forwarded to Stowey, directed, ‘S. T. Coleridge, Stowey, near
Bridgwater.’ This, we suppose, arrived in Bristol on Tuesday or
Wednesday, last week.
It belonged to Thelwall. If it be not forwarded to Stowey, let it be stopped, and not sent.
Give my kind love to your brother Robert, and ax him to put on his hat, and run, without delay to the inn, or place, by whatever bird, beast, fish, or man distinguished, where Parsons’s Bath wagon sets up.
From your truly affectionate friend,
S. T. Coleridge.”
A letter, written, at this time, by Mr. Coleridge to Mr. Wade, more particularly refers to Mr. Thelwall’s visit at Stowey.
“Stowey, 1797.
My very dear friend,
… John Thelwall is a very warm-hearted, honest man; and disagreeing as we do, on almost every point of religion, of morals, of politics, and philosophy, we like each other uncommonly well. He is a great favorite with Sara. Energetic activity of mind and of heart, is his master feature. He is prompt to conceive, and still prompter to execute; but I think he is deficient in that patience of mind which can look intensely and frequently at the same subject. He believes and disbelieves with impassioned confidence. I wish to see him doubting, and doubting. He is intrepid, eloquent, and honest. Perhaps, the only acting democrat that is honest, for the patriots are ragged cattle; a most execrable herd. Arrogant because they are ignorant, and boastful of the strength of reason, because they have never tried it enough to know its weakness. Oh! my poor country! The clouds cover thee. There is not one spot of clear blue in the whole heaven!
My love to all whom you love, and believe me, with brotherly affection, with esteem and gratitude, and every warm emotion of the heart,
Your faithful
S. T. Coleridge.”
“London, 1797.
Dear Cottle,
If Mrs. Coleridge be in Bristol, pray desire her to write to me immediately, and I beg you, the moment you receive this letter, to send to No. 17, Newfoundland Street to know whether she be there. I have written to Stowey, but if she be in Bristol, beg her to write to me of it by return of post, that I may immediately send down some cash for her travelling expenses, &c. We shall reside in London for the next four months. God bless you, Cottle, I love you,
S. T. Coleridge.”
P. S. The volume (second edition, Coleridge, Lloyd, and Lamb) is a most beautiful one. You have determined that the three Bards shall walk up Parnassus, in their best bib and tucker.
“Stowey, June 29th, 1797.
My very dear Cottle,
… Charles Lamb will probably be here in about a fortnight. Could you not contrive to put yourself in a Bridgwater coach, and T. Poole would fetch you in a one-horse chaise to Stowey. What delight would it not give us….
It was not convenient at this time to accept Mr. C.’s invitation, but going to Stowey two or three weeks afterwards, I learnt how pleasantly the interview had been between Charles Lamb and himself. It is delightful, even at the present moment, to recal the images connected with my then visit to Stowey, (which those can best understand, who, like myself, have escaped from severe duties to a brief season of happy recreation). Mr. Coleridge welcomed me with the warmest cordiality. He talked with affection of his old school-fellow, Lamb, who had so recently left him; regretted he had not an opportunity of introducing me to one whom he so highly valued. Mr. C. took peculiar delight in assuring me (at least, at that time) how happy he was; exhibiting successively, his house, his garden, his orchard, laden with fruit; and also the contrivances he had made to unite his two neighbours’ domains with his own.
After the grand circuit had been accomplished, by hospitable contrivance, we approached the “Jasmine harbour,” when to our gratifying surprise, we found the tripod table laden with delicious bread and cheese, surmounted by a brown mug of true Taunton ale. We instinctively took our seats; and there must have been some downright witchery in the provisions which surpassed all of its kind; nothing like it on the wide terrene, and one glass of the Taunton, settled it to an axiom. While the dappled sun-beams played on our table, through the umbrageous canopy, the very birds seemed to participate in our felicities, and poured forth their selectest anthems. As we sat in our sylvan hall of splendour, a company of the happiest mortals, (T. Poole, C. Lloyd, S. T. Coleridge, and J. C.) the bright-blue heavens; the sporting insects; the balmy zephyrs; the feathered choristers; the sympathy of friends, all augmented the pleasurable to the highest point this side the celestial! Every interstice of our hearts being filled with happiness, as a consequence, there was no room for sorrow, exorcised as it now was, and hovering around at unapproachable distance. With our spirits thus entranced, though we might weep at other moments, yet joyance so filled all within and without, that, if, at this juncture, tidings had been brought us, that an irruption of the ocean had swallowed up all our brethren of Pekin; from the pre-occupation of our minds, “poor things,” would have been our only reply, with anguish put off till the morrow. While thus elevated in the universal current of our feelings, Mrs. Coleridge approached, with her fine Hartley; we all smiled, but the father’s eye beamed transcendental joy! “But, all things have an end.” Yet, pleasant it is for memory to treasure up in her choicest depository, a few such scenes, (these sunny spots in existence!) on which the spirit may repose, when the rough, adverse winds shake and disfigure all besides.
