Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey

by Robert Southey

  S. T. C.”

  Soon after the receipt of this letter, (on my invitation) Mr. De Quincey called on me. I said, I understood from Mr. Coleridge himself, that he laboured under embarrassments. “Then” said he, “I will give him five hundred pounds.” “Are you serious?” I said. He replied, “I am.” I then inquired, “Are you of age?” He said “I am.” I then asked, “Can you afford it?” He answered, “I can,” and continued, “I shall not feel it.” I paused. “Well” I said, “I can know nothing of your circumstances but from your own statement, and not doubting its accuracy, I am willing to become an agent, in any way you prescribe.” Mr. De Quincey then said, “I authorise you, to ask Mr. Coleridge, if he will accept from a gentleman, who admires his genius, the sum of five hundred pounds, but remember, he continued, I absolutely prohibit you from naming to him, the source whence it was derived.” I remarked; “To the latter part of your injunction, if you require it, I will accede, but although I am deeply interested in Mr. Coleridge’s welfare, yet a spirit of equity compels me to recommend you, in the first instance, to present Mr. C. with a smaller sum, and which, if you see it right, you can at any time, augment.” Mr. De Quincey then replied, “Three hundred pounds, I will give him, and you will oblige me by making this offer of mine to Mr. Coleridge.” I replied, “I will.” I then gave him Mr. Coleridge’s letter, requesting him to put it in his pocket, and read it at his leisure. Soon after, I received the following communication from Mr. De Quincey.

  “My dear Sir,

  I will write for the three hundred pounds to-morrow. I am not able to say anything farther at present, but will endeavour to call on you in a day or two. I am very sincerely, and with many thanks for your trouble in this affair,

  Yours,

  Thomas De Quincey.”

  In a day or two, Mr. De Quincey enclosed me the three hundred pounds, when I received from Mr. Coleridge, the following receipt, which I still retain.

  “November 12, 1807. Received from Mr. Joseph Cottle, the sum of three hundred pounds, presented to me, through him, by an unknown friend.

  Bristol.

  S. T. Coleridge.”

  I have been thus particular in detailing the whole of this affair, so honourable to Mr. De Quincey; and, as I was the communicating agent, I thought it right, on this occasion, to give publicity to the transaction, on the principle of doing justice to all. Notwithstanding the prohibition, some indirect notices from myself, could have left no doubt with Mr. C. of the source of this handsome gift.

  It is singular, that a little before this time, (1807) Mr. Coleridge had written to his friend Mr. Wade a melancholy letter, detailing his embarrassed circumstances; so that Mr. De Quincey’s £300 must have been received at an acceptable time!

  * * * * *

  No date determines when the following letter was written: supposed, 1807.

  “My dear Cottle,

  … The common end of all narrative, nay, of all poems is, to convert a series into a whole, to make those events, which, in real or imagined history, move on in a straight line, assume to our understandings a circular motion — the snake with its tail in its mouth. Hence, indeed, the almost flattering and yet appropriate term, Poesy, i. e. Poieses — making. Doubtless, to His eye, which alone comprehends all past and all future, in one eternal, what to our short sight appears straight, is but a part of the great cycle, just as the calm sea to us appears level, though it be indeed only a part of the globe. Now what the globe is in geography, miniaturing in order to manifest the truth, such is a poem to that image of God, which we were created into, and which still seeking that unity, or revelation of the one, in and by the many, which reminds it, that though in order to be an individual being, it must go farther from God; yet as the receding from him, is to proceed toward nothingness and privation, it must still at every step turn back toward him, in order to be at all. A straight line continually retracted, forms of necessity a circular orbit. Now God’s will and word CANNOT be frustrated. His fiat was, with ineffable awfulness, applied to man, when all things, and all living things, and man himself, (as a mere animal) included, were called forth by the Universal, ‘Let there be,’ and then the breath of the Eternal superadded, to make an immortal spirit — immortality being, as the author of the ‘Wisdom of Soloman’ profoundly expresses it, ‘the only possible reflex, or image of eternity.’ The immortal finite is the contracted shadow of the eternal Infinite. Therefore nothingness, or death, to which we move, as we recede from God and from the Word, cannot be nothing; but that tremendous medium between nothing and true being, which Scripture and inmost reason present as most, most horrible!

