But if this unwillingness to bring before our souls, in distinct array, the more solemn and important events of our lives, be a natural and perhaps a wise feeling, how much more averse must every reflecting man be to the ransacking of his inmost spirit for all its hidden emotions and passions, to the tearing away that shroud which oblivion may have kindly flung over his vices and his follies, or that fine

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and delicate veil which Christian humility draws over his virtues and acts of benevolence. To scrutinize and dissect the character of others is an idle and unprofitable task; and the most skilful anatomist will often be forced to withhold his hand when he unexpectedly meets with something he does not understand—some conformation of the character of his patient which is not explicable on his theory of human nature. To become operators on our own shrinking spirits is something worse; for by probing the wounds of the soul, what can ensue but callousness or irritability. And it may be remarked, that those persons who have busied themselves most with inquiries into the causes, and motives, and impulses of their actions, have exhibited, in their conduct, the most lamentable contrast to their theory, and have seemed blinder in their knowledge than others in their ignorance.

What good to mankind has ever flowed from the confessions of Rousseau, or the autobiographical sketch of Hume? From the first we rise with a confused and miserable sense of weakness and of power—of lofty aspirations and degrading appetencies—of pride swelling into blasphemy, and humiliation pitiably grovelling in the dust—of purity of spirit soaring on the wings of imagination, and grossness of instinct brutally wallowing in “Epicurus’ stye”—of lofty contempt for the opinion of mankind, yet the most slavish subjection to their most fatal prejudices—of a sublime piety towards God, and a wild violation of his holiest laws. From the other we rise with feelings of sincere compassion for the ignorance of the most enlightened. All the prominent features of Hume’s character were invisible to his own eyes; and in that meagre sketch which has been so much admired, what is there to instruct, to rouse, or to elevate—what light thrown over the duties of this life or the hopes of that to come? We wish to speak with tenderness of a man whose moral character was respectable, and whose talents were of the first order. But most deeply injurious to every thing lofty and high-toned in human Virtue, to every thing cheering, and consoling, and sublime in that Faith which

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sheds over this Earth a reflection of the heavens, is that memoir of a worldly-wise Man, in which he seems to contemplate with indifference the extinction of his own immortal soul, and jibes and jokes on the dim and awful verge of Eternity.

We hope that our readers will forgive these very imperfect reflections on a subject of deep interest, and accompany us now on our examination of Mr Coleridge’s “Literary Life,” the very singular work which caused our ideas to run in that channel. It does not contain an account of his opinions and literary exploits alone, but lays open, not unfrequently, the character of the Man as well as of the Author; and we are compelled to think, that while it strengthens every argument against the composition of such Memoirs, it does, without benefitting the cause either of virtue, knowledge, or religion, exhibit many mournful sacrifices of personal dignity, after which it seems impossible that Mr Coleridge can be greatly respected either by the Public or himself.

It is impossible to read many pages of this work without thinking that Mr Coleridge conceives himself to be a far greater man than the Public is likely to admit; and we wish to waken him from what seems to us a most ludicrous delusion. He seems to believe that every tongue is wagging in his praise,—that every ear is open to imbibe the oracular breathings of his inspiration. Even when he would fain convince us that his soul is wholly occupied with some other illustrious character, he breaks out into laudatory exclamations concerning himself; no sound is so sweet to him as that of his own voice: the ground is hallowed on which his footsteps tread; and there seems to him something more than human in his very shadow. He will read no books that other people read: his scorn is as misplaced and extravagant as his admiration; opinions that seem to tally with his own wild ravings are holy and inspired; and, unless agreeable to his creed, the wisdom of ages is folly; and wits, whom the world worship, dwarfed when they approach his venerable side. His admiration of nature or of man,—we had almost said his religious feelings towards his God,—are all narrowed, weakened, and corrupted and poisoned by inveterate and diseased egotism; and instead of his mind reflecting the beauty and glory of nature, he seems to consider the mighty universe itself as nothing better than a mirror, in which, with a grinning and idiot self-complacency, he may contemplate the Physiognomy of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Though he has yet done nothing in any one department of human knowledge, yet he speaks of his theories, and plans, and views, and discoveries, as if he had produced some memorable revolution in Science. He at all times connects his own name in Poetry with Shakspeare, and Spenser, and Milton; in politics with Burke, and Fox, and Pitt; in metaphysics with Locke, and Hartley, and Berkeley, and Kant;— feeling himself not only to be the worthy compeer of those illustrious Spirits, but to unite, in his own mighty intellect, all the glorious powers and faculties by which they were separately distinguished, as if his soul were endowed with all human power, and was

