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 an
d 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.
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 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, 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.
* * * * *
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. T
heir 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.
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 336