  Affectionately,

  S. T. C.”

  The following letter to Mr. Wade has no date.

  “Tuesday night, i. e. Wednesday morning.

  My best and dearest friend,

  I have barely time to scribble a few lines, so as not to miss the post, for here as every where, there are charitable people, who, taking for granted that you have no business of your own, would save from the pain of vacancy, by employing you in theirs.

  As to the letter you propose to write to a man who is unworthy even of a rebuke from you, I might most unfeignedly object to some parts of it, from a pang of conscience forbidding me to allow, even from a dear friend, words of admiration, which are inapplicable in exact proportion to the power given to me of having deserved them, if I had done my duty.

  It is not of comparative utility I speak: for as to what has been actually done, and in relation to useful effects produced, whether on the minds of individuals, or of the public, I dare boldly stand forward, and (let every man have his own, and that be counted mine which, but for, and through me, would not have existed) will challenge the proudest of my literary contemporaries to compare proofs with me, of usefulness in the excitement of reflection, and the diffusion of original or forgotten, yet necessary and important truths and knowledge; and this is not the less true, because I have suffered others to reap all the advantages. But, O dear friend, this consciousness, raised by insult of enemies, and alienated friends, stands me in little stead to my own soul, in how little then, before the all-righteous Judge! who, requiring back the talents he had entrusted, will, if the mercies of Christ do not intervene, not demand of me what I have done, but why I did not do more; why, with powers above so many, I had sunk in many things below most! But this is too painful, and in remorse we often waste the energy which should be better employed in reformation — that essential part, and only possible proof, of sincere repentance….

  May God bless you, and your affectionate friend,

  S. T. Coleridge.”

  Toward the end of 1807, Mr. Coleridge left Bristol, and I saw nothing more of him for another seven years, that is, till 1814. All the leading features in Mr. Coleridge’s life, during these two septennial periods, will no doubt, be detailed by others. My undertaking recommences in 1814. Some preliminary remarks must precede the narrative, which has now arrived at an important part.

  Neither to clothe the subject of biography with undeserved applause, nor unmerited censure, but to present an exact portraiture, is the object which ought scrupulously to be aimed at by every impartial writer. Is it expedient; is it lawful; to give publicity to Mr. Coleridge’s practice of inordinately taking opium? which, to a certain extent, at one part of his life, inflicted on a heart naturally cheerful, the stings of conscience, and sometimes almost the horrors of despair? Is it right, in reference to one who has passed his ordeal, to exhibit sound principles, habitually warring with inveterate and injurious habits; producing for many years, an accumulation of bodily suffering, that wasted the frame; poisoned the sources of enjoyment; entailed, in the long retinue of ills, dependence and poverty, and with all these, associated that which was far less bearable, an intolerable mental load, that scarcely knew cessation?

  In the year 1814, all this, I am afflicted to say, applied to Mr. Coleridge. The question to be determined is, whether it be best or not, to obey the first
impulse of benevolence, and to throw a mantle over these dark and appalling occurrences, and, since the sufferer has left this stage of existence, to mourn in secret, and consign to oblivion the aberrations of a frail mortal? This was my first design, but other thoughts arose. If the individual were alone concerned, the question would be decided; but it might almost be said, that the world is interested in the disclosures connected with this part of Mr. Coleridge’s life. His example forms one of the most impressive memorials the pen ever recorded; so that thousands hereafter, may derive instruction from viewing in Mr. C. much to approve, and in other features of his character, much also to regret and deplore. Once Mr. Coleridge expressed to me, with indescribable emotion, the joy he should feel, if he could collect around him all who were “beginning to tamper with the lulling, but fatal draught;” so that he might proclaim as with a trumpet, “the worse than death that opium entailed.” I must add, if he could now speak from his grave, retaining his earthly, benevolent solicitude for the good of others, with an emphasis that penetrated the heart, he would doubtless utter, “Let my example be a warning!”