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the depository of the aggregate, or rather the essence, of all human knowledge. So deplorable a delusion as this has only been equalled by that of Joanna Southcote, who mistook a complaint in the bowels for the divine afflatus; and believed herself about to give birth to the regenerator of the world, when sick unto death of an incurable and loathsome disease.

The truth is, that Mr Coleridge is but an obscure name in English literature. In London he is well known in literary society, and justly admired for his extraordinary loquacity: he has his own little circle of devoted worshippers, and he mistakes their foolish babbling for the voice of the world. His name, too, has been often foisted into Reviews, and accordingly is known to many who never saw any of his works. In Scotland few know or care any thing about him; and perhaps no man who has spoken and written so much, and occasionally with so much genius and ability, ever made so little impression on the public mind. Few people know how to spell or pronounce his name; and were he to drop from the clouds among any given number of well informed and intelligent men north of the Tweed, he would find it impossible to make any intelligible communication respecting himself; for of him and his writings there would prevail only a perplexing dream, or the most untroubled ignorance. We cannot see in what the state of literature would have been different, had he been cut off in childhood, or had he never been born; for, except a few wild and fanciful ballads, he has produced nothing worthy remembrance. Yet, insignificant as he assuredly is, he cannot put pen to paper without a feeling that millions of eyes are fixed upon him; and he scatters his Sibylline Leaves around him, with as majestical an air as if a crowd of enthusiastic admirers were rushing forward to grasp the divine promulgations, instead of their being, as in fact they are, coldly received by the accidental passenger, like a lying lottery puff or a quack advertisement

This most miserable arrogance seems, in the present age, confined almost exclusively to the original members of the Lake School, and is, we think, worthy of especial notice, as one of the leading features of their character. It would be difficult to defend it either in Southey or Wordsworth; but in Coleridge it is altogether ridiculous. Southey has undoubtedly written four noble Poems—Thalaba, Madoc, Kehama, and Roderick; and if the Poets of this age are admitted, by the voice of posterity, to take their places by the side of the Mighty of former times in the Temple of Immortality, he will be one of that sacred company. Wordsworth, too, with all his manifold errors and defects, has, we think, won to himself a great name, and, in point of originality, will be considered as second to no man of this age. They are entitled to think highly of themselves, in comparison with their most highly gifted contemporaries; and therefore, though their arrogance may be offensive, as it often is, it is seldom or every utterly ridiculous. But Mr Coleridge stands on much lower ground, and will be known to future times only as a man who overrated and abused his talents—who saw glimpses of that glory which he could not grasp—who presumptuously came forward to officiate as High Priest at mysteries beyond his ken—and who carried himself as if he had been familiarly admitted into the Penetralia of Nature, when in truth he kept perpetually stumbling at the very Threshold.

