So great was John Henderson's regard for truth, that he considered it a crime, of no ordinary magnitude, to confound in any one, even for a moment, the perceptions of right and wrong; of truth and falsehood; he therefore never argued in defence of a position which his understanding did not cordially approve, unless, in some unbending moment, he intimated to those around him, that he wished to see how far error could be supported, in which case he would adopt the weakest side of any question, and there, intrenched, like an intellectual veteran, bid defiance to the separate or combined attacks of all who approached him.
On these occasions it was highly interesting to remark the felicity of his illustration, together with his profound logical acuteness, that knew how to grant or deny, and both, it may be, with reference to some distant stage of the argument, when the application was made with an unexpected, but conclusive effect.
From possessing this rare faculty of distinguishing the immediate, as well as of tracing the remote consequences of every acknowledgment; and, by his peculiar talent at casuistic subtleties, he has been frequently known to extort the most erroneous concessions, from men distinguished for erudition and a knowledge of polemic niceties, necessarily resulting from premises unguardedly admitted.
Henderson's chief strength in disputation seemed to consist in this clear view in which he beheld the diversified bearings of every argument, with its precise congruity to the question in debate; and which, whilst it demonstrated the capacity of his own mind, conferred on him, on all occasions, a decided and systematic superiority. It must, however, be granted, that when contending for victory, or rather for the mere sharpening of his faculties, instead of convincing, he not unfrequently confounded his opponent; but whenever he had thus casually argued, and had obtained an acknowledged confutation, like an ingenious mechanic, he never failed to organize the discordant materials and to do homage to truth, by pointing out his own fallacies, or otherwise, by formally re-confuting his antagonist.
It might be expected that, by such a conduct, an unpleasant impression would sometimes be left on the mind of an unsuccessful disputant, but this effect is chiefly produced when the power of the combatants is held nearly in equilibrium; no one, however, considered it a degradation to yield to John Henderson, and the peculiar delicacy of his mind was manifested in nothing more than in the graceful manner with which he indulged in these coruscations of argument. He obtained a victory without being vain, or even, from his perfect command of countenance, appearing sensible of it; and, unless he happened to be disputing with pedantry and conceit, with a dignified consciousness of strength, he never pursued an enemy who was contented to fly, by which means a defeat was often perceived rather than felt, and the vanquished forgot his own humiliation in applauding the generosity of the conqueror.
In all companies he led the conversation; yet though he was perpetually encircled by admirers, his steady mind decreased not its charms, by a supercilious self-opinion of them; nor did he assume that as a right, which the wishes of his friends rendered a duty. He led the conversation; for silence or diminished discourse, in him, would have been deservedly deemed vanity, as though he had desired to make his friends feel the value of his instructions from the temporary loss of them. But in no instance was his superiority oppressive; calm, attentive, and cheerful, he confuted more gracefully than others compliment; the tone of dogmatism and the smile of contempt were equally unknown to him. Sometimes indeed he raised himself stronger and more lofty in his eloquence, then chiefly, when, fearful for his weaker brethren, he opposed the arrogance of the illiterate deist, or the worse jargon of sensual and cold-blooded atheism. He knew that the clouds of ignorance which enveloped their understandings, steamed up from the pollutions of their hearts, and, crowding his sails, he bore down upon them with salutary violence.
But the qualities which most exalted John Henderson in the estimation of his friends, were, his high sense of honour, and the great benevolence of his heart; not that honour which originates in a jealous love of the world's praise, nor that benevolence which delights only in publicity of well-doing. His honour was the anxious delicacy of a christian, who regarded his soul as a sacred pledge, that must some time be re-delivered to the Almighty lender; his benevolence, a circle, in which self indeed might be the centre, but, all that lives was the circumference. This tribute of respect to thy name and virtues, my beloved Henderson! is paid by one, who was once proud to call thee tutor and friend, and who will do honour to thy memory, till his spirit rests with thine.
Those who were unacquainted with John Henderson's character, may naturally ask, "What test has he left the world of the distinguished talents thus ascribed to him?"—None!—He cherished a sentiment, which, whilst it teaches humility to the proud, explains the cause of that silence so generally regretted. Upon the writer of this brief notice once expressing to him some regret at his not having benefited mankind by the result of his deep and varied investigations—he replied, "More men become writers from ignorance, than from knowledge, not knowing that they have been anticipated by others. Let us decide with caution, and write late." Thus the vastness and variety of his acquirements, and the diffidence of his own mental maturity alike prevented him from illuminating mankind, till death called him to graduate in a sphere more favourable to the range of his soaring and comprehensive mind.—He died on a visit to Oxford, in November, 1788, in the 32nd year of his age.
