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BLACKWOOD’S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. VII.OCTOBER, 1817.Vol. II.
SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE “BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA”
OF S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.—1817.
When a man looks back on his past existence, and endeavours to
recall the incidents, events, thoughts, feelings, and passions of which it was composed, he
sees something like a glimmering land of dreams, peopled with phantasms and realities
undistinguishably confused and intermingled—here illuminated with dazzling splendour,
there dim with melancholy mists,—or it may be, shrouded in impenetrable darkness. To
bring, visibly and distinctly before our memory, on the one hand, all our hours of mirth and
joy, and hope and exultation,—and, on the other, all our perplexities, and fears and
sorrows, and despair and agony,—(and who has been so uniformly wretched as not to have
been often blest?—who so uniformly blest as not to have been often wretched?)—would
be as impossible as to awaken, into separate remembrance, all the changes and varieties which
the seasons brought over the material world,—every gleam of sunshine that beautified the
Spring,—every cloud and tempest that deformed the Winter. In truth, were this power and
domination over the past given unto us, and were we able to read the history of our lives all
faithfully and perspicuously recorded on the tablets of the inner spirit,—those beings,
whose existence had been most filled with important events and with energetic passions, would
be the most averse to such overwhelming survey—would recoil from trains of thought which
formerly agitated and disturbed, and led them, as it were, in triumph beneath the yoke of
misery or happiness. The soul may be repelled from the contemplation of the past as much by the
brightness and magnificence of scenes that shifted across the glorious drama of youth, as by
the storms that scattered the fair array into disfigured fragments; and the melancholy that
breathes from vanished delight is, perhaps, in its utmost intensity, as unendurable as the
wretchedness left by the visitation of calamity. There are spots of sunshine sleeping on the
fields of past existence too beautiful, as there are caves among its precipices too darksome,
to be looked on by the eyes of memory; and to carry on an image borrowed from the analogy
between the moral and physical world, the soul may turn away in sickness from the untroubled
silence of a resplendent Lake, no less than from the haunted gloom of the thundering Cataract.
It is from such thoughts, and dreams, and reveries, as these, that all men feel how terrible it
would be to live over again their agonies and their transports; that the happiest would fear to
do so as much as the most miserable; and that to look back to our cradle seems scarcely less
awful than to look forward to the grave.
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 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.
It will not be supposed that any thing we have now said in any way bears against
the most important duty of self-examination. Many causes there are existing, both in the best
and the worst parts of our nature, which must render nugatory and deceitful any continued diary
of what passes through the human soul; and no such confessions could, we humbly conceive, be of
use either to ourselves or to the world. But there are hours of solemn inquiry in which the
soul reposes on itself; the true confessional is not the bar of the public, but it is the altar
of religion; there is a Being before whom we may humble ourselves without being debased; and
there are feelings for which human language has no expression, and which, in the silence of
solitude and of nature, are known only unto the Eternal.
The objections, however, which might thus be urged against the writing and
publishing accounts of all our feelings,—all the changes of our moral
constitution,—do not seem to apply with equal force to the narration of our mere
speculative opinions. Their rise, progress, changes, and maturity, may be pretty accurately
ascertained; and as the advance to truth is generally step by step, there seems to be no great
difficulty in recording the leading causes that have formed the body of our opinions, and
created, modified, and coloured our intellectual character. Yet this work would be alike
useless to ourselves and others, unless pursued with a true magnanimity. It requires, that we
should stand aloof from ourselves, and look down, as from an eminence, on our souls toiling up
the hill of knowledge;—that we should faithfully record all the assistance we received
from guides or brother pilgrims;—that we should mark the limit of our utmost ascent, and,
without exaggeration, state the value of our acquisitions. When we consider how many
temptations there are even here to delude ourselves, and by a seeming air of truth and candour
to impose upon others, it will be allowed, that, instead of composing memoirs of himself, a man
of genius and talent would be far better employed in generalizing the observations and
experiences of his life, and giving them to the world in the form of philosophic reflections,
applicable not to himself alone, but to the universal mind of Man.
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 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.