This absurd self-elevation forms a striking contrast with the dignified deportment of all the other great living Poets. Throughout all the works of Scott, the most original-minded man of this generation of Poets, scarcely a single allusion is made to himself; and then it is with a truly delightful simplicity, as if he were not aware of his immeasurable superiority to the ordinary run of mankind. From the rude songs of our forefathers he has created a kind of Poetry, which at once brought over the dull scenes of this our unimaginative life all the pomp, and glory, and magnificence of a chivalrous age. He speaks to us like some ancient Bard awakened from his tomb, and singing of visions not revealed in dreams, but contemplated in all the freshness and splendour of reality. Since he sung his bold, and wild, and romantic lays, a more religious solemnity breathes from our mouldering abbeys, and a sterner grandeur frowns over our time-shattered castles. He has peopled our hills with heroes, even as Ossian peopled them; and,

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like a presiding spirit, his Image haunts the magnificent cliffs of our Lakes and Seas. And if he be, as every heart feels, the author of those noble Prose Works that continue to flash upon the world, to him exclusively belongs the glory of wedding Fiction and History in delighted union, and of embodying in imperishable records the manners, character, soul, and spirit of Caledonia; so that, if all her annals were lost, her memory would in those Tales be immortal. His truly is a name that comes to the heart of every Briton with a start of exultation, whether it be heard in the hum of cities or in the solitude of nature. What has Campbell ever obtruded on the Public of his private history? Yet his is a name that will be hallowed for ever in the souls of pure, and aspiring, and devout youth: and to those lofty contemplations in which Poetry lends its aid to Religion, his immortal Muse will impart a more enthusiastic glow, while it blends in one majestic hymn all the noblest feelings which can spring from earth, with all the most glorious hopes that come from the silence of eternity. Byron indeed speaks of himself often, but his is like the voice of an angel heard crying in the storm or the whirlwind; and we listen with a kind of mysterious dread to the tones of a Being whom we scarcely believe to be kindred to ourselves, while he sounds the depths of our nature, and illuminates them with the lightnings of his genius. And finally, who more gracefully unostentatious than Moore, a Poet who has shed delight, and joy, and rapture, and exultation, through the spirit of an enthusiastic People, and whose name is associated in his native Land with every thing noble and glorious in the cause of Patriotism and Liberty. We could easily add to the illustrious list; but suffice it to say, that our Poets do in general hear their faculties meekly and manfully, trusting to their conscious powers, and the susceptibility of generous and enlightened natures, not yet extinct in Britain, whatever Mr Coleridge may think; for certain it is, that a host of worshippers will crowd into the Temple, when the Priest is inspired, and the flame he kindles is from Heaven.

Such has been the character of great Poets in all countries and in all times. Fame is dear to them as their vital existence—but they love it not with the perplexity of fear, but the calmness of certain possession. They know that the debt which nature owes them must be paid, and they hold in surety thereof the universal passions of mankind. So Milton felt and spoke of himself, with an air of grandeur, and the voice as of an Archangel, distinctly hearing in his soul the music of after generations, and the thunder of his mighty name rolling through the darkness of futurity. So divine Shakspeare felt and spoke; he cared not for the mere acclamations of his subjects; in all the gentleness of his heavenly spirit he felt himself to be their prophet and their king, and knew,

“When all the breathers of this world are dead, That he entombed in men’s eyes would lie.”

Indeed, who that knows any thing of Poetry could for a moment suppose it otherwise? What ever made a great Poet but the inspiration of delight and love in himself, and an impassioned desire to communicate them to the wide spirit of kindred existence? Poetry, like Religion, must be free from all grovelling feelings; and above all, from jealousy, envy, and uncharitableness. And the true Poet, like the Preacher of the true religion, will seek to win unto himself and his Faith, a belief whose foundation is in the depths of love, and whose pillars are the noblest passions of humanity.

It would seem, that in truly great souls all feeling of self-importance, in its narrower sense, must be incompatible with the consciousness of a mighty achievement. The idea of the mere faculty or power is absorbed as it were in the idea of the work performed. That work stands out in its glory from the mind of its Creator; and in the contemplation of it, he forgets that he himself was the cause of its existence, or feels only a dim but sublime association between himself and the object of his admiration; and when he does think of himself in conjunction with others, he feels towards the scoffer only a pitying sorrow for his blindness—being assured, that though at all times there will be weakness, and ignorance, and worthlessness, which can hold no communion with him or with his thoughts, so will there be at all times the pure, the noble, and the pious, whose delight it

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will be to love, to admire, and to imitate; and that never, at any point of time, past, present, or to come, can a true Poet be defrauded of his just fame.

