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a physiognomic expression to all the works of nature. Fifthly, A meditative pathos, a union of deep and subtle thought with sensibility: a sympathy with man as man; the sympathy, indeed, of a contemplator rather than a fellow-sufferer and co-mate (spectator, haud particeps), but of a contemplation from whose view no difference of rank conceals the sameness of the nature; no injuries of wind or weather, or toil, or even of ignorance, wholly disguise the human face divine. Last, and pre-eminently, I challenge for this poet the gift of imagination in the highest and strictest sense of the word. In the play of fancy, Wordsworth, to my feelings, is always graceful, and sometimes recondite. The likeness is occasionally too strange, or demands too peculiar a point of view, or is such as appears the creature of predetermined research, rather than spontaneous presentation. Indeed, his fancy seldom displays itself as mere and unmodified fancy. But in imaginative power he stands nearest of all modern writers to Shakspeare and Milton, and yet in a mind perfectly unborrowed, and his own. To employ his own words, which are at once an instance and an illustration, he does indeed, to all thoughts and to all objects
daily drudgery for the periodical press, and in nightly dreams distempered and feverish, he wasted, to use his own expression, the prime and manhood of his intellect.' The poet was a native of Devonshire, being born on the 20th of October 1772 at Ottery St Mary, of which parish his father was vicar. He received the principal part of his education at Christ's hospital, where he had Charles Lamb for a schoolfellow. He describes himself as being, from eight to fourteen, a playless day-dreamer, a helluo librorum;' and in this instance the child was father of the man,' for such was Coleridge to the end of his life. A stranger whom he had accidentally met one day on the streets of London, and who was struck with his conversation, made him free of a circulating library, and he read through the catalogue, folios and all. At fourteen, he had, like Gibbon, a stock of erudition that might have puzzled a doctor, and a degree of ignorance of which a schoolboy would have been ashamed. He had no ambition; his father was dead, and he actually thought of apprenticing himself to a shoemaker who lived near the school. The head master, Bowyer, interfered, and prevented this additional honour to the craft of St Crispin, already made illustrious by Gifford and Bloomfield. Coleridge became deputyGrecian, or head scholar, and obtained an exhibition or presentation from Christ's hospital to Jesus' college, Cambridge, where he remained from 1791 to 1793. He quitted college abruptly, without taking a degree, having become obnoxious to his superiors from his attachment to the principles of the French Revolution.
When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,
And with that oath which smote air, earth, and sea, Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared! Stamped her strong foot, and said she would be free, With what a joy my lofty gratulation
Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band:
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves,
To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,
I dimmed thy light, or damped thy holy flame;
In London, Coleridge soon elt himself forlorn and destitute, and he enlisted as a soldier in the 15th, Elliot's Light Dragoons. 'On his arrival at the quarters of the regiment,' says his friend and biographer Mr Gillman, the general of the district inspected the recruits, and looking hard at Coleridge, with a military air, inquired, "What's your name, sir ?" "Comberbach." (The name he had assumed.) "What do you come here for, sir?" as if doubting whether he had any business there. "Sir," said Coleridge, "for what most other persons come
to be made a soldier." "Do you think," said the general, "you can run a Frenchman through the body ?" "I do not know," replied Coleridge, "as I never tried; but I'll let a Frenchman run me through the body before I'll run away." "That will do," said the general, and Coleridge was turned into the ranks.' The poet made a poor dragoon, and never advanced beyond the awkward squad. He wrote
letters, however, for all his comrades, and they attended to his horse and accoutrements. After four months' service (December 1793 to April 1794), the history and circumstances of Coleridge became known. He had written under his saddle, on the stable wall, a Latin sentence (Eheu! quam infortunii miserrimum est fuisse felicem !') which led to an inquiry on the part of the captain of his troop, who had more regard for the classics than Ensign Northerton in Tom Jones. Coleridge was discharged, and restored to his family and friends. The same year he published his Juvenile Poems, and a drama on the Fall of Robespierre. He was then an ardent republican and a Socinian-full of high hopes and anticipations, the golden exhalations of the dawn.' In conjunction with two other poetical enthusiasts-Southey and Lloyd-he resolved on emigrating to America, where the party were to found, amidst the wilds of Susquehanna, a Pantisocracy, or state of society in which all things were to be in common, and neither king nor priest could mar their felicity. From building castles in the air,' as Southey has said, 'to framing commonwealths, was an easy transition.' The dream was never realised (it is said from a very prosaic causethe want