  This being my settled conviction, it becomes in me a duty, with all practicable mildness, to give publicity to the following facts; in which censure will often be suspended by compassion, and every feeling be absorbed in that of pity; in which, if the veil be removed, it will only be, to present a clear and practical exemplification of the consequences that progressively follow indulgences in, what Mr. Coleridge latterly denominated, “the accursed drug!”

  To soften the repugnance which might, pardonably, arise in the minds of some of Mr. G.’s friends, it is asked, whether it be not enough to move a breast of adamant, to behold a man of Mr. Coleridge’s genius, spell-bound by his narcotic draughts? deploring, as he has done, in his letters to myself, the destructive consequences of opium; writhing under its effects, — so injurious to mind, body, and estate; submitting to the depths of humiliation and poverty, and all this for a season at least, accompanied with no effectual effort to burst his fetters, and assume the station in society which became his talents; but on the contrary, submitting patiently to dependence, and grovelling where he ought to soar!

  Another powerful reason, which should reconcile the friends of Mr. Coleridge to this detail of his destructive habits, arises from the recollection that the pain given to their minds, is present and temporary. They should wisely consider that, though they regret, their regrets, like themselves, as time rolls on, are passing away! but the example, — this clear, full, incontestable example, remains! And who can estimate the beneficial consequences of this undisguised statement to numerous succeeding individuals? It is consolatory to believe, that had I written nothing else, this humble but unflinching narrative would be an evidence that I had not lived in vain.

  When it is considered also, how many men of high mental endowments, have shrouded their lustre, by a passion for this stimulus, and thereby, prematurely, become fallen spirits: would it not be a criminal concession to unauthorized feelings, to allow so impressive an exhibition of this subtle species of intemperance to escape from public notice; and, that no discredit might attach to the memory of the individual we love, to conceal an example, fraught with so much instruction, brought out into full display? In the exhibition here made, the inexperienced, in future, may learn a memorable lesson, and be taught to shrink from opium, as they would from a scorpion; which, before it destroys, invariably expels peace from the mind, and excites the worst species of conflict, that of setting a man at war with himself.

  The most expressive and pungent of all Mr. Coleridge’s self-upbraidings, is that, in which he thrills the inmost heart, by saying, with a sepulchral solemnity, “I have learned what a sin is against an infinite, imperishable being, such as is the soul of man!” And yet, is this, and such as this, to be devoted to forgetfulness, and all be sacrificed, lest some friend, disdaining utility, should prefer flattery to truth? A concession to such advice would be treachery and pusillanimity combined, at which none would so exult as the spirits of darkness.

  If some of the preceding language should be deemed too strong, by those who take but a contracted view of the subject, and who would wish to screen the dead, rather than to improve the living, let them judge what their impressions would be, in receiving, like myself, at this time, the communications from Mr. C. which will subsequently appear, and then dispassionately ask themselves, whether such impressive lessons of instruction ought to be doomed to oblivion.

  * * * * *

  The following letter to Mr. Wade, has no date, but the post-mark determines it to have been Dec. 8, 1813.

  “… Since my arrival at the Greyhound, Bath, I have been confined to my bed-room, almost to my bed. Pray for my recovery, and request Mr. Roberts’s prayers, for my infirm, wicked heart; that Christ may mediate to the Father, to lead me to Christ, and give me a living instead of a reasoning faith! and for my health, so far only as it may be the condition of my improvement, and final redemption.

  My dear affectionate friend, I am your obliged, and grateful, and affectionate, friend,

  S. T. Coleridge.”

  I now proceed further to notice Mr. Coleridge’s reappearance in Bristol.

  Mr. C. had written from London in the year 1814, to a friend in Bristol, to announce that he was coming down to give a course of Lectures on Shakspeare, such as he had delivered at the Royal Institution, London, and expressing a hope that his friends would obtain for him as many subscribers as they could. Great efforts were made to obtain these subscribers, and the lectures were accordingly advertised, to commence at the time appointed by the lecturer, and the place specified with the day and hour; of the whole of which arrangement Mr. C. had received due notice, and expressed his approval.