But we need not speak of Poets alone, (though we have done so at present to expose the miserable pretensions of Mr Coleridge), but look through all the bright ranks of men distinguished by mental power, in whatever department of human science. It is our faith, that without moral there can be no intellectual grandeur; and surely the self-conceit and arrogance which we have been exposing, are altogether incompatible with lofty feelings and majestic principles. It is the Dwarf alone who endeavours to strut himself into the height of the surrounding company; but the man of princely stature seems unconscious of the strength in which nevertheless he rejoices, and only sees his superiority in the gaze of admiration which he commands. Look at the most inventive spirits of this country,—those whose intellects have achieved the most memorable triumphs. Take, for example, Leslie in physical science, and what airs of majesty does he ever assume? What is Samuel Coleridge compared to such a man? What is an ingenious and fanciful versifier to him who has, like a magician, gained command over the very elements of nature,—who has realized the fictions of Poetry,—and to whom Frost and Fire are ministering and obedient spirits? But of this enough.—It is a position that doubtless might require some modification, but in the main, it is and must be true, that real Greatness, whether in Intellect, Genius, or Virtue, is dignified and unostentatious: and that no potent spirit ever whimpered over the blindness of the age to his merits, and, like Mr Coleridge, or a child blubbering for the moon, with clamorous outcries implored and imprecated reputation.

The very first sentence of this Literary Biography shews how incompetent Mr Coleridge is for the task he has undertaken.

Now, it is obvious, that if his writings be few, and unimportant, and unknown, Mr Coleridge can have no reason for composing his Literary Biography. Yet in singular contradiction to himself—

The truth is, that Mr Coleridge has lived, as much as any man of his time, in literary and political society, and that he has sought every opportunity of keeping himself in the eye of the public, as restlessly as any charlatan who ever exhibited on the stage. To use his own words, “In 1794, when I had barely passed the verge of manhood, I published a small volume of juvenile poems.” These poems, by dint of puffing, reached a third edition; and though Mr Coleridge pretends now to think but little of them, it is amusing to see how vehemently he defends them against criticism, and how pompously bespeaks of such paltry trifles. “They were marked by an ease and simplicity which I have studied, perhaps with inferior success, to bestow on my later compositions.” But he afterwards repents of this sneer at his later compositions, and tell us, that they have nearly reached his standard of perfection! Indeed, his vanity extends farther back than his juvenile poems; and he says, “For a school boy, I was above par in English versification, and had already produced two or three compositions, which I may venture to say, without reference to my age, were somewhat above mediocrity.” Happily he has preserved one of those wonderful productions of his precocious boyhood, and our readers will judge for themselves what a clever child it was.

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“Underneath a huge oak-tree, There was of swine a huge company; That grunted as they crunch’d the mast, For that was ripe, and fell full fast. Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high, One acorn they left, and no more might you spy.”

It is a common remark, that wonderful children seldom perform the promises of their youth, and undoubtedly this fine effusion has not been followed in Mr Coleridge’s riper years by works of proportionate merit.