of funds), and Coleridge, Southey, and Lloyd married three sisters-the Miss Frickers of Bristol. Coleridge, still ardent, wrote two political pamphlets, concluding that truth should be spoken at all times, but more especially at those times when to speak truth is dangerous.' He established also a periodical in prose and verse, entitled The Watchman, with the motto, that all might know the truth, and that the truth might make us free.' He watched in vain. Coleridge's incurable want of order and punctuality, and his philosophical theories, tired out and disgusted his readers, and the work was discontinued after the ninth number. Of the unsaleable nature of this publication, he relates an amusing illustration. Happening one day to rise at an earlier hour than usual, he observed his servant girl putting an extravagant quantity of paper into the grate, in order to light the fire, and he mildly checked her for her wastefulness. La, sir, (replied Nanny) why, it is only Watchmen.' He went to reside in a cottage at Nether Stowey, at the foot of the Quantock hills, Somersetshire, which he has commemorated in his poetry. And now, beloved Stowey! I behold
Thy church tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms
Mr Wordsworth lived at Allfoxden, about two miles from Stowey, and the kindred feelings and pursuits of the two poets bound them in the closest friendship. At Stowey, Coleridge wrote some of his most beautiful poetry-his Ode on the Departing Year; Fears in Solitude; France, an Ode; Frost at Midnight; the first part of Christabel; the Ancient Mariner; and his tragedy of Remorse. The luxuriant fulness and individuality of his poetry show that he was then happy, no less than eager, in his studies. The two or three years spent at Stowey seem to have been at once the most felicitous and the most illustrious of Coleridge's literary life. He had established his name for ever, though it was long in struggling to distinction. During his residence at Stowey, Coleridge officiated as Unitarian preacher at Taunton, and afterwards at Shrewsbury. In 1798 the
generous and munificent patronage' of Messrs
That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,
Mr Coleridge rose and gave out his text-" He departed again
*Mr Hazlitt has described his walking ten miles in a winter
"Such were the notes our once loved poet sung:"
The lines which we have printed in Italics are an expansion of two of Schiller's, which Mr Hayward (another German poetical translator) thus literally renders :-
The old fable-existences are no more;
The fascinating race has emigrated (wandered out or away).
As a means of subsistence Coleridge reluctantly consented to undertake the literary and political department of the Morning Post, in which he supported the measures of government. In 1804 we find him in Malta, secretary to the governor, Sir Alexander Ball, with a salary of £800 per annum. held this lucrative office only nine months, having disagreed with the governor; and, after a tour in Italy, returned to England to resume his precarious labours as an author and lecturer. The desultory irregular habits of the poet, caused partly by his addiction to opium, and the dreamy indolence and procrastination which marked him throughout life, seem to have frustrated every chance and opportunity of self-advancement. Living again at Grassmere, he issued a second periodical, The Friend, which extended to twenty-seven numbers. The essays were sometimes acute and eloquent, but as often rhapsodical, imperfect, and full of German mysticism. In 1816, chiefly at the recommendation of Lord Byron, the wild and wondrous tale' of 'Christabel' was published. The first part, as we have mentioned, was written at Stowey as far back as 1797, and a second had been added on his return from Germany in 1800. The poem was still unfinished; but it would have been almost as difficult to complete the Faery Queen, as to continue in the same spirit that witching strain of supernatural fancy and melodious verse. Another drama, Zapoyla (founded on the Winter's Tale), was published by Coleridge in 1818, and, with the exception of some minor poems, completes his poetical works. He wrote several characteristic prose disquisitionsThe Statesman's Manual, or the Bible the Best Guide to Political Skill and Foresight; a Lay Sermon (1816); a Second Lay Sermon, addressed to the Higher and Middle Classes on the existing Distresses and Discontents (1817); Biographia Literaria, two volumes, 1817; Aids to Reflection (1825); On the Constitution of the Church and State (1830); &c. He meditated a great theological and philosophical work, his magnum opus, on Christianity as the only revelation of permanent and universal validity,' which was to reduce all knowledge into harmony'-to unite the insulated fragments of truth, and therewith to frame a perfect mirror.' He planned also an epic poem on the destruction of Jerusalem, which he considered the only subject now remaining for an epic poem; a subject which, like Milton's Fall of Man, should interest all Christendom, as the Homeric War of Troy interested all Greece. Here,' said he, there would be the completion of the prophecies; the termination of the first revealed national religion under the violent assault of paganism, itself the immediate forerunner and condition of the spread of a revealed mundane religion; and then you would have the character of the Roman and the Jew; and the awfulness, the completeness, the justice. I schemed it at twenty-five, but, alas! venturum expectat.' This ambition to execute some great work, and his constitutional infirmity of purpose, which made him defer or recoil from such an effort, he has portrayed with great beauty and pathos in an address to Wordsworth, composed after the latter had recited to him a poem on the growth of an individual mind:'
