Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

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Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 322

by Robert Southey


  Considering that it had been announced on the preceding Sunday, that “the Rev. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from Cambridge University” would preach there on this day, we naturally calculated on an overflowing audience, but it proved to be the most meagre congregation I had ever seen. The reader will but imperfectly appreciate Mr. C.’s discourse, without the previous information that this year (1796) was a year of great scarcity, and consequent privation, amongst the poor; on which subject the sermon was designed impressively to bear. And now the long-expected service commenced.

  The prayer, without being intended, was formal, unimpressive, and undevotional; the singing was languid; but we expected that the sermon would arouse the inattentive, and invigorate the dull. The moment for announcing the text arrived. Our curiosity was excited. With little less than famine in the land, our hearts were appalled at hearing the words, “When they shall be hungry, they shall fret themselves, and curse their king, and their God, and look upward.” (Isaiah viii. 21.) Mr. Winterbotham, a little before, had been thrown into prison for the freedom of his political remarks in a sermon at Plymouth, and we were half fearful whether in his impetuous current of feeling, some stray expressions might not subject our friend to a like visitation. Our fears were groundless. Strange as it may appear in Mr. Coleridge’s vigorous mind, the whole discourse consisted of little more than a Lecture on the Corn Laws! which some time before he had delivered in Bristol, at the Assembly Boom.

  Returning from our edifying discourse to a tavern dinner, we were privileged with more luminous remarks on this inexhaustible subject: but something better (or worse, as the reader’s taste may be) is still in reserve. After dinner, Mr. Coleridge remarked that he should have no objection to preach another sermon that afternoon. In the hope that something redeeming might still appear, and the best be retained for the last, we encouraged his proposal, when he rang the bell, and on the waiter appearing, he was sent, with Mr. Coleridge’s compliments, to the Rev. Mr. Jardine, to say “If agreeable, Mr. C. would give his congregation another sermon, this afternoon, on the Hair Powder Tax!” On the departure of the waiter, I was fully assured that Mr. Jardine would smile, and send a civil excuse, satisfied that he had had quite enough of political economy, with blue coat and white waistcoat, in the morning; but to my great surprise, the waiter returned with Mr. Jardine’s compliments, saying, “he should be happy to hear Mr. Coleridge!”

  Now all was hurry lest the concourse should be kept waiting. What surprise will the reader feel, on understanding that, independently of ourselves and Mr. Jardine, there were but seventeen persons present, including men, women, and children! We had, as we expected, a recapitulation of the old lecture, with the exception of its humorous appendages, in reprobation of the Hair Powder Tax; and the twice-told tale, even to the ear of friendship, in truth sounded rather dull!

  Two or three times Mr. C. looked significantly toward our seat, when fearful of being thrown off my guard into a smile, I held down my head, from which position I was aroused, when the sermon was about half over, by some gentleman throwing back the door of his pew, and walking out of the chapel. In a few minutes after, a second individual did the same; and soon after a third door flew open, and the listener escaped! At this moment affairs looked so very ominous, that we were almost afraid Mr. Jardine himself would fly, and that none but ourselves would fairly sit it out. A little before, I had been in company with the late Robert Hall, and S. T. Coleridge, when the collision of equal minds elicited light and heat; both of them ranking in the first class of conversationalists, but great indeed was the contrast between them in the pulpit. The parlour was the element for Mr. Coleridge, and the politician’s lecture, rather than the minister’s harangue. We all returned to Bristol with the feeling of disappointment; — Mr. C. from the little personal attention paid to him by Mr. Jardine; and we, from a dissatisfying sense of a Sunday desecrated. Although no doubt can be entertained of Mr. Coleridge having, in the journey before noticed, surpassed his first essay, yet, with every reasonable allowance, the conviction was so strong on my mind that Mr. C. had mistaken his talent, that my regard for him was too genuine to entertain the wish of ever again seeing him in a pulpit.

  It is unknown when the following letter was received, (although quite certain that it was not the evening in which Mr. Coleridge wrote his “Ode to the Departing Year,”) and it is printed in this place at something of an uncertainty.