We see, then, that our author came very early into public notice; and from that time to this, he has not allowed one year to pass without endeavouring to extend his notoriety. His poems were soon followed (they may have been preceded) by a tragedy, entitled, the Fall of Robespierre, a meagre performance, but one which, from the nature of the subject, attracted considerable attention. He also wrote a whole book, utterly incomprehensible to Mr Southey, we are sure, in that Poet’s Joan of Arc; and became as celebrated for his metaphysical absurdities, as his friend had become for the bright promise of genius exhibited by that unequal but spirited poem. He next published a series of political essays, entitled, the “Watchman,” and “Conciones ad Populum.” He next started up, fresh from the schools of Germany, as the principal writer in the Morning Post, a strong opposition paper. He then published various outrageous political poems, some of them of a gross personal nature. He afterwards assisted Mr Wordsworth in planning his Lyrical Ballads; and contributing several poems to that collection, he shared in the notoriety of the Lake School. He next published a mysterious periodical work, “The Friend,” in which he declared it was his intention to settle at once, and for ever, the principles of morality, religion, taste, manners, and the fine arts, but which died of a gallopping consumption in the twenty-eighth week of its age. He then published the tragedy of “Remorse,” which dragged out a miserable existence of twenty nights, on the boards of Drury-Lane, and then expired for ever, like the oil of the orchestral lamps. He then forsook the stage for the pulpit, and, by particular desire of his congregation, published two “Lay-Sermons.” He then walked in broad day-light into the shop of Mr Murray, Albemarle Street, London, with two ladies hanging on each arm, Geraldine and Christabel,—a bold step for a person at all desirous of a good reputation, and most of the trade have looked shy at him since that exhibition. Since that time, however, he has contrived means of giving to the world a collected edition of all his Poems, and advanced to the front of the stage with a thick octavo in each hand, all about himself and other Incomprehensibilities. We had forgot that he was likewise a contributor to Mr Southey’s Omniana, where the Editor of the Edinburgh Review is politely denominated an “ass,” and then became himself a writer in the said Review. And to sum up “the strange eventful history” of this modest, and obscure, and retired person, we must mention, that in his youth he held forth in a vast number of Unitarian chapels—preached his way through Bristol, and “Brummagem,” and Manchester, in a “blue coat and white waistcoat;” and in after years, when he was not so much afraid of “the scarlet woman,” did, in a full suit of sables, lecture on Poesy to “crowded, and, need I add, highly respectable audiences,” at the Royal Institution. After this slight and imperfect outline of his poetical, oratorical, metaphysical, political, and theological exploits, our readers will judge, when they hear him talking of “his retirement and distance from the literary and political world,” what are his talents for autobiography, and how far he has penetrated into the mysterious nonentities of his own character.

Mr Coleridge has written copiously on the Association of Ideas, but his own do not seem to be connected either by time, place, cause and effect, resemblance, or contrast, and accordingly it is no easy matter to follow him through all the vagaries of his Literary Life. We are told,

“At school I enjoyed the inestimable advantage of a very sensible, though at the same time a very severe master. * * * I learnt from him, that Poetry, even that of the loftiest and wildest odes, hod a logic of its own as severe as that of science. * * * * * Lute, harp, and lyre; muse, muses, and inspirations; Pegasus, Parnassus, and Hippocrene; were all an abomination to him. In fancy I can almost hear him now exclaiming, ‘Harp? Harp? Lyre? Pen and Ink! Boy you mean! Muse! boy! Muse! your Nurse’s daughter you mean!

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Pierian Spring! O Aye! the cloister Pump!’ * * * * Our classical knowledge was the least of the good gifts which we derived from his zealous and conscientious tutorage.”

