here Mr Coleridge drops the subject of Poetry for the present, and proceeds to other important matters. Wordsworth and Coleridge assume, when speaking of this great Poet. They employ his immortal works as a text-book, from which they quote imaginary violations of logic and sound sense, and examples of vicious poetic diction. Mr Coleridge informs us that Wordsworth "couched him," and that, from the moment of the operation, his eyes were startled with the deformities of the "Bard" and the " Elegy in the Country Church-yard!" Such despicable fooleries are perhaps beneath notice; but we must not allow the feathers of a Bird of Paradise to be pecked at by such a Daw as Coleridge. "Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Ze phyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm, In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes, Youth at the Prow, and Pleasure at the Helm ! Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, evening Prey." 99 That, hush'd in grim repose, expects its GRAY's Bard. On this beautiful and sublime passage Mr Coleridge has not one word of admiration to bestow, but tells us with a sneer (for what reason we know not), that "realm and "sway" are rhymes dearly purchased. He then says, "that it depended wholly in the compositor's putting or not putting a small capital, both in this and in many other passages of the same Poet, whether the words should be personifications or mere abstracts. This vile absurdity is followed by a direct charge of Plagiarism from Shakspeare. "How like a younker or a prodigal With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails, wind !" SHAKSPEARE. Now we put it to our readers to decide between us and the Critic. We maintain that here there is no plagiarism nor imitation. Both Poets speak of a Ship, and there all likeness ends. As well might Falconer be accused of imitation in his glorious description of a vessel in full sail leaving harbour-or Scott, in his animated picture of Bruce's galley beating through the Sound of Mull-or Byron, in his magnificent sketch of the Corsair's war-ship or Wordsworth, in his fine simile of a vessel "that hath the plain of Ocean for her own domain"-or Wilson, in his vision of the moonlight vessel sailing to the Isle of Palms -or the Ettrick Shepherd, in his wild dream of the Abbot's pinnace buried in the breakers of Staffa or Mr Coleridge himself, in his We regret that Mr Coleridge has passed over without notice all the years which he spent "in the happy quiet of ever-honoured Jesus College, Cambridge." That must have been the most important period of his life, and was surely more worthy of record than the metaphysical dreams or the poetical extravagancies of his boyhood. He tells us, that he was sent to the University an excellent Greek and Latin scholar, and a tolerable Hebraist;" and there might have been something rousing and elevating to young minds of genius and power, in his picture of himself, pursuits, visions, and attainments, during the bright and glorious morning of life, when he inhabited a dwelling of surpassing magnificence, guarded, and hallowed, and sublimed by the Shadows of the Mighty. We should wish to know what progress he spectre-ship in the "Ancient Mariner." For, in the first place, Shakspeare describes his ship by likening it to something else, namely, a prodigal; and upon that moral meaning depends the whole beauty of the passage. Of this there is nothing in Gray. Secondly, Shakspeare does not speak of any ship in particular, but generally. The beauty of the passage in Gray depends on its being prophetic of a particular misfortune, namely, the drowning of young Prince Henry. Thirdly, in Shakspeare, the vessel 66 puts from her native bay;" and upon that circumstance the whole description depends. In Gray we only behold her majestically sailing in the open sea. Fourthly, in Shakspeare "she returns ;" but in Gray she is the prey of the evening whirlwind. Fifthly, in Shakspeare she returns “ with Gray she is sunk into the deep," with all over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails." In her bravery on." Sixthly, in Gray we be hold a joyous company on her deck, "Youth but in Shakspeare we never think of her at her prow, and Pleasure at her helm ;" deck at all. Seventhly, in Shakspeare she is a "skarfed bark;" in Gray, a 66 gilded vessel." Eighthly, Shakspeare has, in the whole description, studiously employed the most plain, homely, familiar, and even unpoetical diction, and thereby produced the desired effect. Gray has laboured his description with all the resources of consummate art, and it is eminently