  On the morning on which the lectures were to begin, a brother of Mr. George Cumberland, (a gentleman well known in the literary world, residing in Bristol,) arrived in this city from London, on a visit to his brother, and casually said to him, “I came as far as Bath with one of the most amusing men I ever met with. At the White Horse, Piccadilly, he entered the coach, when a jew boy came up with pencils to sell. This amusing gentleman asked the boy a few questions, when his answers being what he thought unusually acute, the gentleman said, ‘that boy is not where he ought to be. He has talent, and if I had not an important engagement at Bristol to-morrow, I would not mind the loss of my fare, but would stay a day or two in London to provide some better condition for him.’ He then called the waiter; wrote to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, with a pencil, urging him to patronize the bearer; gave the boy five shillings, and sent him, with the waiter, according to the address of the note.”

  This same gentleman, he said, talked incessantly for thirty miles out of London, in the most entertaining way, and afterwards, with little intermission, till they arrived about Marlborough, when he discovered that the lady who was in the coach with them, was the sister of a particular friend of his. “On our arrival at Bath,” said the brother, “this entertaining gentleman observed to me, ‘I must here quit you, as I am determined not to leave this lady, who is going into North Wales, till I have seen her safe at her brother’s door;’ so here the amusing gentleman left us.”

  “Why” said Mr. Cumberland, “I should not be surprised if that were Coleridge, and yet that cannot be, for he has an appointment this day in Bristol.” “That is the very name,” said his brother. Mr. G. C. remarked, “This Mr. Coleridge is coming to Bristol, to give us a course of lectures on Shakspeare, and this evening he has appointed for his first lecture, at the Great Boom, White Lion.” “Whatever the engagement may be,” replied the brother, “rely upon it you will have no lecture this evening. Mr. C. at the present moment is posting hard towards North Wales!” The great business now was for those who had interested themselves in the sale of tickets for the course, to hasten round to the purchasers, to announce that Mr. C. would be prevented from giving the lectures till further notice.

  In two or three days, Mr. Co
leridge presented himself in Bristol, after a right true journey into North Wales; and then, another day was appointed to begin the course. The day arrived. His friends met in the afternoon, full of anxiety, lest a second disappointment should take place. Not one of them had seen Mr. C. in the course of that day, and they could not tell where he had dined. They then set off, to find out this intricate point, and having discovered him, after some difficulty, hurried him from the bottle, and the argument, to fulfil his less important, or at least, his less pleasing engagement.

  He arrived at the lecture-room, just one hour after all the company had impatiently awaited him. Apologizing for an unavoidable interruption! Mr. C. commenced his lecture on Hamlet. The intention is not entertained of pursuing this subject, except to remark, that no other important delay arose, and that the lectures gave great satisfaction. I forbear to make further remarks, because these lectures will form part of the London narrative.

  After this course had been terminated, and one or more friends had given him five pounds for his ticket, so rich a mine was not to be abandoned. Another printed proposal was sent round for a course of six lectures, which was well attended. After this, a proposal came for four lectures, which were but indifferently attended. Not discouraged, Mr. C. now issued proposals on a new subject, which he hoped would attract the many; but alas, although the subject of the lectures was on no less a theme than that of Homer, only a few of his old staunch friends attended; the public were wearied out, and the plan of lecturing now ceased, for these latter lectures scarcely paid the expenses.

  I should here mention, that Mr. Coleridge’s lectures bore but a small resemblance to the polished compositions of Sir James Mackintosh. They were all of a conversational character, and were little other than the earnest harangues, with which on all possible occasions, he indulged his friends, so that there was little of the toil of preparation with him, and if the demand had been equal to the supply, he might have lectured continuously. But if there was little of formal and finished composition in Mr. C.’s lectures, there were always racy and felicitous passages, indicating deep thought, and indicative of the man of genius; so that if polish was not always attained, as one mark of excellence, the attention of his hearers never flagged, and his large dark eyes, and his countenance, in an excited state, glowing with intellect, predisposed his audience in his favor.