With the then head-master of the grammar-school, Christ Hospital, we were not personally acquainted; but we cannot help thinking that he has been singularly unfortunate in his Eulogist. He seems to have gone out of his province, and far out of his depth, when he attempted to teach boys the profoundest principles of Poetry. But we must also add, that we cannot credit this account of him; for this doctrine of poetry being at all times logical, is that of which Wordsworth and Coleridge take so much credit to themselves for the discovery; and verily it is one too wilfully absurd and extravagant to have entered into the head of an honest man, whose time must have been wholly occupied with the instruction of children. Indeed Mr Coleridge’s own poetical practices render this story incredible; for, during many years of his authorship, his action was wholly at variance with such a rule, and the strain of his poetry as illogical as can be well imagined. When Mr Bowyer prohibited his pupils from using, in their themes, the above-mentioned names, he did, we humbly submit, prohibit them from using the best means of purifying their taste and exalting their imagination. Nothing could be so graceful, nothing so natural, as classical allusions, in the exercises of young minds, when first admitted to the fountains of Greek and Latin Poetry; and the Teacher who could seek to dissuade their ingenuous souls from such delightful dreams, by coarse, vulgar, and indecent ribaldry, instead of deserving the name of “sensible,” must have been a low-minded vulgar fellow, fitter for the Porter than the Master of such an Establishment. But the truth probably is, that all this is a fiction of Mr Coleridge, whose wit is at all times most execrable and disgusting. Whatever the merits of his master were, Mr Coleridge, even from his own account, seems to have derived little benefit from his instruction, and for the “inestimable advantage,” of which he speaks, we look in vain through this Narrative. In spite of so excellent a teacher, we find Master Coleridge,

This deplorable condition of mind continued “even unto my seventeenth year.” And now our readers must prepare themselves for a mighty and wonderful change, wrought, all on a sudden, on the moral and intellectual character of this metaphysical Green-horn. “Mr Bowles’ Sonnets, twenty in number, and just then published in a quarto volume, (a most important circumstance!) were put into my hand!” To those Sonnets, next to the Schoolmaster’s lectures on Poetry, Mr Coleridge attributes the strength, vigour, and extension of his own very original Genius.

“By those works, year after year, I was enthusiastically delighted and inspired. My earliest acquaintances will not have forgotten the undisciplined eagerness and impetuous zeal with which I labour’d to make proselytes, not only of my companions, but of all with whom I convened, of whatever rank, and in whatever place. As my school finances did not permit me to purchase copies, I made, within less than a year and a half, more than forty transcriptions, at the best presents I could make to those who had in any way won my regard. My obligations to Mr Bowles were indeed important, and for radical good.”

There must be some grevious natural defect in that mind which, even at the age of seventeen, could act so insanely; and we cannot but think, that no real and healthy sensibility could have exaggerated to itself so grossly the merits of Bowles’ Sonnets. They are undoubtedly most beautiful, and we willingly pay our tribute of admiration to the genius of the amiable writer; but they neither did nor could produce any such effects as are here described, except upon a mind singularly weak and helpless. We must, however, take the fact as we find it; and Mr Coleridge’s first step, after his worship of Bowles, was to see distinctly into the defects and deficiencies of Pope (a writer whom Bowles most especially admires, and has edited), and through all the false diction and borrowed plumage of Gray!* But

* There is something very offensive in the high and contemptuous tone which

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here Mr Coleridge drops the subject of Poetry for the present, and proceeds to other important matters.

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

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 Mom, and soft the Zephyr 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, That, hush’d in grim repose, expects its evening Prey.” 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 The skarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind! How like a prodigal doth she return, With over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails, Torn, rent, and beggar’d by the strumpet 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 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 “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 over-weather’d ribs and ragged sails.” In Gray she is sunk into the deep, “with all her bravery on.” Sixthly, in Gray we behold a joyous company on her deck, “Youth at her prow, and Pleasure at her helm;” but in Shakspeare we never think of her deck at all. Seventhly, in Shakspeare she is a “skarfed bark;” in Gray, a “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.

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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.

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 thirty-nine 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,

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 “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

* 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 a prize there for a Greek Ode, which for ever blasted his character as a scholar; all the rules of that language being therein perpetually violated. We were once present in a literary company, where Porson offered to shew in it, to a gentleman who was praising this Ode, 134 examples of bad Greek.

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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.

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. Of this he was 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.