Few will doubt but that the possession of pre-eminent colloquial talents, to a man like John Henderson, in whom so amply dwelt the spirit of originality, must be considered, on the whole, as a misfortune, and as tending to subtract from the permanency of his reputation; he wisely considered posthumous fame as a vain and undesirable bubble, unless founded on utility, but when it is considered that no man was better qualified than himself to confound vice and ennoble virtue; to unravel the mazes of error, or vindicate the pretensions of truth, it must generally excite a poignant regret, that abilities like his should have been dissipated on one generation, which, by a different application, might have charmed and enlightened futurity.
It is however by no means to be concluded that he would not have written, and written extensively, if he had attained the ordinary age of man, but he whose sentiments are considered as oracular, whose company is incessantly sought by the wise and honourable, and who never speaks but to obtain immediate applause, often sacrifices the future to the present, and evaporates his distinguished talents in the single morning of life.
But whilst we ascribe attributes to John Henderson, which designate the genius, or illustrate the scholar, we must not forget another quality which he eminently possessed, which so fundamentally contributes to give stability to friendship, and to smooth the current of social life. A suavity of manner, connected with a gracefulness of deportment, which distinguished him on all occasions.
His participation of the feelings of others, resulting from great native sensibility, although it never produced in his conduct undue complacency, yet invariably suggested to him that nice point of propriety in behaviour which was suitable to different characters, and appropriate to the various situations in which he might be placed. Nor was his sense of right a barren perception. What the soundness of his understanding instructed him to approve, the benevolence of his heart taught him to practise. In his respectful approaches to the peer, he sustained his dignity; and in addressing the beggar, he remembered he was speaking to a man.
It would be wrong to close this brief account of John Henderson, without naming two other excellencies with which he was eminently endowed. First, the ascendancy he had acquired over his temper. There are moments, in which most persons are susceptible of a transient irritability; but the oldest of his friends never beheld him otherwise than calm and collected. It was a condition he retained under all circumstances,[116] and which, to those over whom he had any influence, he never failed forcibly to inculcate, together with that unshaken firmness of mind which encounters the unavoidable misfortunes of life without repining, and that from the noblest principle, a conviction that they are regulated by Him who cannot err, and who in his severest allotments designs only our ultimate good. In a letter from Oxford, to my brother Amos, his late pupil, for whom John Henderson always entertained the highest esteem, he thus expresses himself: "See that you govern your passions. What should grieve us, but our infirmities? What make us angry, but our own faults? A man who knows he is mortal, and that all the world will pass away, and by-and-by, seem only like a tale—a sinner who knows his sufferings are all less than his sins, and designed to break him from them—one who knows that everything in this world is a seed that will have its fruit in eternity—that GOD is the best, the only good friend—that in him is all we want—that everything is ordered for the best—so that it could not be better, however we take it; he who believes this in his heart is happy. Such be you—may you always fare well, my dear Amos,—be the friend of GOD! again, farewell."
The other excellence referred to, was the simplicity and condescension of his manners. From the gigantic stature of his understanding, he was prepared to trample down his pigmy competitors, and qualified at all times to enforce his unquestioned pre-eminence; but his mind was conciliating, his behaviour unassuming, and his bosom the receptacle of all the social affections.
It is these virtues alone which can disarm superiority of its terrors, and make the eye which is raised in wonder, beam at the same moment with affection. There have been intellectual, as well as civil despots, whose motto seems to have been, "Let them hate, provided they fear." Such men may triumph in their fancied distinctions; but they will never, as was John Henderson, be followed by the child, loved by the ignorant, and yet emulated by the wise….
The following is an extract from the extended view of the question between Rowley and Chatterton, which appeared in my "Malvern Hills," &c. (Vol. 1. p. 273.)
"… Whoever examines the conduct of Chatterton, will find that he was pre-eminently influenced by one particular disposition of mind, which was, through an excess of ingenuity, to impose on the credulity of others. This predominant quality elucidates his character, and is deserving of minute regard by all who wish to form a correct estimate of the Rowleian controversy. A few instances of it are here recapitulated.
