and may easily be separated
from the remainder. Nor do they detract in any way from the sterling
sense, the clear and far-sighted discernment, the power of tracing
principles in their remotest operations, and of referring all things
to their first principles, which are manifested in almost every page,
and from which we might learn so much. There may be some indeed, who
fancy that Coleridge's day is gone by, and that we have advanced
beyond him. I have seen him numbered, along with other persons who
would have been no less surprised at their position and company,
among the pioneers who prepared the way for our new theological
school. This fathering of Tractarianism, as it is termed, upon
Coleridge, well deserves to rank beside the folly which would father
Rationalism upon Luther. Coleridge's far-reaching vision did indeed
discern the best part of the speculative truths which our new school
has laid hold on, and exaggerated and perverted. But in Coleridge's
field of view they were comprised along with the complimental truths
which limit them, and in their conjunction and co-ordination with
which alone they retain the beneficent power of truth. He saw what
our modern theologians see, though it was latent from the vulgar eyes
in his days; but he also saw what they do not see, what they have
closed their eyes on; and he saw far beyond them, because he saw
things in their universal principles and laws."--_Rev. Archdeacon
Charles Hare's "Mission of the Comforter."--Preface, pp. 13, 15. Two
Vols. 8vo_.

These various testimonies to the conversational eminence of Mr. Coleridge, and from men the best qualified to decide, must satisfy every mind, that in this one quality he scarcely ever had a superior, or perhaps an equal. In the 103rd No. of the "Quarterly Review," there is a description of his conversation, evidently written by one competent to judge, and who well knew the subject of his praise; but though the writer's language is highly encomiastic, corresponding with his eloquence, yet to all who knew Coleridge, it will not be considered as exceeding the soberest truth. When and where are such descriptions as the preceding and the following to be found?

"Perhaps our readers may have heard repeated a saying of Mr.
Wordsworth, 'that many men of his age had done wonderful _things_, as
Davy, Scott, Cuvier, &c.; but that Coleridge was the only wonderful
_man_ he ever knew.' Something of course must be allowed in this, as
in all other such cases, for the antithesis; but we believe the fact
really to be, that the greater part of those who have occasionally
visited Mr. Coleridge, have left him with the feeling akin to the
judgment indicated in the above remark. They admire the man more than
his works, or they forget the works in the absorbing impression made
by the living author; and no wonder. Those who remember him in his
more vigorous days, can bear witness to the peculiarity and
transcendant power of his conversational eloquence. It was unlike
anything that could be heard elsewhere; the kind was different, the
degree was different, the manner was different. The boundless range
of scientific knowledge, the brilliancy and exquisite nicety of
illustration, the deep and ready reasoning, the strangeness and
immensity of bookish lore, were not all; the dramatic story, the
joke, the pun, the festivity, must be added; and with these, the
clerical looking dress, the thick waving silver hair, the youthful
coloured cheek, the indefinable mouth and lips, the quick yet steady
and penetrating greenish grey eye, the slow and continuous
enunciation, and the everlasting music of his tones,--all went to
make up the image, and to constitute the living presence of the man.
Even now his conversation is characterized by all the essentials of
its former excellence; there is the same individuality, the same
unexpectedness, the same universal grasp; nothing is too high,
nothing too low for it--it glances from earth to heaven, from heaven
to earth, with a speed and a splendour, an ease and a power, which
almost seemed inspired."

* * * * *

As a conclusion to these honourable testimonies, it may be added, the wish has often been expressed, that more were known respecting Mr. Coleridge's school and college life, so briefly detailed in his "Biographia." There was one friend of whom he often used to talk, and always with a kind feeling, who sat next to him at Christ Church School, and who afterwards accompanied him to Cambridge, where their friendship was renewed, and their intercourse uninterrupted. This gentleman was the Rev. C. V. Le Grice, the respected and erudite incumbent of a living near Penzance. Mr. Le G. might contribute largely toward the elucidation of Mr. Coleridge's school and college life; but as the much has been denied, we must be thankful for the little. The following are Mr. Le Grice's brief, but interesting notices of his friend:

"Mr. Urban,

In the various and numerous memoirs, which have been published of the
late Mr. Coleridge, I have been surprised at the accuracy in many
respects, and at the same time their omission of a very remarkable,
and a very honourable anecdote in his history. In the memoir of him
in your last number, you do not merely omit, but you give an
erroneous account of this very circumstance, to which I mean to
allude. You assert that he did not obtain, and indeed did riot aim to
obtain, the honours of the University. So far is this from the fact,
that in his Freshman's year he won the gold medal for the Greek Ode;
and in his second year he became a candidate for the Craven
scholarship, a University scholarship, for which undergraduates of
any standing are entitled to become candidates. This was in the
winter of 1792. Out of sixteen or eighteen competitors a selection of
four was made to contend for the prize, and these four were Dr.
Butler, now the Head Master of Shrewsbury; Dr. Keate, the late Head
Master of Eton; Mr. Bethell, the late Member for Yorkshire; and S. T.
Coleridge. Dr. Butler was the successful candidate.