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-

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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.” 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, Philosophy, 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 laurel-honouring-Laureate,” is a Reviewer—his 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

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may suit his paltry purposes to worship 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.*

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 ears of the fantastic Hoyden. But let Mr Coleridge be consoled. Mr 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. As a specimen of his wit in 1798, our readers may take the following:—

“We were all on the deck, but in a short time I observed marks of dismay. The Lady retired to the cabin in some confusion; and many of the faces round me assumed 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 “sæva mephitis” of the bilge-water; and it was certainly not decreased by the exportations from the cabin. However, I was well enough to join the

* In the Examiner of April 6th, 1817, there is a letter, signed “Vindex,” from which the following extract is taken : “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 disgusting 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 Romano caveto.’ Vindex.”

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able-bodied passengers, one of whom observed, not inaptly, that Momus might have discovered an easier way to see a man’s inside than by placing a window in his breast. He needed only have taken a saltwater trip in a packet-boat. I am inclined to believe, that a packet is far superior to a stagecoach as a means of making men open out to each other!”

At the house of Klopstock, brother of the poet, he saw a portrait of Lessing, which he thus describes to the Public. “His eyes were uncommonly like mine! if any thing, rather larger and more prominent! But the lower part of his face! and his nose—O what an exquisite expression of elegance and sensibility!” He then gives a long account of his interview with Klopstock the Poet, in which he makes that great man talk in a very silly, weak, and ignorant manner. Mr Coleridge not only sets him right in all his opinions on English literature, but also is kind enough to correct, in a very authoritative and dictatorial tone, his erroneous views of the characteristic merits and defects of the most celebrated German Writers. He has indeed the ball in his own hands throughout the whole game; and Klopstock, who, he says, “was seventy-four years old, with legs enormously swollen,” is beaten to a standstill. We are likewise presented with an account of a conversation which his friend W. held with the German Poet, in which the author of the Messiah makes a still more paltry figure. We can conceive nothing more odious and brutal, than two young ignorant lads from Cambridge forcing themselves upon the retirement of this illustrious old man, and, instead of listening with love, admiration, and reverence, to his sentiments and opinions, insolently obtruding upon him their own crude and mistaken fancies,—contradicting imperiously every thing he advances,—taking leave of him with a consciousness of their own superiority,—and, finally, talking of him and his genius in terms of indifference bordering on contempt. This Mr W. had the folly and the insolence to say to Klopstock, who was enthusiastically praising the Oberon of Wieland, that he never could see the smallest beauty in any part of that Poem.

We must now conclude our account of this “unaccountable” production. It has not been in our power to enter into any discussion with Mr Coleridge on the various subjects of Poetry and Philosophy, which he has, we think, vainly endeavoured to elucidate. But we shall, on a future occasion, meet him on his own favourite ground. No less than 182 pages of the second volume are dedicated to the poetry of Mr Wordsworth. He has endeavoured to define poetry—to explain the philosophy of metre—to settle the boundaries of poetic diction—and to shew, finally, “what it is probable Mr Wordsworth meant to say in his dissertation prefixed to his Lyrical Ballads.” As Mr Coleridge has not only studied the laws of poetical composition, but is a Poet of considerable powers, there are, in this part of his Book, many acute, ingenious, and even sensible observations and remarks; but he never knows when to have done,—explains what requires no explanation,—often leaves untouched the very difficulty he starts,—and when he has poured before us a glimpse of light upon the shapeless form of some dark conception, he seems to take a wilful pleasure in its immediate extinction, and leads “us floundering on, and quite astray,” through the deepening shadows of interminable night.

One instance there is of magnificent promise, and laughable non-performance, unequalled in the annals of literary History. Mr Coleridge informs us, that he and Mr Wordsworth (he is not certain which is entitled to the glory of the first discovery) have found out the difference between Fancy and Imagination. This discovery, it is prophesied, will have an incalculable influence on the progress of all the Fine Arts. He has written a long chapter purposely to prepare our minds for the great discussion. The audience is assembled—the curtain is drawn up—and there, in his gown, cap, and wig, is sitting Professor Coleridge. In comes a servant with a letter; the Professor gets up, and, with a solemn voice, reads it to the audience.—It is from an enlightened Friend; and its object is to shew, in no very courteous

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terms either to the Professor or his Spectators, that he may lecture, but that nobody will understand him. He accordingly makes his bow, and the curtain falls; but the worst of the joke is, that the Professor pockets the admittance-money,—for what reason, his outwitted audience are left, the best way they can, to “fancy or imagine.”