  “January 1st.

  My dear Cottle,

  I have been forced to disappoint not only you, but Dr. Beddoes, on an affair of some importance. Last night I was induced by strong and joint solicitation, to go to a card-club, to which Mr. Morgan belongs, and, after the playing was over, to sup, and spend the remainder of the night: having made a previous compact, that I should not drink; however just on the verge of twelve, I was desired to drink only one wine glass of punch, in honour of the departing year; and, after twelve, one other in honour of the new year. Though the glasses were very small, yet such was the effect produced during my sleep, that I awoke unwell, and in about twenty minutes after had a relapse of my bilious complaint. I am just now recovered, and with care, I doubt not, shall be as well as ever to-morrow. If I do not see you then, it will be from some relapse, which I have no reason, thank heaven, to anticipate.

  Yours affectionately,

  S. T. Coleridge.”

  In consequence of Mr. Coleridge’s journey to the north, to collect subscribers for the “Watchman,” an incident occurred, which produced a considerable effect on his after life. During Mr. C.’s visit to Birmingham, an accident had introduced him to the eldest son of Mr. Lloyd, the eminent banker of that town. Mr. Lloyd had intended his son Charles to unite with him in the bank, but the monotonous business of the establishment, ill accorded with the young man’s taste, which had taken a decidedly literary turn. If the object of Charles Lloyd had been to accumulate wealth, his disposition might have been gratified to the utmost, but the tedious and unintellectual occupation of adjusting pounds, shillings, and pence, suited, he thought, those alone who had never, eagle-like, gazed at the sun, or bathed their temples in the dews of Parnassus. The feelings of this young man were ardent; his reading and information extensive; and his genius, though of a peculiar cast, considerable. His mind appeared, however, subject to something of that morbid sensibility which distinguished Cowper. The admiration excited in Mr. L. by Mr. Coleridge’s pre-eminent talents, induced him to relinquish his connexion with the bank; and he had now arrived in Bristol to seek Mr. C. out, and to improve his acquaintance with him.

  To enjoy the enviable privilege of Mr. Coleridge’s conversation, Mr. Lloyd proposed even to domesticate with him; and made him such a pecuniary offer, that Mr. C. immediately acceded to the proposal; and to effect this, as an essential preliminary, removed from Redcliff-hill, to a house on Kingsdown.

  In this his new abode, Mr. Coleridge appeared settled and comfortable. Friends were kind and numerous. Books, of all kinds, were at his command. Of the literary society now found in Bristol, he expressed himself in terms of warm approval, and thought, in this feature, that it was surpassed by no city in the kingdom. His son Hartley, also, was now born; and no small accession to his comfort arose from his young and intelligent domestic associate, Charles Lloyd. This looked something like permanence; but the promise was fallacious, for Mr. Coleridge now experienced another removal.

  His friend, Mr. Thomas Poole, of Nether Stowey, near Bridgwater, was desirous of obtaining Mr. C. again, as a permanent neighbour, and recommended him to take a small house at Stowey, then to be let, at seven pounds a year, which he thought would well suit him. Mr. Poole’s personal worth; his friendly and social manners; his information, and taste for literature; all this, combined with the prospect of a diminished expense in his establishment, unitedly, formed such powerful inducements, that Mr. C. at once decided, and the more so, as Mr. Lloyd had consented to accompany him. To this place, consequently, the whole party repaired.

  On Mr. Col
eridge reaching his new abode, I was gratified by receiving from him the following letter.

  “Stowey, 1796.