1st. The Rev. Mr. Catcott once noticed to Chatterton the inclined position of Temple church, in the city of Bristol. A few days after, the blue-coat boy brought him an old poem, transcribed, as he declared, from Rowley, who had noticed the same peculiarity in his day, and had moreover written a few stanzas on the very subject.
2ndly. A new bridge is just completed over the river Avon, at Bristol, when Chatterton sends to the printer a genuine description, in antiquated language, of the passing over the old bridge, for the first time, in the thirteenth century, on which occasion two songs are chanted, by two saints, of whom nothing was known, and expressed in language precisely the same as Rowley's, though he lived two hundred years after this event.
3rdly. Mr. Burgham, the pewterer, is credulous, and, from some whimsical caprice in his nature, is attached to heraldic honours. Chatterton, who approaches every man on his blind side, presents him with his pedigree, consecutively traced from the time of William the Conqueror, and coolly allies him to some of the noblest houses in the kingdom!
4thly. Mr. Burgham, with little less than intuitive discernment, is one of the first persons who expresses a firm opinion of the authenticity and excellence of Rowley's Poems. Chatterton, pleased with this first blossom of success, and from which he presaged an abundant harvest, with an elated and grateful heart, presents him (together with other testimonials,) with the 'Romaunte of the Cnyghte,' a poem written by John De Burgham, one of his own illustrious ancestors, who was the great ornament of a period, four hundred and fifty years antecedent; and the more effectually to exclude suspicion, he accompanies it with the same poem, modernized by himself!
5thly. Chatterton wishes to obtain the good opinion of his relation, Mr. Stephens, leather-breeches maker of Salisbury, and, from some quality, which it is possible his keen observation had noticed in this Mr. Stephens, he deems it the most effectual way, to flatter his vanity, and accordingly tells him, with great gravity, that he traces his descent from Fitz-Stephen, son of Stephen, Earl of Ammerle, who was son of Od, Earl of Bloys, and Lord of Holderness, who flourished about A.D. 1095!
6thly. The late Mr. George Catcott, (to whom the public are so much indebted for the preservation of Rowley,) is a very worthy and religious man, when Chatterton, who has implements for all work, and commodities for all customers, like a skilful engineer, adapts the style of his attack to the nature of the fortress, and presents him with the fragment of a sermon, on the divinity of the Holy Spirit, as 'wroten by Thomas Rowley.'
7thly. Mr. Barrett is zealous to establish the antiquity of Bristol. As a demonstrable evidence, Chatterton presents him with an escutcheon (on the authority of the same Thomas Rowley) borne by a Saxon, of the name of Ailward, who resided in Bristow, A.D. 718!
8thly. Mr. Barrett is also writing a comprehensive History of Bristol, and is solicitous to obtain every scrap of information relating to so important a subject. In the ear of Chatterton he expressed his anxiety, and suggested to him the propriety of his examining all Rowley's multifarious manuscripts with great care for an object of such weight.
Soon after this, the blue-coat boy came breathless to Mr. Barrett, uttering, like one of old, 'I have found it!' He now presented the historian with two or three notices, (inhis own hand-writing, copied, ashe declared, faithfully from the originals,) of some of the ancient Bristol churches; of course, wholly above suspicion, for they were in the true old English style. These communications were regarded as of inestimable value, and the lucky finder promised to increase his vigilance, in ransacking the whole mass of antique documents for fresh disclosures. It was not long before other important scraps were discovered, conveying just the kind of information which Mr. Barrett wanted, till, ultimately, Chatterton furnished him with many curious particulars concerning the castle, and every church and chapel in the city of Bristol! and these are some of the choicest materials of Mr. Barrett's otherwise, valuable history!
9thly. Public curiosity and general admiration are excited by poems, affirmed to be from the Erse of Ossian. Chatterton, with characteristic promptitude, instantly publishes, not imitations, but a succession of genuine translations from the Saxon and Welsh, with precisely the same language and imagery, though the Saxon and Welsh were derived from different origins, the Teutonic and Celtic; (which bishop Percy has most satisfactorily shown in his able and elaborate preface to 'Mallet's Northern Antiquities,') and whose poetry, of all their writings, was the most dissimilar; as will instantly appear to all who compare Taliessin, and the other Welsh bards, with the Scandinavian Edda of Saemond.