But the greatest piece of Quackery in the Book, is his pretended account of the Metaphysical System of Kant, of which he knows less than nothing. He will not allow that there is a single word of truth in any of the French Expositions of that celebrated System, nor yet in any of our British Reviews. We do not wish to speak of what we do not understand, and therefore say nothing of Mr Coleridge’s Metaphysics. But we beg leave to lay before our readers the following Thesis, for the amusement of a leisure hour.

We cannot take leave of Mr Coleridge, without expressing our indignation at the gross injustice, and, we fear, envious persecution, of his Criticism on Mr Maturin’s “Bertram.” He has thought it worth his while to analyse and criticise that Tragedy in a diatribe of fifty pages. He contends evidently against his own conviction, that it is utterly destitute of poetical and dramatic merit, and disgraceful, not to Mr Maturin alone, but to the audiences who admired it when acted, and the reading Public, who admired it no less when printed. There is more malignity, and envy, and jealousy, and misrepresentation, and bad wit, in this Critical Essay, than in all the Reviews now existing, from the Edinburgh down to the Lady’s Magazine. Mr Coleridge ought to have behaved otherwise to an ingenious man like Mr Maturin, struggling into reputation, and against narrow circumstances. He speaks with sufficient feeling of his own pecuniary embarrassments, and of the evil which Reviewers have done to his worldly concerns; but all his feeling is for himself, and he has done all in his power to pluck and blast the laurels of a man of decided Poetical Genius. This is not the behaviour which one Poet ought to show to another; and if Mr Coleridge saw faults and defects in Bertram, he should have exposed them in a dignified manner, giving all due praise, at the same time, to the vigour, and even originality, of that celebrated Drama. Mr Coleridge knows that “Bertram” has become a stock play at the London Theatres, while his own “Remorse” is for ever withdrawn. Has this stung him? Far be it from us to impute mean motives to any man. But there is a bitterness—an anger—a scorn —we had almost said, a savage and revengeful fierceness—in the tone of Mr Coleridge, when speaking of Mr Maturin, which it is, we confess, impossible to explain, and which, we fear, proceeds (perhaps unknown to his metaphysical self) from private pique and hostility, occasioned by superior merit and greater success. As a proof that our opinion is at least plausible, we quote Mr Coleridge’s description of Bertram.

“This superfetation of blasphemy upon nonsense—this felo de se and thief captain—this loathsome and leprous confluence of robbery, adultery, murder, and cowardly assassination—this monster, whose best deed is, the having saved his betters from the degradation of hanging him, by turning Jack Ketch to himself.”

What a wretched contrast does Mr Coleridge here afford to Mr Walter Scott. That gentleman, it is known, encouraged Mr Maturin, before he was

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known to the public, by his advice and commendation; and, along with Lord Byron, was the principal means of bringing “Bertram” on the stage. Such conduct was worthy of the “Mighty Minstrel,” and consistent with that true nobility of mind by which he is characterized, and which makes him rejoice in the glory of contemporary genius. Mr Coleridge speaks with delight of the success of his own Tragedy—of his enlightened audience, and the smiling faces of those he recollected to have attended his Lectures on Poetry at the Royal Institution. How does he account for the same audience admiring Bertram? Let him either henceforth blush for his own fame, or admit Mr Maturin’s claims to a like distinction.*

* We may here make mention of an admirable essay on the Drama, read before the Royal Society of Edinburgh, by Mr. Mackenzie, the illustrious author of the Man of Feeling. The knowledge that high praise was bestowed on him by such a man, may well comfort Mr Maturin under the mean abuses of an envious rival.