  My dear Cottle,

  We arrived safe. Our house is set to rights. We are all — wife, bratling, and self, remarkably well. Mrs. Coleridge likes Stowey, and loves Thomas Poole and his mother, who love her. A communication has been made from our orchard into T. Poole’s garden, and from thence to Cruikshank’s, a friend of mine, and a young married man, whose wife is very amiable, and she and Sara are already on the most cordial terms; from all this you will conclude we are happy. By-the-bye, what a delightful poem, is Southey’s ‘Musings on a Landscape of Gaspar Poussin.’ I love it almost better than his ‘Hymn to the Penates.’ In his volume of poems. The following, namely,

  ’The Six Sonnets on the Slave Trade. — The Ode to the Genius of

  Africa. — To my own Miniature Picture. — The Eight

  Inscriptions. — Elinor, Botany-bay Eclogue. — Frederick, ditto. — The

  Ten Sonnets, (pp. 107-116.) On the death of an Old Spaniel. — The

  Soldier’s Wife, Dactylics. — The Widow, Sapphics. — The Chapel

  Bell. — The Race of Banco. Rudiger.’

  All these Poems are worthy the Author of ‘Joan of Arc.’ And ‘The Musings on a Landscape,’ &c. and ‘The Hymn to the Penates,’ deserve to have been published after ‘Joan of Arc,’ as proofs of progressive genius.

  God bless you,

  S. T. C.”

  The account of Mr. Coleridge’s residence at Stowey, lies in the department of another; although he occasionally visited Bristol, with Mrs. C., as engagements or inclination prompted; some notice of which visits will here be taken.

  Mr. Charles Lloyd was subject to fits, to one of which the second following letter refers. In the above letter Mr. C. pronounces himself happy, but as no condition, in this changeable world, is either perfect happiness or misery, so the succeeding letter presents Mr. C. over-powered, almost, with a feeling of despondency! The calculation of the course which genius, combined with eccentricity, would be likely to pursue, must be attended with uncertainty, but the probability is, that had Mr. C’s mind been easy at this time, surrounded by domestic quiet and comparative seclusion, he might have been equal to any intellectual achievement; but soon after he settled at Stowey, he was reduced to the most prostrate state of depression, arising purely from the darkness of his pecuniary horizon. Happily for the reader, a brief mental respite succeeded, in which, if trouble existed, the letter which expressed that trouble, soon exhibits him (half forgetful) expatiating in those comprehensive surveys of possible excellence which formed the habit of his mind.

  “Stowey, 1796.

  My dearest Cottle,

  I love and respect you as a brother, and my memory deceives me woefully, if I have not evidenced, by the animated tone of my conversation when we have been tete a tete, how much your conversation interested me. But when last in Bristol, the day I meant to devote to you, was such a day of sadness, I could do nothing. On the Saturday, the Sunday, and ten days after my arrival at Stowey, I felt a depression too dreadful to be described.

  So much I felt my genial spirits droop,

  My hopes all flat; Nature within me seemed

  In all her functions, weary of herself,

  Wordsworth’s conversation aroused me somewhat, but even now I am not the man I have been, and I think I never shall. A sort of calm hopelessness diffuses itself over my heart. Indeed every mode of life which has promised me bread and cheese, has been, one after another, torn away from me, but God remains. I have no immediate pecuniary distress, having received ten pounds from Lloyd. I employ myself now on a book of morals in answer to Godwin, and on my tragedy.

  * * * * *

  There are some poets who write too much at their ease, from the facility with which they please themselves. They do not often enough

  ’Feel their burdened breast

  Heaving beneath incumbent Deity.’

  So that to posterity their wreaths will look unseemly. Here, perhaps, an everlasting Amaranth, and, close by its side, some weed of an hour, sere, yellow, and shapeless. Their very beauties will lose half their effect, from the bad company they keep. They rely too much on story and event, to the neglect of those lofty imaginings that are peculiar to, and definite of the Poet.

  The story of Milton might be told in two pages. It is this which distinguishes an epic poem from a romance in metre. Observe the march of Milton; his severe application; his laborious polish; his deep metaphysical researches; his prayer to God before he began his great work; all that could lift and swell his intellect, became his daily food.