Although so familiar with the name and character of Charles Lamb, through the medium of S. T. Coleridge, yet my intercourse (with the exception of one casual visit) commenced with him in the year 1802, during a residence of many months in London, when we often met. After this period, from my residing permanently in Bristol, our acquaintance was intermitted, till 1819, when he requested the loan of a portrait, for the purpose expressed in the following letter.
“Dear Sir,
It is so long since I have seen or heard from you, that I fear that you will consider a request I have to make, as impertinent. About three years since, when I was in Bristol, I made an effort to see you, by calling at Brunswick Square, but you were from home. The request I have to make, is, that you would very much oblige me, if you have any small portrait of yourself, by allowing me to have it copied, to accompany a selection, of the likenesses of ‘Living Bards,’ which a most particular friend of mine is making. If you have no objection, and would oblige me by transmitting such portrait, I will answer for taking the greatest care of it, and for its safe return. I hope you will pardon the liberty,
From an old friend and well wisher,
Charles Lamb.”
In consequence of this application, I sent Charles Lamb a portrait, by Branwhite, and enclosed for his acceptance, the second part of my “Messiah.” When the portrait was returned, it was accompanied with the following letter, containing a few judicious remarks, such as might have been expected from one whose judgment Mr. Coleridge so highly estimated.
“Dear Sir,
My friend, whom you have obliged by the loan of your picture, has had it very nicely copied (and a very spirited drawing it is; so every one thinks who has seen it.) The copy is not much inferior to yours, done by a daughter of Joseph’s, R. A.
I accompany the picture with my warm thanks, both for that, and your better favour the ‘Messiah’ which I assure you I have read through with great pleasure. The verses have great sweetness, and a New Testament plainness about them which affected me very much. I could just wish that in page 63, you had omitted the lines 71 and 72, and had ended the period with,
The willowy brook was there, but that sweet sound —
When to be heard again on earthly ground!”
Two very sweet lines, and the sense perfect.
And in page 154, line 68,
He spake, ‘I come, ordain’d a world to save,
To be baptis’d by thee in Jordan’s wave.”
These words are hardly borne out by the story, and seem scarce accordant with the modesty with which our Lord came to take h
is common portion among the baptismal candidates. They also anticipate the beauty of John’s recognition of the Messiah, and the subsequent confirmation by the Voice and Dove.
You will excuse the remarks of an old brother bard, whose career, though long since pretty well stopped, was coeval in its beginning with your own, and who is sorry his lot has been always to be so distant from you. It is not likely that C. L. will see Bristol again, but if J. C. should ever visit London, he will be a most welcome visitor to C. L. My sister joins in cordial remembrances.
Dear sir, Yours truly,
Charles Lamb.”
Having always entertained for Charles Lamb a very kind feeling, independently of my admiration of his wit and genius, I requested his acceptance of my poem of the “Fall of Cambria,” to which he sent the following characteristic reply.
“London, India House, May 26, 1829.
My dear Sir,
I am quite ashamed of not having acknowledged your kind present earlier, but that unknown something which was never yet discovered, though so often speculated upon, which stands in the way of lazy folks’ answering letters, has presented its usual obstacle. It is not forgetfulness, nor disrespect, nor incivility, but terribly like all these bad things.
I have been in my time a great Epistolatory scribbler, but the passion, and with it the facility, at length wears out, and it must be pumped up again by the heavy machinery of duty or gratitude, when it should run free. I have read your ‘Fall of Cambria’ with as much pleasure as I did your ‘Messiah.’ Your Cambrian Poem I shall be tempted to repeat oftenest, as human poems take me in a mood more frequently congenial than divine. The character of Llewellyn pleases me more than anything else perhaps; and then some of the Lyrical pieces are fine varieties.
It was quite a mistake that I could dislike anything you should write against Lord Byron, for I have a thorough aversion to his character, and a very moderate admiration of his genius; he is great in so little a way. To be a poet is to be the man; not a petty portion of occasional low passion worked up into a permanent form of humanity. Shakspeare has thrust such rubbishly feelings into a corner — the dark dusky heart of Don John, in the ‘Much Ado about Nothing.’ The fact is, I have not seen your ‘Expostulatory Epistle’ to him. I was not aware, till your question, that it was out. I shall inquire and get it forthwith.
Southey is in town, whom I have seen slightly. Wordsworth expected, whom I hope to see much of. I write with accelerated motion, for I have two or three bothering clerks and brokers about me, who always press in proportion as you seem to be doing something that is not business. I could exclaim a little profanely, but I think you do not like swearing.
I conclude, begging you to consider that I feel myself much obliged by your kindness, and shall be most happy at any and at all times to hear from you.
Dear Sir, yours truly,
Charles Lamb.”
Mr. Coleridge, in the second edition of his poems, transferred some of the poems which appeared in the first, to a supplement, and, amongst others, some verses addressed to myself, with the following notice.