Ah! as I listened with a heart forlorn, The pulses of my being beat anew:
And even as life returns upon the drowned, Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of painsKeen pangs of love, awakening as a babe Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart; And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope; And hope that scarce would know itself from fear; Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain ; And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild, And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; And all which patient toil had reared, and all Commune with thee had opened out--but flowers Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier, In the same coffin, for the self-same grave! These were prophetic breathings, and should be a warning to young and ardent genius. In such magnificent alternations of hope and despair, and in discoursing on poetry and philosophy-sometimes committing a golden thought to the blank leaf of a book or to a private letter, but generally content with oral communication-the poet's time glided past. He had found an asylum in the house of a private friend, Mr James Gillman, surgeon, Highgate, where he resided for the last nineteen years of his life. Here he was visited by numerous friends
Mr Gillman's House, Highgate, the last residence of Coleridge. and admirers, who were happy to listen to his inspired monologues, which he poured forth with exhaustless fecundity. 'We believe,' says one of these rapt and enthusiastic listeners, it has not been the lot of any other literary man in England, since Dr Johnson, to command the devoted admiration and steady zeal of so many and such widely-differing disciples-some of them having become, and others being likely to become, fresh and independent sources of light and moral action in themselves upon the principles of their common master. One half of these affectionate disciples have learned their lessons of philosophy from the teacher's mouth. He has been to them as an old oracle of the academy or Lyceum. The fulness, the inwardness, the ultimate scope of his doctrines, has never yet been published in print, and, if disclosed, it has been from time to
time in the higher moments of conversation, when occasion, and mood, and person, begot an exalted crisis. More than once has Mr Coleridge said that, with pen in hand, he felt a thousand checks and difficulties in the expression of his meaning; but that authorship aside he never found the smallest hitch or impediment in the fullest utterance of his most subtle fancies by word of mouth. His abstrusest thoughts became rhythmical and clear when chanted to their own music.'* Mr Coleridge died at Highgate on the 25th of July 1834. In the preceding winter he had written the following epitaph, striking from its simplicity and humility, for himself:
in a passage of Shelvocke, one of the classical circumnavigators of the earth, who states that his second captain, being a melancholy man, was possessed by a fancy that some long season of foul weather was owing to an albatross which had steadily pursued the ship, upon which he shot the bird, but without mending their condition. Coleridge makes the ancient mariner relate the circumstances attending his act of inhumanity to one of three wedding guests whom he meets and detains on his way to the marriage feast. He holds him with his glittering eye,' and invests his narration with a deep preternatural character and interest, and with touches of exquisite tenderness and energetic deStop, Christian passer-by! Stop, child of God! scription. The versification is irregular, in the style And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod of the old ballads, and most of the action of the piece A poet lies, or that which once seemed heis unnatural; yet the poem is full of vivid and original Oh! lift a thought in prayer for S. T. C.! imagination. There is nothing else like it,' says That he, who many a year, with toil of breath, one of his critics; it is a poem by itself; between Found death in life, may here find life in death! it and other compositions, in pari materia, there is a Mercy for praise-to be forgiven for fame, chasm which you cannot overpass. The sensitive He asked and hoped through Christ-do thou the same. reader feels himself insulated, and a sea of wonder and mystery flows round him as round the spellImmediately on the death of Coleridge, several comstricken ship itself.' Coleridge further illustrates his pilations were made of his table-talk, correspondence, theory of the connection between the material and the and literary remains. His fame had been gradually spiritual world in his unfinished poem of Christabel,' extending, and public curiosity was excited with a romantic supernatural tale, filled with wild imagery respect to the genius and opinions of a man yno combined such various and dissimilar powers, and and the most remarkable modulation of verse. The who was supposed capable of any task, however versification is founded on what the poet calls a new gigantic. Some of these Titanic fragments are valu- principle (though it was evidently practised by able-particularly his