CHAPTER VIII.

COLERIDGE.

[Born at Ottery St. Mary, Devon, October 20th, 1772. Poems first published 1796. Died at Highgate, July 25th, 1834.]

F the greatness of a man could be measured by the estimate of his contemporaries, there is no man who loomed before his age with a larger majesty of outline than Coleridge. Wordsworth described him as the most wonderful man he had ever known; De Quincey, as the man of most spacious intellect; Hazlitt, as the one man who completely fulfilled his idea of genius. Carlyle's striking description of Coleridge in his last days is likely to become as immortal as Lamb's description of "the inspired charity-school boy," who filled him with wonder and astonishment, when he wrote, "Come back into memory like as thou wert in the dayspring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee-the dark pillar not yet turned, -Samuel Taylor Coleridge, logician, metaphysician, bard!" Rarely has a man of genius received such a perfect consensus of admiration from his contemporaries as Coleridge. There was, indeed, about him something of that" ocean-mindedness" which he finely attributes. to Shakespeare; and, apart from the fascination of his eloquence, and the spell of an alluring individuality, what most impressed all who knew Coleridge was the

comprehensiveness of his vision, and the profundity of his thought.

The noble friendship which existed between Lamb and Coleridge, and the less intimate but equally beautiful intimacy of Coleridge with Southey and Wordsworth, are among the brightest chapters of literary history. Coleridge first met Lamb at Christ's Hospital, and the schoolboy friendship then formed lasted a lifetime. His acquaintance with Wordsworth and Southey came later, and sprang rather out of literary comradeship than spiritual fellowship. In one essential respect Coleridge differed entirely from his great contemporaries. From first to last there was a certain romantic charm about his character. He was an idealist of the purest type, and never seemed at home in the rough commerce of the world. Lamb humbly submitted himself to the yoke of drudgery, and made his literary work the luxury and solace of a life of uncomplaining suffering heroically borne. He once jokingly remarked that his real "works" were to be found in the ponderous ledgers of the East India Office, and there is something to us infinitely pathetic in the spectacle of so rare a spirit as Lamb's chained to the galley-oar of lifelong toil in a London office. Wordsworth, with all his real and noble unworldliness, had a certain shrewdness of character, which served him well in the ultimate disposition of his life. Southey, when once the fervour of youth, with its unconsidered hopes and unfulfilled ambitions, settled down, became one of the most industrious of men, toiling with a pertinacious energy in every walk of literature, and often in ways that gave little scope for the exercise of his true literary gift. But Coleridge ended as he began, an idealist, careless of worldly fame, and unable to

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master the merest rudiments of worldly success. had none of that natural discernment which takes a correct measurement of life, and none of that natural pride which preserves men from the insolence and imposition of the men of this world who have their portion in this life. When he left Christ's he actually asked to be apprenticed to a shoemaker; and later on, when he left Cambridge, he enlisted as a soldier. With an unlimited faith in human nature, a curious childlikeness of spirit, an imagination that clothed at will the most prosaic prospects with alluring brilliance, he found himself in the great streets of the crowded world, as virtually a stranger to the common order of human life as though he had been born upon another planet. He walked in a world of dreams, and never bartered them for the sordid grossness of reality. If we can imagine some angelic child, or some simple shepherd of Grecian myth and poetry, suddenly set down in the "central roar" of London, ignorant of every custom of the complex civilisation of to-day, and heedless of its forces, we have a tolerably accurate picture of Coleridge, as he stepped into the whirl of the million-peopled life of ordinary men. He had every sense save common-sense, every faculty save the faculty of worldly shrewdness. He was like some splendid galleon, laden with a precious argosy, from whose decks there rose the unearthly melodies of singing-men and singing-women, and harpers harping with their harps, but at whose helm no one stood, to whose course upon the widening waters none paid heed. He never learned to adjust himself to his environment. He drew from his lofty idealism a mystic joy, which seemed ample compensation for the loss of worldly honour, and ignorance of the paths

of worldly victory. Had the days of patronage still existed, Coleridge was precisely the poet who would have gained most from the protection they afforded against the rude buffetings of an unsympathetic world. When he left Cambridge, he was, in fact, thrown upon the world, with genius indeed, with intellectual riches incomparable and unique, with infinite literary enthusiasm and aptitude, but with none of those equipments which enable lesser men of all grades to secure advancement and success in life.

To yoke the idealist to the tasks of common life is a difficult and almost impossible task, and the worldly failure of Coleridge's life is mainly attributable to this cause. It is only fair, however, to remember that in his early career at least Coleridge did what in him lay to harness his genius to the lowliest literary labours. He sought drudgery as though he loved it, and never complained of its degradations or penurious rewards. A dreamer of dreams he might be, but a selfish idler he was not. He never lost a chance of work; the fact is, he seldom had a chance. And yet this statement needs modification, for while it is true that he eagerly seized on every opportunity of casual literary employment, when the one great opportunity of competence in journalism came to him he at once refused it. At the age of twenty-eight an offer was made to him of half-shares in the Courier and Post, on condition that he devoted himself entirely to these journals. To most young men this would have been a sufficiently brilliant offer, for it meant not less than £2000 per annum. Coleridge rejected it, and has given us his reasons for rejecting it. He would not give up the country for the town, he would not spend the strength of his brains on journalism, and, moreover, he avowed

his opinion that any income beyond £350 per annum was a real evil, and one which he dared not incur. Yet at this period he was able to make only a modest income from journalism, and whatever mere worldly prudence may suggest, there is surely something very noble in Coleridge's refusal of a munificent income which, according to his view of things, entailed wealth which he did not desire, at the sacrifice of higher aims which he could not renounce. Long afterwards, in the troubled close of life, he said that poetry had been for him its "own exceeding great reward." And we cannot doubt that Coleridge chose wisely, with a just and perfect apprehension of his own powers, when he renounced journalism for literature. It was the same temptation which in later days was presented to Carlyle, and was refused with the same noble promptitude and decision. To both men ephemeral and anonymous success, attended by whatsoever munificence of present reward, seemed odious, compared with the more remote and uncertain gain of literary fame. So each turned calmly to the steep ways of renunciation in which genius has always found its training, and prepared to do the one thing which he was born to do. This action of Coleridge's is significant of the sincerity of his nature, and reveals to us a strength of manly fibre and courage not usually associated with his name.

The cardinal defect in Coleridge's life was in one accursed habit-opium-taking. The first half of his life is without flaw or serious blemish. He is poor, but noble thoughts console him, noble work enchants him, and true love sweetens all his lot, and casts above his hours of drudgery its rainbow bridge of hope. Coleridge had great animal spirits, unfailing buoyancy, and even "unusual physical energy." He was amiable