10thly. Mr. Walpole is writing the history of British painters; Chatterton, (who, to a confidential friend, had expressed an opinion that it was possible, by dexterous management, to deceive even this master in antiquities,) with full confidence of success, transmits to him 'An Account of eminent Carvellers and Peyncters who flourished in Bristol, and other parts of England, three hundred years ago, collected for Master Canynge, by Thomas Rowley!'
Chatterton's communication furnishes an amusing specimen of the quaint language with which this beardless boy deceived the old antiquarian. It commences thus:
'Peyncteynge ynn Englande, haveth of ould tyme bin in use; for sayeth the Roman wryters, the Brytonnes dyd depycte themselves yn soundry wyse, of the fourmes of the sonne and moone, wythe the hearbe woade: albeytte I doubt theie were no skylled carvellers,' &c. &c.
Mr. Walpole was so completely imposed upon, that, in his reply, without entertaining the slightest suspicion of the authenticity of the document, he reasons upon it as valid, and says, 'You do not point out the exact time when Rowley lived, which I wish to know, as I suppose it was long before John al Ectry's discovery of oil painting; if so, it confirms what I have guessed, and have hinted in my anecdotes, that oil painting was known here much earlier than that discovery, or revival.'
Another important argument, may be adduced from the following reflection: all the poets who thus owe their existence to Chatterton, write in the same harmonious style, and display the same tact and superiority of genius. Other poets living in the same, or different ages, exhibit a wide diversity in judgment, fancy, and the higher creative faculty of imagination, so that a discriminating mind can distinguish an individual character in almost every separate writer; but here are persons living in different ages; moving in different stations; exposed to different circumstances; and expressing different sentiments; yet all of whom betray the same peculiar habits, with the same talents and facilities of composition. This is evidenced, whether it be—
The Abbatte John, living in the year - - 1186Seyncte Baldwin - - - - - - 1247Seyncte Warburgie - - - - - - 1247John De Burgham - - - - - - 1320The Rawfe Cheddar Chappmanne - - - - 1356Syr Thybbot Gorges - - - - - - 1440Syr Wm. Canynge - - - - - - 1469Thomas Rowley - - - - - - 1479Carpenter, Bishoppe of WorcesterEcca, Bishoppe of HerefordeElmar, Bishoppe of SelseieJohn Ladgate, or,Mayster John à Iscam.
And the whole of these poets, with the exception of Ladgate, completely unknown to the world, till called from their dormitory by Chatterton! Such a fact would be a phenomenon unspeakably more inexplicable than that of ascribing Rowley to a youth of less than sixteen, who had made 'Antique Lore' his peculiar study, and who was endued with precocious, and almost unlimited genius.
Those who are aware of the transitions and fluctuation, which our language experienced in the intermediate space comprised between Chaucer and Sir Thomas More; and still greater between Robert of Gloucester, 1278, and John Trevisa, or his contemporary Wickliffe, who died 1384, know, to a certainty, that the writers enumerated by Chatterton, without surmounting a physical impossibility, could not have written in the same undeviating style.
Perhaps it may be affirmed that numerous old parchments were obtained from the Muniment Room or elsewhere. This fact is undeniable; but they are understood to consist of ancient ecclesiastical deeds, as unconnected with poetry, as they were with galvanism.
Let the dispassionate enquirer ask himself, whether he thinks it possible for men, living in distant ages, when our language was unformed, and therefore its variations the greater, to write in the same style? Whether it was possible for the Abbatte John, composing in the year 1186, when the amalgamation of the Saxon and the Norman formed an almost inexplicable jargon, to write in a manner, as to its construction, intimately resembling that now in vogue. On the contrary, how easy is the solution, when we admit that the person who wrote the first part of the "Battle of Hastings," and the death of "Syr Charles Bawdin," wrote also the rest.
Does it not appear marvellous, that the learned advocates of Rowley should not have regarded the ground on which they stood as somewhat unstable, when they found Chatterton readily avow that he wrote the first part of the "Battle of Hastings," and discovered the second, as composed three hundred years before, by Thomas Rowley? This was indeed an unparalleled coincidence. A boy writes the commencement of a narrative poem, and then finds in the Muniment-Room, the second part, or a continuation, by an old secular priest, with the same, characters, written in the same style, and even in the same metre!
