it-so that, since I quitted you, I have been gloomy as the month which even now has begun to lower and rave on us. I verily believe, or rather I have no doubt, that I should have written to you within the period of my promise, if I had not pledged myself for a certain gift of my Muse to poor Tommy; and, alas! she has been too sunk on the ground in dimmest heaviness' to permit me to trifle. Yet, intending it hourly, I deferred my letter à-la-mode the procrastinator! Ah! me. I wonder not that the hours fly so swiftly by me--for they pass unfreighted with the duties which they came to demand! * * * * * 66 * * * I wrote a long letter to Dr. Compton, and received from him a very kind letter, which I will send you in the parcel I am about to convey by Milton. 66 My Poems are come to a second edition-that is, the first edition is sold. I shall alter the lines of the Joan of Arc, and make one poem, entitled Progress of European Liberty, a Vision; the first line, "Auspicious Reverence! hush all meaner song," &c., and begin the volume with it. Then the Chatterton; Pixies' Parlor; Effusions 27 and 28; To a Young Ass; Tell me on what holy ground; The Sigh; Epitaph on an Infant; The Man of Ross; Spring in a Village; Edmund; Lines with a poem on the French Revolution. Seven Sonnets, namely, those at pp. 45, 59, 60, 61, 64, 65, 66. Shurton Bars; My Pensive Sara; Low was our pretty Cot; Religious Musings; these in the order I have placed them. Then another title-page with Juvenilia on it, and an advertisement signifying that the Poems were retained by the desire of some friends, but that they are to be considered as being, in the Author's own opinion, of very inferior merit. In this sheet will be, Absence; La Fayette ; Genevieve; Kosciusko; Autumnal Moon; To the Nightingale; Imitation of Spenser; A Poem written in early youth. All the others will be finally and totally omitted. It is strange that in the Sonnet to Schiller I should have written, that hour I would have wished to die-Lest aught more mean might stamp me mortal;' the bull never struck me till Charles Lloyd mentioned it. The sense is evident enough, but the word is ridiculously ambiguous. Lloyd is a very good fellow, and most certainly a young man of great genius. He desires his kindest love to you. I will write again by Milton, for I really can write no more now, I am so depressed. But I will fill up the letter with poetry of mine, or Lloyd's, or Southey's. Is your Sister married? May the Almighty bless her! may he enable her to make all her new friends as pure, and mild, and amiable as herself!-I pray in the fervency of my soul. Is your dear Mother well? My filial respects to her. Remember me to Ward. David Hartley Coleridge is stout, healthy, and handsome. He is the very miniature of me. "Your grateful and affectionate friend and brother, "S. T. COLERIDGE.” Speaking of lines by Mr. Southey, called Inscription for the Cenotaph at Ermenonville, written in his letter, Mr. C. says, "This is beautiful, but, instead of Ermenonville and Rousseau, put Valchiusa and Petrarch. I do not particularly admire Rousseau. Bishop Taylor, old Baxter, David Hartley, and the Bishop of Cloyne, are my men." 6 The following Sonnet, transcribed in the foregoing Letter, has not been printed. It puts in,' he says, 'no claim to poetry, but it is a most faithful picture of my feelings on a very interesting event.' See the Letter to Mr. Poole of 24th September, 1796. This Sonnet shows in a remarkable way how little the Unitarianism, which Mr. C. professed at this time, operated on his fundamental feelings as a catholic Christian. On receiving a Letter informing me of the birth of a Son. When they did greet me Father, sudden awe That, ere my babe youth's perilous maze have trod, And he be born again, a child of God! It was not till the summer of 1797 that the second edition of Mr. C.'s Poems actually appeared, before which time he had seen occasion to make many alterations in the proposed arrangement of, and had added some of his most beautiful compositions to, the collection. It is curious, however, that he never varied the diction of the Sonnet to Schiller in the particular to which he refers in the preceding Letter. 66 To Mr. Poole. "5th November, 1796. THANKS, my heart's warm thanks to you, my beloved Friend, for your Afterwards included among the Minor Poems of Mr. S. S. C. tender letter! Indeed I did not deserve so kind a one; but by this time you have received my last. To live in a beautiful country, and to enure myself as much as possible to the labors of the field, have been for this year past my dream of the day, my sigh at midnight. But to enjoy these blessings near you, to see you daily, to tell you all my thoughts in their first birth, and to hear yours, to be mingling identities with you, as it were !—the vision-weaving Fancy has indeed often pictured such things, but Hope never dared whisper a promise. Disappointment! Disappointment! dash not from my trembling hand this bowl, which almost touches my lips. Envy me not this immortal draught, and I will forgive thee all thy persecutions! Forgive thee! Impious! I will bless thee, black-vested minister of Optimism, stern pioneer of happiness! Thou hast been the cloud before me from the day that I left the flesh-pots of Egypt, and was led through the way of a wilderness-the cloud that had been guiding me to a land flowing with milk and honey-the milk of innocence, the honey of friendship! "I wanted such a letter as yours, for I am very unwell. On Wednesday night I was seized with an intolerable pain from my right temple to the tip of my right shoulder, including my right eye, cheek, jaw, and that side of the throat. I was nearly frantic, and ran about the house almost naked, endeavoring by every means to excite sensation in different parts of my body, and so to weaken the enemy by creating a division. It continued from one in the morning till half-past five, and left me pale and fainty. It came on fitfully, but not so violently, several times on Thursday, and began severer threats towards night; but I took between 60 and 70 drops of laudanum, and sopped the Cerberus just as his mouth began to open. On Friday it only niggled, as if the Chief had departed, as from a conquered place, and merely left a small garrison behind, or as if he had evacuated the Corrica, and a few straggling pains only remained. But this morning he returned in full force, and his name is Legion. Giant-Fiend of a hundred hands, with a shower of arrowy death-pangs he transpierced me, and then he became a Wolf and lay gnawing my bones!