distinguished for pomp, splendour, and magnificence. Lastly, except articles, prepositions, and conjunctions, there is not a single word common to the two passages; so that they may indeed with propriety be quoted, to shew how differently the same object can appear to different poetical minds; but Mr Coleridge "has been couched," and Mr Wordsworth having performed the operation unskilfully, the patient is blind. made there in his own favourite studies; what place he occupied, or supposed he occupied, among his numerous contemporaries of talent; how much he was inspired by the genius of the place; how far he "pierced the caves of old Philosophy," or sounded the depths of the Physical Sciences.* All this unfortunately is omitted, and he hurries on to details often trifling and uninfluential, sometimes low, vile, and vulgar, and, what is worse, occasionally inconsistent with any feeling of personal dignity and self-respect. 66 After leaving College, instead of betaking himself to some respectable calling, Mr Coleridge, with his characteristic modesty, determined to set on foot a periodical work called "The Watchman," that through it "all might know the truth.” The price of this very useful article was fourpence. Off he set on a tour to the north to procure subscribers, "preaching in most of the great towns as a hireless Volunteer, in a blue coat and white waistcoat, that not a rag of the Woman of Babylon might be seen on me." In preaching, his object was to shew that our Saviour was the real son of Joseph, and that the Crucifixion was a matter of small importance. Mr Coleridge is now a most zealous member of the Church of England-devoutly believes every iota in the thirtynine articles, and that the Christian Religion is only to be found in its purity in the homilies and liturgy of that Church. Yet, on looking back to his Unitarian zeal, he exclaims, "O, never can I remember those days with either shame or regret! For I was *The fact is, that Mr Coleridge made no figure at the University. He never could master the simplest elements of the mathematics. Yet in all his metaphysical, and indeed many of his critical writings, there is an ostentatious display of a familiar and profound knowledge of the principles of that science. This is dishonest quackery; for Mr Coleridge knows that he could not, if taken by surprise, demonstrate any one proposition in the first book of Euclid. His classical knowledge was found at the University to be equally superficial. He gained prize there for a Greek Ode, which for ver blasted his character as a scholar; all he rules of that language being therein erpetually violated. We were once present a literary company, where Porson offered shew in it, to a gentleman who was praising this Ode, 134 examples of bad Greek. most sincere, most disinterested! Wealth, rank, life itself, then seem'd cheap to me, compared with the interests of truth, and the will of my Maker. I cannot even accuse for in the expansion of my enthusiasm I did myself of having been actuated by vanity! not think of myself at all!” 66 This is delectable. What does he mean by saying that life seemed cheap? What danger could there be in the performance of his exploits, except that of being committed as a Vagrant? What indeed could rank appear to a person thus voluntarily degraded? Or who would expect vanity to be conscious of its own loathsomeness? During this tour he seems to have been constantly exposed to the insults of the vile and the vulgar, and to have associated with persons whose company must have been most odious to a gentleman. Greasy tallow-chandlers, and pursey woollen-drapers, and grim-featured dealers in hard-ware, were his associates at Manchester, Derby, Nottingham, and Sheffield; and among them the light of truth was to be shed from its cloudy tabernacle in Mr Coleridge's Pericranium. At the house of a Brummagem Patriot" he appears to have got dead drunk with strong ale and tobacco, and in that pitiable condition he was exposed to his disciples, lying upon a sofa," with my face like a wall that is white-washing, deathy pale, and with the cold drops of perspiration running down it from my forehead." Some one having said, "Have you seen a paper to-day, Mr Coleridge?" the wretched man replied, with all the staring stupidity of his lamentable condition, "Sir! I am far from convinced that a Christian is permitted to read either newspapers, or any other works of merely political and temporary interest." This witticism quite enchanted his enlightened auditors, and they prolonged their festivities to an 66 early hour next morning." Having returned to London with