Another extraordinary feature in the question, is the following; there are preserved in the British Museum, numerous deeds and proclamations, by Thomas Rowley, in Chatterton's writing, relating to the antiquities of Bristol, all in modern English, designed no doubt, by the young bard, for his friend Mr. Barrett; but the chrysalis had not yet advanced to its winged state.
One of the proclamations begins thus:
"To all Christian people to whom this indented writing shall come, William Canynge, of Bristol, merchant, and Thomas Rowley, priest, send greeting: Whereas certain disputes have arisen between," &c., &c.
Who does not perceive that these were the first rough sketches of genuine old documents thatwere to be?
In an account of "St. Marie Magdalene's Chapele, by Thomas Rowley," deposited also in the British Museum, there is the following sentence, which implies much: "Aelle, the founder thereof, was a manne myckle stronge yn vanquysheynge the Danes, as yee maie see ynne mie unwordie Entyrlude of Ella!"
It is Rome or Carthage. It is Rowley or Chatterton: and a hope is cherished that the public, from this moment, will concur in averring that there is neither internal nor external evidence, to authorize the belief that a single line of either the prose or the verse, attributed to Rowley, or the rest of his apocryphal characters, was written by any other than that prodigy of the eighteenth century, Thomas Chatterton.
The opinion entertained by many, that Chatterton found part of Rowley, and invented the rest, is attended with insurmountable objections, and is never advanced but in the deficiency of better argument; for in the first place, those who favor this supposition, have never supported it by the shadow of proof, or the semblance even of fair inferential reasoning; and in the second place, he who wrote half, could have written the whole; and in the third, and principal place, there are no inequalities in the poems; no dissimilar and incongruous parts, but all is regular and consistent, and without, in the strict sense of the word, bearing any resemblance to the writers of the period when Rowley is stated to have lived.
Whoever examines the beautiful tragedy of Ella, will find an accurate adjustment of plan, which precludes the possibility of its having been conjointly written by different persons, at the distance of centuries. With respect, also, to the structure of the language, it is incontrovertibly modern, as well as uniform with itself, and exhibits the most perfect specimens of harmony; which cannot be interrupted by slight orthographical redundancies, nor by the sprinkling of a few uncouth and antiquated words.
The structure of Rowley's verse is so unequivocally modern, that by substituting the present orthography for the past, and changing two or three of the old words, the fact must become obvious, even to those who are wholly unacquainted with the barbarisms of the "olden time." As a corroboration of this remark, the first verse of the song to Aella may be adduced.
"O thou, or what remains of thee,Aella, thou darling of futurity.Let this, my song, bold as thy courage be,As everlasting—to posterity."
But, perhaps, the most convincing proof of this modern character ofRowley's verse, may be derived from the commencement of the chorus inGodwin.
"When Freedom, dress'd in blood-stain'd vest,To every knight her war-song sung,Upon her head wild weeds were spread,A gory anlace by her hung.She danced on the heath;She heard the voice of death;Pale-eyed Affright, his heart of silver hue,In vain essay'd his bosom to acale, [freeze]She heard, enflamed, the shivering voice of woe,And sadness in the owlet shake the dale.She shook the pointed spear;On high she raised her shield;Her foemen all appear,And fly along the field.
Power, with his head exalted to the skies,His spear a sun-beam, and his shield a star,Round, like two flaming meteors, rolls his eyes,Stamps with his iron foot, and sounds to war:She sits upon a rock,She bends before his spear;She rises from the shock,Wielding her own in air.Hard as the thunder doth she drive it on,And, closely mantled, guides it to his crown,His long sharp spear, his spreading shield, is gone;He falls, and falling, rolleth thousands down."
Every reader must be struck with the modern character of these extracts, nor can he fail to have noticed the lyrical measure, so eminently felicitous, with which the preceding ode commences; together with the bold image of freedom triumphing over power. If the merits of the Rowleian Controversy rented solely on this one piece, it would be decisive; for no man, in the least degree familiar with our earlier metrical compositions, and especially if he were a poet, could hesitate a moment in assigning this chorus to a recent period.
It is impossible not to believe that the whole of Rowley was written at first in modern English, and then the orthographical metamorphose commenced; and to one who had prepared himself, like Chatterton, with a dictionary, alternately modern and old, and old and modern, the task of transformation was not difficult, even to an ordinary mind. It should be remembered also, that Chatterton furnished a complete glossary to the whole of Rowley. Had he assumed ignorance, it might have checked, without removing suspicion, but at present it appears inexplicable, that our sage predecessors should not have been convinced that one who could write, in his own person, with such superiority as Chatterton indisputably did, would be quite competent to give words to another, the meaning of which he so well understood himself.
