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viction, that national education, and a concurring spread of the Gospel, were the indispensable condition of any true political amelioration. Thus by the time the seventh number was published, I had the mortification (but why should I say this, when, in truth, I cared too little for any thing that concerned my worldly interests, to be at all mortified about it) of seeing the preceding numbers exposed in sundry old iron-shops for a penny a-piece. At the ninth number I dropt the work. But from the London publisher I could not obtain a shilling; he was a
and set me at defiance. From other places I procured but little, and after such delays as rendered that little worth nothing: and I should have been inevitably thrown into jail by my Bristol printer, who refused to wait even for a month, for a sum between eighty and ninety pounds, if the money had not been paid for me by a man by no means affluent, a dear friend who attached himself to me from my first arrival at Bristol, who has continued my friend with a fidelity unconquered by time, or even by my own apparent neglect; a friend from whom I never received an advice that was not wise, or a remonstrance that was not gentle and affectionate.
“Conscientiously an opponent of the first revolutionary war, yet, with my eyes thoroughly opened to the true character and impotence of the favourers of revolutionary principles in England, principles which I held in abhorrence (for it was part of my political creed, that whoever ceased to act as an individual by making himself a member of any society, not sanctioned by his government, forfeited the rights of a citizen) a vehement anti-ministerialist; but after the invasion of Switzerland a more vehement anti-gallican, and still more intensely an antijacobin, I retired to a cottage at Stowey, and provided for my scanty maintenance by writing verses for a London
Morning Paper. I saw plainly, that literature was not a profession by which I could expect to live; for I could not disguise from myself, that whatever my talents might or might not be in other respects, yet they were not of the sort that could enable me to become a popular writer; and that whatever my opinions might be in themselves, they were almost equi-distant from all the three prominent parties, the Pittites, the Foxites, and the Democrats. Of the unsaleable nature of my writings I had an amusing memento one morning from our own servant girl. For happening to rise at an earlier hour than usual, 1 observed her putting an extravagant quantity of paper into the grate, in order to light the fire, and mildly checking her for her wastefulness: 'La Sir!' replied poor Nanny, 'why, it is only Watchman.'”-Biog. Lit. p. 167–178.
With his poems he was more successful; a second edi. tion being required in 1797; to this edition were added some poems by his friends Charles Lamb and Charles Lloyd. The same year he wrote, at the request of Sheridan, then manager of Drury Lane, the tragedy of Remorse; it was not brought on the stage till 1813, when the theatre was under the direction of Mr. Whitbread. It is said to have been sacrificed to Sheridan's inability to let slip, what he considered, a good joke. One scene presented a cave with streams of water weeping down the sides ; and the first words, in a sort of mimicry of the sound “ drip, drip, drip!” upon which Sheridan repeated aloud, “ Drip, drip, drip:—Why, God bless me, there's nothing here but dripping ;” and so arose a chorus of laughter amongst the actors, fatal to the probationary play." However, although a beautiful poem, it is not suited to the stage.
* The English Opium-eater.— Tait's Magazine,
During his residence at Stowey, he preached every Sunday at the Unitarian chapel at Taunton. It was at this period that Hazlitt became acquainted with him, who, in the third number of the Liberal, has given the following graphic account of his first acquaintance with this extraordinary man.
“ In the year 1798, Mr. Coleridge came to Shrewsbury, to succeed Mr. Rowe in the spiritual charge of a Unitarian congregation there. He did not come till late on the Saturday afternoon before he was to preach; and Mr. Rowe, who himself went down to the coach in a state of anxiety and expectation, to look for the arrival of his successor, could find no one at all answering to the description but a round-faced man, in a short black coat, like a shooting-jacket, which hardly seemed to have been made for him, but who seemed to be talking at a great rate to his fellow-passengers. Mr. Rowe had scarce returned to give an account of his disappointment, when the round-faced man in black entered, and dissipated all doubts on the subject, by beginning to talk. My father lived ten miles from Shrewsbury, and was in the habit of exchanging visits with Mr. Rowe. Coleridge had agreed to come over to see my father, according to the courtesy of the county, as Mr. Rowe's probable successor; but in the mean time I had gone to hear him preach on the Sunday after his arrival. A poet and a philosopher getting up into a Unitarian pulpit to preach the Gospel, was a romance in these degenerate days, a sort of revival of the primitive spirit of Christianity, which was not to be resisted.
“It was in January, 1798, that I rose one morning before day-light, to walk ten miles in the mud, and went to hear this celebrated person preach. Never, the longest day I have to live, shall I have such another walk as this cold, raw, comfortless one,
in the winter of the year 1798. -Il y a des impressions que ni le temps ni les circonstances peuvent effacer. Dusse-je vivre des siècles entiers, le doux temps de ma jeunesse ne peut renaître pour moi, ni s'effacer jamais dans ma mémoire. When I got there, the
organ was playing the 100th psalm, and, when it was done, Mr. Coleridge rose and gave out his text: · And he went up into the mountain to pray, himself alone.' As he gave out his text, his voice rose like a steam of rich distilled perfumes,' and when he came to the two last words, which he pronounced loud, deep, and distinct, it seemed to me,
who was then young, as if the sounds had echoed from the bottom of the human heart, and as if that prayer might have floated in solemn silence through the universe. The idea of St. John came into my mind, of one crying in the wilderness, who had his loins girt about, and whose food was locusts and wild honey.' The preacher then launched into his subject, like an eagle dallying with the wind.
The sermon was upon peace and war; upon church and state-not their alliance, but their separation -on the spirit of the world and the spirit of Christianity, not as the same, but as opposed to one another. He talked of those who had inscribed the cross of Christ on banners dripping with human gore. He made a poetical and pastoral excursion, and to show the fatal effects of war, drew a striking contrast between the simple shepherd boy, driving his team afield, or sitting under the hawthorn, piping to his flock, as though he should never be old, and the same poor country-lad, crimped, kidnapped, brought into town, made drunk at an alehouse, turned into a wretched drummer boy, with his hair sticking on end with powder and pomatum, a long cue at his back, and tricked out in the loathsome finery of the profession of blood.
Such were the notes our once-lov'd poet sung.' “And for myself, I could not have been more delighted if I had heard the music of the spheres. Poetry and philosophy had met together, truth and genius had embraced, under the eye, and with the sanction of religion. This was even beyond my hopes. I returned home well satisfied. The sun that was still labouring pale and wan through the sky, obscured by thick mists, seemed an emblem of the good cause ; and the cold dark drops of dew, that hung half melted on the beard of the thistle, had something genial and refreshing in them; for there was a spirit of hope and youth in all nature, that turned every thing into good.
On the Tuesday following, the half-inspired speaker came; I was called down to the room where he was, and went half hoping, half afraid. He viewed me very graciously, and I listened for a long time without uttering a word.
I did not suffer in his opinion by my silence. *For those two hours,' he afterwards was pleased to say, he was conversing with W. H.'s fore. head!' His appearance was different from what I had anticipated from seeing him before, at a distance, and in the dim light of the chapel; there was to me a strange wildness in his aspect, a dusky obscurity, and I thought him pitted with the small-pox. His complexion was at that time clear, and even bright
' As are the children of yon azure sheen.' His forehead was broad and high, light as if built of ivory, with large projecting eye-brows, and his eyes rolling beneath them like a sea with darkened lustre. "A certain tender bloom his face o'erspread,' a purple tinge as we see it in the pale thoughtful complexions of the Spanish portrait-painters, Murillo and Velasquez. His mouth