“The first in order of these verses which I have thus endeavoured to reprieve from immediate oblivion, was originally addressed “To the Author of Poems published anonymously at Bristol.” A second edition of these poems has lately appeared with the author’s name prefixed: (Joseph Cottle) and I could not refuse myself the gratification of seeing the name of that man amongst my poems, without whose kindness, they would probably have remained unpublished; and to whom I know myself greatly, and variously obliged, as a poet, a man, and a Christian.
LINES ADDRESSED TO JOSEPH COTTLE.
My honor’d friend! whose verse concise, yet clear,
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer’d sense,
May your fame fadeless live, “as never seer”
The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence
Embow’rs me from noon’s sultry influence!
For like that nameless riv’let stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing quiet dear
Is rich with tints heaven-borrow’d, the charm’d eye
Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften’d sky.
Circling the base of the poetic mount
A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow;
Its cold-black waters from oblivion’s fount;
The vapour poison’d birds that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet,
Beneath the mountain’s lofty frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
A mead of mildest charm delays the unlab’ring feet.
Not there the cloud-climb rock, sublime and vast,
That like some giant king, o’er-glooms the hill;
Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music! But the unceasing rill
To the soft wren or lark’s descending trill
Murmurs sweet under-song ‘mid jasmine bowers.
In this same pleasant meadow at your will,
I ween, you wander’d — there collecting flow’rs
Of sober tint, and herbs of medicinal powers!
There for the monarch-murder’d soldier’s tomb
You wove the unfinish’d wreath of saddest hues,
And to that holier chaplet added bloom
Besprinkling it with Jordan’s cleansing dews.
But lo! your Henderson awakes the Muse —
His spirit beckon’d from the mountain’s height!
You left the plain and soar’d mid richer views!
So nature mourn’d, when sank the first day’s light,
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!
Still soar my friend those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing fancy’s beam!
Virtue and truth shall love your gentler song:
But Poesy demands th’ impassion’d theme:
Wak’d by heaven’s silent dews at Eve’s mild gleam
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around?
But if the vex’d air rush a stormy stream,
Or autumn’s shrill gust moan in plaintive sound
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest honor’d ground.”
While the first edition of Mr. Coleridge’s poems was in the press, I received from him the following letter.
“My dear Sir,
… There is a beautiful little poetic epistle of Sara’s, which I mean to print here. What if her epistle to you were likewise printed, so as to have two of her poems? It is remarkably elegant, and would do honour to any volume of poems.”
The first epistle I never received. The second was printed in the first edition of Mr. C.’s poems, and in no other. On account of its merit it is here inserted.
“THE PRODUCTION OF A YOUNG LADY, ADDRESSED TO HER FRIEND, J. COTTLE.
* * * * *
She had lost her thimble, and her complaint being accidentally overheard by her friend, he immediately sent her four others to take her choice from.
* * * * *
As oft mine eye, with careless glance,
Has gallop’d o’er some old romance,
Of speaking birds, and steeds with wings,
Giants and dwarfs, and fiends, and kings:
Beyond the rest, with more attentive care,
I’ve loved to read of elfin-favor’d fair —
How if she longed for aught beneath the sky,
And suffered to escape one votive sigh,
Wafted along on viewless pinions airy,
It kid itself obsequious at her feet:
Such things I thought we might not hope to meet,
Save in the dear delicious land of fairy!
But now (by proof I know it well)
There’s still some peril in free wishing —
Politeness is a licensed spell,
And you, dear sir, the arch-magi
cian.
You much perplexed me by the various set:
They were indeed an elegant quartette!
My mind went to and fro, and wavered long;
At length I’ve chosen (Samuel thinks me wrong)
That around whose azure brim,
Silver figures seem to swim,
Like fleece-white clouds, that on the skyey blue,
Waked by no breeze, the self-same shapes retain;
Or ocean nymphs, with limbs of snowy hue,
Slow floating o’er the calm cerulean plain.
Just such a one, mon cher ami
(The finger-shield of industry,)
The inventive gods, I deem, to Pallas gave,
What time the vain Arachne, madly brave,
Challenged the blue-eyed virgin of the sky
A duel in embroidered work to try.
And hence the thimbled finger of grave Pallas,
To th’ erring needle’s point was more than callous.
But, ah, the poor Arachne! she, unarmed,
Blund’ring, through hasty eagerness, alarmed
With all a rival’s hopes, a mortal’s fears,
Still miss’d the stitch, and stained the web with tears.
Unnumbered punctures, small, yet sore,
Full fretfully the maiden bore,
Till she her lily finger found
Crimson’d with many a tiny wound,
And to her eyes, suffused with watery woe,
Her flower-embroidered web danced dim, I wist,
Like blossom’d shrubs, in a quick-moving mist;
Till vanquish’d, the despairing maid sank low.
O, Bard! whom sure no common muse inspires,
I heard your verse that glows with vestal fires;
And I from unwatch’d needle’s erring point
Had surely suffered on each finger joint,
Those wounds, which erst did poor Arachne meet;
While he, the much-loved object of my choice,
(My bosom thrilling with enthusiast heat)
Pour’d on my ear, with deep impressive voice,
How the great Prophet of the desert stood,
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 326