But the thought will naturally arise, what could have prompted Chatterton, endued as he was, with so much original talent, to renounce his own personal aggrandizement, and to transfer the credit of his opulence to another. It is admitted to be an improvident expenditure of reputation, but no inference advantageous to Rowley can be deduced from this circumstance. The eccentricities and aberrations of genius, have rarely been restricted by line and plummet, and the present is a memorable example of perverted talent; but all this may be conceded, without shaking the argument here contended for.
There is a process in all our pursuits, and the nice inspector of associations can almost uniformly trace his predilections to some definite cause. This, doubtless, was the case with Chatterton. He found old parchments early in life. In the first instance, it became an object of ambition to decipher the obscure. One difficulty surmounted, strengthened the capacity for conquering others; perseverance gave facility, till at length his vigorous attention was effectually directed to what he called "antique lore:" and this confirmed bias of his mind, connected as it was, with his inveterate proneness to impose on others, and supported by talents which have scarcely been equalled, reduces the magnified wonder of Rowley, to a plain, comprehensible question.
Dean Milles, in his admiration of Rowley, appeared to derive pleasure from depreciating Chatterton, who had avowed himself the writer of that inimitable poem, "The Death of Syr Charles Bawdin," but well knowing the consequences which would follow on this admission, he laboured hard to impeach the veracity of our bard, and represented him as one who, from vanity, assumed to himself the writing of another! Dean Milles affirms, that of this "Death of Syr Charles Bawdin," "A greater variety of internal proofs may be produced, for its authenticity, than for that of any other piece in the whole collection!" This virtually, was abandoning the question; for since we know that Chatterton did write "The Death of Syr Charles Bawdin," we know that he wrote that which had stronger proofs of the authenticity of Rowley than all the other pieces in the collection!
The numerous proofs adduced of Chatterton's passion for fictitious statements; of his intimate acquaintance with antiquated language; of the almost preternatural maturity of his mind; of the dissimilitude of Rowley's language to contemporaneous writers; and of the obviously modern structure of all the compositions which the young bard produced, as the writings of Rowley and others, form, it is presumed, a mass of Anti-Rowleian evidence, which proves that Chatterton possessed that peculiar disposition, as well as those pre-eminent talents, the union of which was both necessary and equal to the great production of Rowley…."
Weary Pilgrim, dry thy tear,Look beyond these realms of night;Mourn not, with redemption near,Faint not, with the goal in sight.
Grief and pain are needful things,Sent to chasten, not to slay;And if pleasures have their wings,Sorrows quickly pass away.
Where are childhood's sighs and throes?Where are youth's tumultuous fears?Where are manhood's thousand woes?Lost amidst the lapse of years!
There are treasures which to gain,Might a seraph's heart inspire;There are joys which will remainWhen the world is wrapt in fire.
Hope, with her expiring beam,May illume our last delight;But our trouble soon will seem,Like the visions of the night.
We too oft remit our pace,And at ease in slumbers dwell;We are loiterers in our race,And afflictions break the spell.
Woe to him, whoe'er he be,Should (severest test below!)All around him like a sea,Health, and wealth, and honors, flow!
When unclouded suns we hail,And our cedars proudly wave;We forget their tenure frail,With the bounteous hand that gave.
We on dangerous paths are bound,Call'd to battle and to bleed;We have hostile spirits round,And the warrior's armour need.
We, within, have deadlier foes,Wills rebellious, hearts impure;God, the best physician, knowsWhat the malady will cure.
Earth is lovely! dress'd in flowers!O'er her form luxuriant thrown,But a lovelier world is ours,Visible to faith alone.
Here the balm and spicy gales,For a moment fill the air;Here the mutable prevails,Permanence alone is there.
Heaven to gain is worth our toil!Angels call us to their sphere;But to time's ignoble soilWe are bound, and will not hear.
Heaven attracts not! On we dream;Cast like wrecks upon the shoreWhere perfection reigns supreme,And adieus are heard no more.
What is life? a tale! a span!Swifter than the eagle's flight;What the boasted age of man?Vanishing beneath the sight.
Yet, our ardours and desiresCentred, circumscribed by earth;Whilst eternity retires—As an object nothing worth!