-I am not mad, most noble Festus! but in sober sadness I have suffered this day more bodily pain than I had before a conception of. My right cheek has certainly been placed with admirable exactness under the focus of some invisible burning-glass, which concentrated all the rays of a Tartarean sun. My medical attendant decides it to be altogether nervous, and that it originates either in severe application, or excessive anxiety. My beloved Poole, in excessive anxiety I believe it might originate. I have a blister under my right ear, and I take 25 drops of laudanum every five hours, the ease and spirits gained by which have enabled me to write to you this flighty, but not exaggerating, account. With a gloomy wantonness of imagination I had been coquetting with the hideous possibles of disappointment. I drank fears like wormwood-yea-made myself drunken with bitterness; for my ever-shaping and distrustful mind still mingled gall-drops, till out of the cup of Hope I almost poisoned myself with Despair. "Your letter is dated 2d November; I wrote to you on the 1st. Your sister was married on that day; and on that day I several times felt my heart overflowed with such tenderness for her, as made me repeatedly ejaculate prayers in her behalf. Such things are strange. It may be superstitious to think about such correspondences; but it is a superstition which softens the heart and leads to no evil. We will call on your dear sister as soon as I am quite well, and in the meantime I will write a few lines to her. 66 I am anxious beyond measure to be in the country as soon as possible. I would it were possible to get a temporary residence till Adscombe is ready for us. I wish we could have three rooms in William Poole's large house for the winter. Will you try to look out for a fit servant for us, simple of heart, physiognomically handsome, and scientific in vaccimulgence. That last word is a new one, but soft in sound and full of expression. Vaccimulgence! I am pleased with the word. Write to me all things about yourself; where I cannot advise, I can console; and communication, which doubles joy, halves sorrow. "Tell me whether you think it at all possible to make any terms with You know, I would not wish to touch with the edge of the nail of my great toe the line which should be but half a barley-corn out of the circle of the most trembling delicacy! I will write to Cruikshanks to-morrow, if God permit me. God bless and protect you, Friend! Brother! Beloved! Sara's best love and Lloyd's. David Hartley is well. My filial love to your dear Mother. Love to Ward. Little Tommy! I often think of thee! 66 "S. T. COLERIDGE." Charles Lloyd, spoken of in a letter of my Father's in the last chapter as a young man of great genius," was born Feb. 12th, 1775, died at Versailles, Jan. 15th, 1839. He published sonnets and other poems in conjunction with my Father and Mr. Lamb, in 1797, and these and Mr. Lamb's were published together, apart from my Father's the year afterwards. "While Lamb," says Serjeant Talfourd, was enjoying habits of the closest intimacy with Coleridge in London, he was introduced by him to a young poet, whose name has often been associated with his-Charles Lloyd-the son of a wealthy banker at Birmingham, who had recently cast off the trammels of the Society of Friends, and, smitten with the love of poetry, had become a student at the University of Cambridge. There he had been attracted to Coleridge by the fascination of his discourse; and, having been admitted to his regard, was introduced by him to Lamb. Lloyd was endeared both to Lamb and Coleridge by a very amiable disposition and a pensive cast of thought; but his intellect had little resemblance to that of either. He wrote, indeed, pleasing verses and with great facility,—a facility fatal to excellence; but his mind was chiefly remarkable for the fine power of analysis which distinguishes his London and other of his later compositions. In this power of discriminating and distinguishing— carried to a pitch almost of painfulness-Lloyd has scarcely ever been equalled, and his poems, though rugged in point of versification, will be found by those who will read them with the calm attention they require, replete with critical and moral suggestions of the highest value." Besides three or four volumes of poetry Mr. Lloyd wrote novels :—Edmund Oliver, published soon after he became acquainted with my Father, and Isabel, of later date. After his marriage he settled at the lakes. At Brathay" (the beautiful river Brathay near Ambleside), says Mr. Dequincey," "lived Charles Lloyd, and he could not in candor be considered a common He was somewhat too Rousseauish, but he had in conversation very extraordinary powers for analysis of a certain kind applied to the philosophy of manners, and the most delicate nuances of social life; and his Translations of Alfieri, together with his own poems, show him to have been an accomplished scholar." man. My Mother has often told me how amiable Mr. Lloyd was as a youth; how kind to her little Hartley: how well content with cottage accommodation; how painfully sensitive in all that related to the affections. I remember him myself as he was in middle life, when he and his excellent wife were most friendly to my brothers, who were schoolfellows with their sons. I did not at that time fully appreciate Mr. Lloyd's intellectual character, but was deeply impressed by the exceeding refinement and sensibility marked in his countenance and manners (for he was a gentleman of the old school without its formality),-by the fluent elegance of his discourse, and, above all, by the eloquent pathos, with which he described his painful mental experiences and wild waking dreams, caused by a deranged state of the nervous system. Le ciel nous vend toujours les biens qu'il nous prodigue. Nervous derangement is a dear price to pay even for genius and sensibility. Too often, even if not the direct effect of these privileges, it is the accompanying drawback; hypochondria may almost be called the intellectual man's malady. The Duke d'Ormond, which was written 24 years before its publication in 1922, that is in 1798, soon after Mr. Lloyd's residence at Stowey, has great merit as a dramatic poem, in the delineation of character and states of mind; the plot is forced and unnatural; not only that, but what is worse in point of effect, it is tediously subjective; and we feel the actions of the piece to be improbable while the feelings are true to nature; yet there is tragic effect in the scenes of the dénouement. I understand what it was in Mr. Lloyd's mind which Mr. Dequincey calls Rousseauish. He |