a thousand subscribers on his list, the "Watchman" appeared in all his glory; but, alas! not on the day fixed for the first burst of his effulgence; which foolish delay incensed many of his subscribers. The Watchman, on his second appearance, spoke blasphemously, and made indecent applications of Scriptural language; then, instead of abusing Government and Aristocrats, as Mr Coleridge had pledged himself to his constituents to do, he attacked his own Party; so that in seven weeks, before the shoes were old in which he travelled to Sheffield, the Watchman went the way of all flesh, and his remains were scattered "through sundry old iron shops," where for one penny could be purchased each precious relic. To crown all, "his London Publisher was a -;" and Mr Coleridge very narrowly escaped being thrown into jail for this his heroic attempt to shed over the manufacturing towns the illumination of knowledge. We refrain from making any comments on this deplorable story. This Philosopher, and Theologian, and Patriot, now retired to a village in Somersetshire, and, after having sought to enlighten the whole world, discovered that he himself was in utter darkness. "Doubts rushed in, broke upon me from the fountains of the great deep, and fell from the windows of heaven. The fontal truths of natural Religion, and the book of Revelation, alike contributed to the flood; and it was long ere my Ark touched upon Ararat, and rested. My head was with Spinoza, though my heart was with Paul and John." At this time, "by a gracious Providence, for which I can never be sufficiently grateful, the generous and munificent patronage of Mr Josiah and Mr Thomas Wedgewood enabled me to finish my education in Germany." All this is very well; but what Mr Coleridge learnt in Germany we know not, and seek in vain to discover through these volumes. He tells us that the Antijacobin wits accused him of abandoning his wife and children, and implicated in that charge his friends Mr Robert Southey and Mr Charles Lamb. This was very unjust; for Mr Southey is, and always was, a most exemplary Family-man, and Mr Lamb, we believe, is still a Bachelor. But Mr Coleridge assumes a higher tone than the nature of the case demands or justifies, and his language is not quite explicit. A man who abandons his wife and children is undoubtedly both a wicked and pernicious member of society; and Mr Coleridge ought not to deal in general and vague terms of indignation, but boldly affirm, if he dare, that the charge was false then, and would be false now, if repeated against himself. Be this as it may, Mr Coleridge has never received any apology from those by whom he was insulted and accused of disgraceful crime; and yet has he, with a humility most unmanly, joined their ranks, and become one of their most slavish sycophants. On his return from Germany, he became the principal writer of the political and literary departments of the Morning Post. This, though unquestionably a useful, respectable, and laborious employment, does not appear to us at all sublime; but Mr Coleridge thinks otherwise-compares himself, the Writer of the leading Article, to Edmund Burke-and, for the effect which his writings produced on Britain, refers us to the pages of the Morning Chronicle. In this situation, he tells us that "he wasted the prime and manhood of his intellect," but "added nothing to his reputation or fortune, the industry of the week supplying the necessities of the week." Yet the effects of his labours were wonderful and glorious. He seems to think that he was the cause of the late War; and that, in consequence of his Essays in the Morning Post, he was, during his subsequent residence in Italy, the specified object of Bonaparte's resentment. warned by Baron Von Humboldt and Cardinal Fesch; and he was saved from arrest by a Noble Benedictine, and the "gracious connivance of that good old man the Pope!" We know of no parallel to such insane vanity as this, but the case of the celebrated John Dennis, who, when walking one day on the sea-beach, imagined a large ship sailing by to have been sent by Ministry to capture him; and who, on another occasion, waited on the Duke of Marlborough, when the congress for the peace of Utrecht was in agitation, to intreat his interest with the plenipotentiaries, that they should not consent to his being given up. The Duke replied, that he had not got himself excepted in the articles of peace, yet he could not help thinking that he had done the French almost as much damage as even Mr Dennis. Of this he was We have no room here to expose, as it deserves to be exposed, the multitudinous political