Oh, the folly of the proud!Oh, the madness of the vain!After every toy to crowd,And unwithering crowns disdain!
Mighty men in grand array,Magnates of the ages past,Kings and conquerors, where are they?Once whose frown a world o'ercast?
Faded! yet by fame enroll'd,With their busts entwined with bays;But if God his smile withhold,Pitiful is human praise.
With what sadness and surprise,Must Immortals view our lot;—Eager for the flower that dies,And the Amaranth heeding not.
May we from our dreams awake,Love the truth, the truth obey;On our night let morning break—Prelude of a nobler day.
Harmony prevails above,Where all hearts together blend;Let the concords sweet of love,Now begin and never end.
Have we not one common sire?Have we not one home in sight?Let the sons of peace conspireNot to sever, but unite.
Hence, forgetful of the past,May we all as brethren own,Whom we hope to meet at last—Round the everlasting throne.
Father! source of blessedness,In thy strength triumphant ride;Let the world thy Son confess,And thy name be magnified!
Let thy word of truth prevail,Scattering darkness, errors, lies;Let all lands the treasure hail—Link that binds us to the skies.
Let thy spirit, rich and free,Copious shed his power divine,Till (Creation's Jubilee!)All Earth's jarring realms are thine!
Saints who once on earth endured—Beating storm and thorny way,Have the prize they sought secured,And have enter'd perfect day.
Wiser taught,—with vision clear,(Kindled from the light above)Now their bitterest woes appear—Charged with blessings, fraught with love:—
For, as earthly scenes withdrew,In their false, but flattering guise,They, rejoicing, fix'd their view—On the mansions in the skies.
Art thou fearful of the end?Dread not Jordan's swelling tide;With the Saviour for thy friend!With the Spirit for thy guide!
Why these half subdued alarms—At the prospect of thy flight?Has thy Father's house no charms?—There to join the Saints in Light?
Terrors banish from thy breast,Hope must solace, faith sustain;Thou art journeying on to rest,And with God shalt live and reign.
Then, fruition, like the morn,Will unlock her boundless store;—Roses bloom without a thorn,And the day-star set no more.
But, an ocean lies between—Stormy, to be cross'd alone;With no ray to intervene—O'er the cold and dark unknown!
Lo! a soft and soothing voiceSteals like music on my ears;—"Let the drooping heart rejoice;See! a glorious dawn appears!"
"When thy parting hours draw near,And thou trembling view'st the last;Christ and only Christ can cheer,And o'er death a radiance cast!"
Weary Pilgrim, dry thy tear,Look beyond these shades of night;Mourn not with Redemption near,Faint not with the goal in sight.
Bristol, March 9, 1846.
Footnotes:
[1] The reader will bear in mind that the present work consists of Autobiography, and therefore, however repugnant to the writer's feelings, the apparent egotism has been unavoidable.
[2] Robert Lovell, himself was a poet, as will appear by the following being one of his Sonnets.
Was it a spirit on yon shapeless pile?It wore, methought, a holy Druid's form,Musing on ancient days! The dying stormMoan'd in his lifted locks. Thou, night! the whileDost listen to his sad harp's wild complaint,Mother of shadows! as to thee he poursThe broken strain, and plaintively deploresThe fall of Druid fame! Hark! murmurs faintBreathe on the wavy air! and now more loudSwells the deep dirge; accustomed to complainOf holy rites unpaid, and of the crowdWhose ceaseless steps the sacred haunts profane.O'er the wild plain the hurrying tempest flies,And, mid the storm unheard, the song of sorrow dies.
[3] I had an opportunity of introducing Mr. Southey at this time, to the eldest Mrs. More, who invited him down to spend some whole day with her sister Hannah, at their then residence, Cowslip Green. On this occasion, as requested, I accompanied him. The day was full of converse. On my meeting one of the ladies soon after, I was gratified to learn that Mr. S. equally pleased all five of the sisters. She said he was "brim full of literature, and one of the most elegant, and intellectual young men they had seen."
[4] It might he intimated, that, for the establishment of these lectures, there was, in Mr. Coleridge's mind, an interior spring of action. He wanted to "build up" a provision for his speedy marriage with Miss Sarah Fricker: and with these grand combined objects before him, no effort appeared too vast to be accomplished by his invigorated faculties.