Shakspearian criticism. They in each line the number of accentuated words, not Chaucer and Shakspeare), namely, that of counting attest his profound thought and curious erudition, the number of syllables. Though the latter,' he and display his fine critical taste and discernment. In penetrating into and embracing the whole meansayo, may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each ing of a favourite author-unfolding the nice shadesire the accents will be found to be only four.' This irregular harmony delighted both Scott and Byron, and distinctions of thought, character, feeling, or melody-darting on it the light of his own creative by whom it was imitated. We add a brief specimind and suggestive fancy-and perhaps linking the whole to some glorious original conception or image, Coleridge stands unrivalled. He does not appear as a critic, but as an eloquent and gifted expounder of kindred excellence and genius. He seems like one who has the key to every hidden chamber of profound and subtle thought and every ethereal conception. We cannot think, however, that he could ever have built up a regular system of ethics or criticism. He wanted the art to combine and arrange his materials. He was too languid and irresolute. He had never attained the art of writing with clearness and precision; for he is often unintelligible, turgid, and verbose, as if he struggled in vain after perspicacity and method. His intellect could not subordinate the 'shaping spirit' of his imagination.
The poetical works of Coleridge have been collected and published in three volumes. They are various in style and manner, embracing ode, tragedy, and epigram, love poems, and strains of patriotism and superstition-a wild witchery of imagination, and, at other times, severe and stately thought and intellectual retrospection. His language is often rich and musical, highly figurative and ornate. Many of his minor poems are characterised by tenderness and beauty, but others are disfigured by passages of turgid sentimentalism and puerile affectation. The most original and striking of his productions is his well-known tale of The Ancient Mariner. According to De Quincy, the germ of this story is contained * Quarterly Review, vol. lii. p. 5. With one so impulsive as Coleridge, and liable to fits of depression and to ill-health, these appearances must have been very unequal. We have known three men of genius, all poets, who frequently listened to him, and yet described him as generally obscure, pedantic, and tedious. In his happiest moods he must, however, have been great and overwhelming. His voice and countenance were harmonious and beautiful.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
She foldeth her arms beneath her cloak,
There she sees a damsel bright,
guess 'twas frightful there to see
finer passage is that describing broken friendships: :
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain:
Doth work like madness in the brain.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother:
But never either found another
The marks of that which once hath been.
This metrical harmony of Coleridge exercises a sort of fascination even when it is found united to incoherent images and absurd conceptions. Thus, in Khubla Khan, a fragment written from recollections of a dream, we have the following melodious rhapBody:
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Where was heard the mingled measure
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
To such deep delight 'twould win me,
And all who heard should see them there,
The odes of Coleridge are highly passionate and elevated in conception. That on France was considered by Shelley to be the finest English ode of modern times. The hymn on Chamouni is equally lofty and brilliant. His 'Genevieve' is a pure and exquisite love-poem, without that gorgeous diffuseness which characterises the odes, yet more chastely and carefully finished, and abounding in the delicate and subtle traits of his imagination. Coleridge was deficient in the rapid energy and strong passion necessary for the drama. The poetical beauty of certain passages would not, on the stage, atone for the paucity of action and want of interest in his two plays, though, as works of genius, they vastly excel those of a more recent date which prove highly successful in representation.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
He holds him with his glittering eye-
The wedding-guest sat on a stone,
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Below the kirk, below the hill,
The sun came up upon the left,
And he shone bright, and on the right
Higher and higher every day,
The wedding-guest here beat his breast,
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Nodding their heads before her goes
The wedding-guest he beat his breast,
And now the storm-blast can, and he
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
With sloping masts and dripping prow,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And now there came both mist and snow,
And ice mast-high came floating by,
And through the drifts the snowy cliffs
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken-
The ice was here, the ice was there,
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
At length did cross an albatross,
It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And a good south wind sprung up behind,
And every day for food or play,
Came to the mariner's hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white moonshine.