Considered merely in a literary point of view, the work is most execrable. He
rambles from one subject to another in the most wayward and capricious manner; either from
indolence, or ignorance, or weakness, he has never in one single instance finished a
discussion; and while he darkens what was dark before into tenfold obscurity, he so treats the
most ordinary common-places as to give them the air of mysteries, till we no longer know the
faces of our old acquaintances beneath their cowl and hood, but witness plain flesh and blood
matters of tact miraculously converted into a troop of phantoms. That he is a man of genius is
certain: but he is not a man of a strong intellect nor of powerful talents. He has a great deal
of fancy and imagination, but little or no real feeling, and certainly no judgment. He cannot
form to himself any harmonious landscape such as it exists in nature, but beautified by the
serene light of the imagination. He cannot conceive simple and majestic groupes of human
figures and characters acting on the theatre of real existence. But his pictures of nature are
fine only as imaging the dreaminess, and obscurity, and confusion of distempered sleep; while
all his agents pass before our eyes like shadows, and only impress and affect us with a
phantasmagoria! splendour.
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 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, 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 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.
“It has been my lot to have had my name introduced both
in conversation and in print, more frequently than I find it easy to explain; whether I consider the fewness, unimportance, and limited circulation of
my writings, or the retirement and distance in which I have lived, both from the
literary and political world.”
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—
“If,” says he, at page 217, vol. i. “the compositions which I have made public, and that too in a form
the most certain of an extensive circulation, though the least flattering to an
author’s self-love, had been published in books, they would have
filled a respectable number of volumes.”
He then adds,
“Seldom have I written that in a day, the acquisition or
investigation of which had not cost me the precious labour of a
month!”
He then bursts out into this magnificent exclamation,
“Would that the criterion of a scholar’s ability
were the number and moral value of the truths which he has been the means of throwing into
general circulation!”
And he sums up all by declaring,
“By what I have effected am I to
be judged by my fellow men.”
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.
“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’sOmniana, 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! 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,
“Even before my fifteenth year, bewildered in metaphysicks and in theological controversy. Nothing else pleased
me. History and particular facts lost all interest in my mind.
Poetry itself, yea novels and romances, became insipid to me. This preposterous pursuit was
beyond doubt injurious, both to my natural powers and to the progress of
my education.”
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
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’sBard.
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.
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,
“O, never can I remember those days with either shame or regret! For I was 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 myself of having been actuated by vanity! for in
the expansion of my enthusiasm I did not think of myself all!”
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.
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. 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-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’sLiterary
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 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.*
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 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 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.” 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!”
The importance of his observations during the voyage may be estimated by this
one:—
“At four o’clock I observed a wild duck swimming on
the waves, a single solitary wild duck! It is not easy to conceive
how interesting a thing it looked in that round objectless desert of waters!”
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 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.
“This principium commune essendi et
cognoscendi, as subsisting in a will, or primary
act of self-duplication, is the mediate or indirect
principle of every science; but it is the mediate and direct principle of the ultimate
science alone, i. e. of transcendental philosophy alone. For it must be remembered, that
all these Theses refer solely to one of the two Polar Sciences, namely, to that which
commences with and rigidly confines itself within the subjective, leaving the objective (as
for as it is exclusively objective) to natural philosophy, which is its opposite pole. In
its very idea, therefore, as a systematic knowledge of our collective knowing (scientia scietiæ), it involves the necessity of
some one highest principle of knowing, as at once the source and the accompanying form in
all particular acts of intellect and perception. This, it has been shown, can be found only
in the act and evolution of self-consciousness. We are not investigating an absolute
principium essendi; for then, I admit, many valid objections might
be started against our theory; but an absolute principium cognoscendi.
The result of both the sciences, or their equatorial point, would be the principle of a
total and undivided philosophy, as, for prudential reasons, I have chosen to anticipate in
the Scholium to Thesis VI. and the note subjoined.”
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 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 have done. We have felt it our duty to speak with severity of this book and
its author,—and we have given our readers ample opportunities to judge of the justice of
our strictures. We have not been speaking in the cause of Literature only, but, we conceive, in
the cause of Morality and Religion. For it is not fitting that He should be held up as an
example to the rising generation (but, on the contrary, it is most fitting that he should be
exposed as a most dangerous model), who has alternately embraced, defended, and thrown aside
all systems of Philosophy, and all creeds of Religion;—who seems to have no power of
retaining an opinion,—no trust in the principles which he defends,—but who
fluctuates from theory to theory, according as he is impelled by vanity, envy, or diseased
desire of change,—and who, while he would subvert and scatter into dust those structures
of knowledge, reared by the wise men of this and other generations, has nothing to erect in
their room but the baseless and air-built fabrics of a dreaming imagination.
* 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.