Pause a moment in Coleridge's history, and think of him at this
period! Butler! Keate! Bethell! and Coleridge!! How different the
career of each in future life! O Coleridge; through what strange
paths did the meteor of genius lead thee! Pause a moment, ye
distinguished men! and deem it not the least bright spot in your
happier career, that you and Coleridge were once rivals, and for a
moment running abreast in the pursuit of honour. I believe that his
disappointment at this crisis damped his ardour. Unfortunately, at
that period there was no classical Tripos; so that if a person did
not obtain the classical medal, he was thrown back among the totally
undistinguished; and it was not allowable to become a candidate for
the classical medal, unless you had taken a respectable degree in
mathematics. Coleridge had not the least taste for these, and here
his case was hopeless; so that he despaired of a Fellowship, and gave
up, what in his heart he coveted, college honours, and a college
life. He had seen his schoolfellow and dearest friend, Middleton,
(late Bishop of Calcutta) quit Pembroke under similar circumstances.
Not _quite_ similar, because Middleton studied mathematics so as to
take a respectable degree, and to enable him to try for the medal;
but he failed, and therefore all hopes failed of a Fellowship--most
fortunately, as it proved in after life, for Middleton, though he
mourned at the time most deeply, and exclaimed, 'I am Middleton,
which is another name for Misfortune!'

'There is a Providence which shapes our ends,
Rough hew them how you will.'

That, which Middleton deemed a misfortune, drew him from the cobwebs
of a college library to the active energies of a useful and honoured
life. But to return to Coleridge. When he quitted College, which he
did before he had taken a degree, in a moment of mad caprice--it was
indeed an inauspicious hour! 'In an inauspicious hour I left the
friendly cloisters, and the happy grove of quiet, ever honoured Jesus
College, Cambridge.' Short, but deep and heart-felt reminiscence! In
a literary Life of himself this short memorial is all that Coleridge
gives of his happy days at college. Say not, that he did not obtain,
and did not wish to obtain classical honours! He did obtain them, and
was eagerly ambitious of them; but he did not bend to that discipline
which was to qualify him for the whole course. He was very studious,
but his reading was desultory and capricious. He took little exercise
merely for the sake of exercise; but he was ready at any time to
unbend his mind in conversation, and for the sake of this, his room
(the ground-floor room on the right hand of the staircase facing the
great gate) was a constant rendezvous of conversation loving friends,
I will not call them loungers, for they did not call to kill time,
but to enjoy it. What evenings have I spent in those rooms! What
little suppers, or _sizing_, as they were called, have I enjoyed;
when Aeschylus, and Plato, and Thucydides, were pushed aside, with a
pile of lexicons, &c., to discuss the pamphlets of the day. Ever and
anon, a pamphlet issued from the pen of Burke. There was no need of
having the book before us. Coleridge had read it in the morning; and
in the evening he would repeat whole pages verbatim. Freud's trial
was then in progress. Pamphlets swarmed from the press. Coleridge had
read them all; and in the evening, with our negus, we had them _viva
voce_ gloriously. O Coleridge! it was indeed an inauspicious hour,
when you quitted the friendly cloisters of Jesus. The epithet
'friendly' implied what you were thinking of, when you thought of
college. To you, Coleridge, your contemporaries were indeed friendly,
and I believe, that in your literary life you have passed over your
college life so briefly, because you wished to banish from your view
the 'visions of long-departed joys.' To enter into a description of
your college days would have called up too sadly to your memory 'the
hopes which once shone bright,' and would have made your heart sink.

Yours, &c.,

C. V. Le Grice.

P. S.--I was a witness to the breathless delight with which he
hastened to give his friends intelligence of his success. The
following lines, in his "Verses written in Early Youth," are a
memorial of the pleasure, which he felt in the sympathy of one who
was then most dear to him:--

"With faery wand, O bid the maid arise,
Chaste joyance dancing in her bright blue eyes,
As erst, when, from the Muse's calm abode,
I came with learning's meed not unbestowed."

See Poems, Edit. 1805, p. 34.