  I should not think of devoting less than twenty years to an epic poem. Ten years to collect materials and warm my mind with universal science. I would be a tolerable Mathematician. I would thoroughly understand Mechanics; Hydrostatics; Optics, and Astronomy; Botany; Metallurgy; Fossilism; Chemistry; Geology; Anatomy; Medicine; then the mind of man; then the minds of men, in all Travels, Voyages, and Histories. So I would spend ten years; the next five in the composition of the poem, and the five last in the correction of it. So would I write, haply not unhearing of that divine and nightly-whispering voice, which speaks to mighty minds, of predestinated garlands, starry and unwithering.

  God love you.

  S. T. Coleridge.

  P. S. David Hartley is well and grows. Sara is well, and desires a sister’s love to you.”

  In the spirit of impartiality, it now devolves on me to state a temporary misunderstanding between even the two Pantisocratans; Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Southey! The affair occurred in the autumn of 1795, but it could not be noticed at that time, without interrupting the narrative.

  It is difficult to assign any other reason for the wild scheme of Pantisocracy, than the inexperience of youth, acting on sanguine imaginations. At its first announcement, every reflecting mind saw that the plan, in its nature, and in the agents who were to carry it into effect, was liable to insurmountable objections; but the individuals with whom the design originated, were young, ardent, and enthusiastic, and at that time entertained views of society erroneous in themselves, and which experience alone could correct. The fullest conviction was entertained by their friends, that as reason established itself in their minds, the delusion would vanish; and they themselves soon smile at extravagances which none but their own ingenious order of minds could have devised; but when the dissension occurred, before noticed, at Chepstow, Mr. Southey must have had conviction flashed on his mind, that the habits of himself and his friend were so essentially opposed, as to render harmony and success impossible.

  Mr. Southey now informed Mr. Coleridge, that circumstances, and his own views had so altered, as to render it necessary for him candidly to state that he must abandon Pantisocracy, and the whole scheme of colonizing in America; and that he should accept an invitation from his uncle, to accompany him through Spain to Lisbon. The reader has had cause to believe that Mr. C. himself had relinquished this wild plan, but it was by implication, rather than by direct avowal. Perhaps, in the frustration of so many of his present designs, a latent thought might linger in his mind, that America, after all, was to be the fostering asylum, where, alone, unmingled felicity was to be found. The belief is hardly admissible, and yet the admission, extravagant as it is, derives some support from the unexpected effect produced on him by the disclosure of his friend.

  On this announcement, or soon after, a tumult of fearful intensity arose in Mr. Coleridge’s mind, which filled the whole circle of their friends with grief and dismay. This unexpected effect, perhaps, may be ascribed to the consciousness now first seriously awakened, of the erroneous principles on which all his calculations had been founded. He perceived at length, (it may be) that he had been pursuing a phantom; and the conviction must have been associated with self-upbraidings. It is commonly found, that the man who is dissatisfied with himself, is seldom satisfied long with those around him; and these compound and accumulated fe
elings must necessarily be directed against some object. At this brain-crazing moment, the safety-valve of feeling was Mr. Southey.

  Being familiar with the whole affair, I completely justified Mr. S. as having acted with the strictest honour and propriety, and in such a way as any wise man, under such circumstances, would have acted. The great surprise with their friends was, that the crisis should not have occurred earlier, as a result certain to take place, and delayed alone by the vivid succession of objects that gave, it must be said, a temporary suspension to the full exercise of their understandings. Justice to Mr. S. requires it to be stated, that he acted purely on the defensive; adopting no epithets, and repelling offensive accusations and expressions, with sober argument and remonstrance alone. I spoke to each in succession, and laboured to procure a reconciliation; but oil and water would sooner have united than the accuser and the accused.

  This difference occurred only two or three days before Mr. S. set off on his Spanish and Portuguese expedition. During his absence, the fire lay smouldering, and on his return to England, in May, 1796, the conflagration was renewed. Charges of “desertion,” flew thick around; of “dishonourable retraction, in a compact the most binding” — I again spoke to Mr. Coleridge, and endeavoured to soften his asperity. I also wrote to Mr. Southey, and expressed a hope, that if he found it impossible at the present moment to return to cordiality, he would at least consent when he met Mr. Coleridge, to restrain the indignant look, which was painfully manifest on both countenances.

 

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