inconsistence of Mr Coleridge, but we beg leave to state one single fact: He abhorred, hated, and despised Mr Pitt,-and he now loves and reveres his memory. By far the most spirited and powerful of his poetical writings, is the War Ec logue, Slaughter, Fire, and Famine; and in that composition he loads the Minister with imprecations and curses, long, loud, and deep. But afterwards, when he has thought it prudent to change his principles, he denies that he ever felt any indignation towards Mr Pitt; and with the most unblushing falsehood declares, that at the very moment his muse was consigning him to infamy, death, and damnation, he would "have interposed his body between him and danger." We believe that all good men, of all parties, regard Mr Coleridge with pity and contempt. Of the latter days of his literary life Mr Coleridge gives us no satisfactory account. The whole of the second volume is interspersed with mysterious inuendos. He complains of the loss of all his friends, not by death, but estrangement. He tries to account for the enmity of the world to him, a harmless and humane man, who wishes well to all created things, and "of his wondering finds no end." 66 He upbraids himself with indolence, procrastination, neglect of his worldly concerns, and all other bad habits, and then, with incredible inconsistency, vaunts loudly of his successful efforts in the cause of Literature, Philo sophy, Morality, and Religion. Above all, he weeps and wails over the malignity of Reviewers, who have persecuted him almost from his very cradle, and seem resolved to bark him into the grave. He is haunted by the Image of a Reviewer wherever he goes. They push him from his stool," and by his bedside they cry, "Sleep no more." They may abuse whomsoever they think fit, save himself and Mr Wordsworth. All others are fair game-and he chuckles to see them brought down. But his sacred person must be inviolate; and rudely to touch it is not high treason, it is impiety. Yet his "ever-honoured friend, the laurelhonouring-Laureate," is a Reviewerhis friend Mr Thomas Moore is a Reviewer-his friend Dr Middleton, Bishop of Calcutta, was the Editor of a Review-almost every friend he ever had is a Reviewer ;-and to crown all, he himself is a Reviewer. Every person who laughs at his silly Poems, and his incomprehensible metaphysics, is malignant-in which case, there can be little benevolence in this world; and while Mr Francis Jeffrey is alive and merry, there can be no happiness here below for Mr Samuel Coleridge. And here we come to speak of a matter, which, though somewhat of a personal and private nature, is well deserving of mention in a Review of Mr Coleridge's Literary Life; for sincerity is the first of virtues, and without it no man can be respectable or useful. He has, in this Work, accused Mr Jeffrey of meanness-hypocrisy -falsehood-and breach of hospitality. That gentleman is able to defend himself and his defence is no business of ours. But we now tell Mr Coleridge, that instead of humbling his Adversary, he has heaped upon his own head the ashes of disgrace-and with his own blundering hands, so stained his character as a man of honour and high principles, that the mark can never be effaced. All the most offensive attacks on the writings of Wordsworth and Southey had been made by Mr Jeffrey before his visit to Keswick. Yet does Coleridge receive him with open arms, according to his own account-listen, well-pleased, to all his compliments-talk to him for hours on his Literary Projects-dine with him as his guest at an inn-tell him that he knew Mr Wordsworth would be most happy to see him—and in all respects behave to him with a politeness bordering on servility. And after all this, merely because his own vile verses were crumpled up like so much waste paper, by the grasp of a powerful hand in the Edinburgh Review, he accuses Mr Jeffrey of abusing hospitality which he never received, and forgets, that instead of being the Host, he himself was the smiling and obsequious Guest of the man he pretends to have despised. With all this miserable forgetfulness of dignity and self-respect, he mounts the high horse, from which he instantly is tumbled into the dirt; and in his angry ravings collects together all the foul trash of literary gossip to fling at his adversary, but which is blown stifling back upon himself with odium and infamy. But let him call to mind his own conduct, and talk not of Mr Jeffrey. Many witnesses are yet living of his own egotism and malignity; and often has he heaped upon his "beloved Friend, the laurel-honouring Laureate," epithets of contempt, and pity, and disgust, though now it may suit his paltry purposes to worhip and idolize. Of Mr Southey we at all times think, and shall speak, with respect and admiration; but his open adversaries are, like Mr Jeffrey, less formidable than his unprincipled Friends. When Greek and Trojan meet on the plain, there is an interest in the combat; but it is hateful and painful to think, that a hero should be wounded behind his back, and by a poisoned stiletto in the hand of a false Friend.