He wrote, to my certain knowledge, for the prize in the ensuing year;
but it was most deservedly given to Keate's beautiful Ode. The
subject Laus Astronomiae. No one was more convinced of the propriety
of the decision than Coleridge himself. He used to repeat Ramsden's
Greek Ode on Gibraltar, and Smith's Latin one on Mare Liberum, with
incessant rapture. It would have been his glory to have caught their
spirit,--he was absorbed in these things. A Classical Tripos would
have changed Coleridge's destiny."--_Gentleman's Magazine_, Dec.
1834.

* * * * *

The reader's attention will now be directed to Mr. Coleridge, after he left Malta, when he visited Bristol, in the year 1807. I accidentally learned that Mr. C. had returned to England, not in good health, and that he was at Mr. Poole's, when I addressed a letter to him, expressing a hope that his health would soon allow him to pay me a visit, in Bristol. To this letter he thus replied:

"Dear Cottle,

On my return to Bristol, whenever that may be, I will certainly give you the right hand of old fellowship; but, alas! you will find me the wretched wreck of what you knew me, rolling, rudderless. My health is extremely bad. Pain I have enough of, but that is indeed to me, a mere trifle, but the almost unceasing, overpowering sensations of wretchedness: achings in my limbs, with an indescribable restlessness, that makes action to any available purpose, almost impossible: and worst of all, the sense of blighted utility, regrets, not remorseless. But enough; yea, more than enough; if these things produce, or deepen the conviction of the utter powerlessness of ourselves, and that we either perish, or find aid from something that passes understanding.

Affectionately,

S. T. C."

The preceding letter of Mr. Coleridge led me to anticipate a worse state of health, on his arrival in Bristol, than appearances authorized. I knew nothing of opium, and was pleased to notice the clearness of his understanding, as well as much struck with the interesting narratives he gave of Malta, Italy, and his voyage to England. I knew that Mr. C. was somewhat in the habit of accommodating his discourse to the sentiments of the persons with whom he was conversing; but his language was now so pious and orthodox, that the contrast between his past and present sentiments was most noticeable. He appeared quite an improved character, and was about, I thought, to realise the best hopes of his friends. I found him full of future activity, projecting new works, and particularly a 'New Review,' of which he himself was to be the Editor! At this time not one word was said about opium, Colerton, Ottery, or Mrs. Coleridge, and I thought the prospect never appeared so cheering.

In my state of exultation, I invited Mr. Foster to come to Bristol, from Frome, to renew his acquaintance with the improved and travelled Mr. Coleridge. Mr. Tester's reply is here given.

"Frome, June, 1807.

My dear sir,

I am very unfortunate in having made an engagement, two or three weeks back, to go just at this time on a very particular occasion, to a distant place in this county, and therefore being deprived of the very high luxury to which you so kindly invite me. I shall be unavoidably detained, for a very considerable time, and my imagination will strongly represent to me the pleasure and advantage of which an inevitable necessity deprives me. But I will indulge the hope, that I shall sometime be known to Mr. Coleridge, under more favourable circumstances, in a literary respect, than I can at present, after a regular application to the severer order of studies shall in some measure have retrieved the consequences of a very loose and indolent intellectual discipline, and shall have lessened a certain feeling of imbecility which always makes me shrink from attempting to gain the notice of men whose talents I admire.

No man can feel a more animated admiration of Mr. Coleridge than I have retained ever since the two or three times that I was a little while in his company; and during his absence in the south and the east, I have very often thought with delight of the immense acquisitions which he would at length bring back to enrich the works, which I trust the public will in due time receive from him, and to which it has an imperious claim. And still I trust he will feel the solemn duty of making his very best and continued efforts to mend as well as delight mankind, now that he has attained the complete mastery and expansion of his admirable powers. You do not fail, I hope, to urge him to devote himself strenuously to literary labour. He is able to take a station amongst the most elevated ranks, either of the philosophers or the poets. Pray tell me what are his immediate intentions, and whether he has any important specific undertaking in hand. For the sake of elegant literature, one is very glad, that he has had the opportunity of visiting those most interesting scenes and objects which you mention. Will you express to him in the strongest terms, my respect and my animated wishes for his health, his happiness, and his utility. You can inform me what is the nature of that literary project to which you allude. Tell me also, what is the state and progress of your own literary projects, and, I hope I may say, labours. I behaved shabbily about some slight remarks which I was to have ventured on Mr. Southey's 'Madoc,' in the 'Eclectic Review.' On reading the critiques in the 'Edinburgh Review,' on 'Thalaba' and 'Madoc,' I found what were substantially my own impressions, so much better developed than I could have done, that I instantly threw my remarks away. Let me hear from you when you have half an hour of leisure, and believe me to be, with every kind remembrance to your most excellent, family, my dear sir,

Most cordially yours,

John Foster.

To Joseph Cottle."