* The concluding chapter of this Biography is perhaps the most pitiful of the whole, and contains a most surprising mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous. "Strange," says he, "as the delusion may appear, yet it is most true, that three years ago I did not know or believe that I had an enemy in the world; and now even my strongest consolations of gratitude are mingled with fear, and I reproach myself for "The author of the Friend' is troubled at times and seasons with a treacherous memory; but perhaps he may remember a visit to Bristol. He may remember-(I allude to no confidential whisperings no unguarded private moments, but to facts of open and ostentatious notoriety)—He may remember, publicly, before several strangers, and in the midst of a public library, turning into the most merciless ridicule the dear Friend' whom he now calls Southey the Philologist, Southey the Historian, Southey the Poet of Thalaba, the Madoc, and the Roderic. Mr Coleridge recited an Ode of his dear Friend, in the hearing of these persons, with a tone and manner of the most contemptuous burlesque, and accused him of having stolen from Wordsworth images which he knew not how to use. Does he remember, that he also took down the Joan of Arc,' and recited, in the same ridiculous tone (I do not mean his usual tone, but one which he meant should be ridiculous) more than a page of the poem, with the ironical comment, This, gentlemen, is Poetry ?' Does he remember that he then recited, by way of contrast, some forty lines of his own contribution to the same poem, in his usual bombastic manner? and that after this dis 6 gusting display of egotism and malignity, he observed, Poor fellow, he may be a Reviewer, but Heaven bless the man if he thinks himself a Poet ?' Absentem qui rodit amicum Hic niger est: hunc tu Romane caveto.' VINDEX." being too often disposed to ask,—Have I one friend ?" We are thus prepared for the narration of some grievous cruelty, or ingratitude, or malice,-some violation of his peace, or robbery of his reputation; but our readers will start when they are informed, that this melancholy lament is occasioned solely by the cruel treatment which his poem of Christabel received from the Edinburgh Review and other periodical Journals! It was, he tells us, universally admired in manuscript-he recited it many hundred times to men, women, and children, and always with an electrical effect-it was bepraised by most of the great poets of the day-and for twenty years he was urged to give it to the world. But alas! no sooner had the Lady Christabel " come out," than all the rules of good-breeding and politeness were broken through, and the loud laugh of scorn and ridicule from every quarter assailed the let Mr Coleridge be consoled. Mr ears of the fantastic Hoyden. But Scott and Lord Byron are good-natured enough to admire Christabel, and the Public have not forgotten that his Lordship handed her Ladyship upon the stage. It is indeed most strange, that Mr Coleridge is not satisfied with the praise of those he admires,-but pines away for the commendation of those he contemns. Having brought down his literary life to the great epoch of the publication of Christabel, he there stops short; and that the world may compare him as he appears at that æra to his former self, when "he set sail from Yarmouth on the morning of the 10th September 1798, in the Hamburg Packet," he has republished, from his periodical work the "Friend," seventy pages of Satyrane's Letters. specimen of his wit in 1798, our readers may take the following : As a "We were all on the deck, but in a short time I observed marks of dismay. The sion; and many of the faces round me asLady retired to the cabin in some confusumed a very doleful and frog-coloured appearance; and within an hour the number of those on deck was lessened by one half. I was giddy, but not sick; and the giddiness soon went away, but left a feverishness and want of appetite, which I attributed, in great measure, to the "sava mephitis" of the bilge-water; and it was certainly not decreased by the exportations from the cabin. However, I was well enough to join |