[5] Copied from his MS. as delivered, not from his "Conciones ad Populum" as printed, where it will be found in a contracted state.
[6] Muir, Palmer, and Margarot.
[7] An eminent medical man in Bristol, who greatly admired Mr. Coleridge's conversation and genius, on one occasion, invited Mr. C. to dine with him, on a given day. The invitation was accepted, and this gentleman, willing to gratify his friends with an introduction to Mr. C. invited a large assemblage, for the express purpose of meeting him, and made a splendid entertainment, anticipating the delight which would be universally felt from Mr. C. a far-famed eloquence. It unfortunately happened that Mr. Coleridge had forgotten all about it! and the gentleman, [with his guests, after waiting till the hot became cold] under his mortification consoled himself by the resolve, never again to subject himself to a like disaster. No explanation or apology on my part could soothe the choler of this disciple of Glen. A dozen subscribers to his lectures fell off from this slip of his memory.
"Sloth jaundiced all! and from my graspless handDrop friendship's precious perls, like hour-glass sand.I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,A dreamy pang in morning's feverish doze,"
[8] This honest upholsterer, (a Mr. W. a good little weak man) attended the preaching of the late eloquent Robert Hall. At one time an odd fancy entered his mind, such as would have occurred to none other; namely, that he possessed ministerial gifts; and with this notion uppermost in his head, he was sorely perplexed, to determine whether he ought not to forsake the shop, and ascend the pulpit.
In this uncertainty, he thought his discreetest plan would be to consult his Minister; in conformity with which, one morning he called on Mr. Hall, and thus began. "I call on you this morning, Sir, on a very important business!" "Well Sir." "Why you must know, Sir—I can hardly tell how to begin." "Let me hear, Sir." "Well Sir, if I must tell you, for these two months past I have had a strong persuasion on my mind, that I possess ministerial talents."—Mr. Hall (whose ideas were high of ministerial requisites) saw his delusion, and determined at once to check it. The Upholsterer continued: "Though a paper-hanger by trade, yet, sir, I am now satisfied that I am called to give up my business, and attend to something better; for you know, Mr. Hall, I should not bury my talents in a napkin." "O Sir," said Mr. H. "you need not use a napkin, a pocket-handkerchief will do."
This timely rebuke kept the good man to his paper-hangings for the remainder of his days, for whenever he thought of the ministry, this same image of the pocket-handkerchief, always damped his courage.
[9] Gilbert's derangement was owing to the loss of a naval cause at Portsmouth, in which he was concerned as an Advocate. Among other instances, one time when at his lodgings, he interpreted those words of Christ personally, "Sell all that thou hast and distribute to the poor," when, without the formality of selling, he thought the precept might be more summarily fulfilled, and therefore, one morning he tumbled every thing he had in his room, through the window, into the street, that the poor might help themselves; bed, bolsters, blankets, sheets, chairs! &c., &c, but unfortunately, it required at that season a higher exercise of the clear reasoning process than he possessed, to distinguish accurately between his own goods and chattels and those of his landlady!
He had all the volubility of a practised advocate, and seemed to delight in nothing so much as discussion, whether on the unconfirmed parallactic angle of Sirius, or the comparative weight of two straws. Amid the circle in which he occasionally found himself, ample scope was often given him for the exercise of this faculty. I once invited him, for the first time, to meet the late Robert Hall. I had calculated on some interesting discourse, aware that each was peculiarly susceptible of being aroused by opposition. The anticipations entertained on this occasion were abundantly realized. Their conversation, for some time, was mild and pleasant, each, for each, receiving an instinctive feeling of respect; but the subject happened to be started, of the contra-distinguishing merits of Hannah More and Ann Yearsley. By an easy transition, this led to the quarrel that some time before had taken place between these two remarkable females; the one occupying the summit, and the other moving in about the lowest grade of human society; but in genius, compeers. They at once took opposite sides. One argument elicited another, till at length each put forth his utmost strength, and such felicitous torrents of eloquence could rarely have been surpassed; where on each side ardour was repelled with fervency, and yet without the introduction of the least indecorous expression.
Gilbert was an astrologer; and at the time of a person's birth, he would with undoubting confidence predict all the leading events of his future life, and sometimes (if he knew anything of his personal history) even venture to declare the past. The caution with which he usually touched the second subject, formed a striking contrast with the positive declarations concerning the first.
I was acquainted at this time with a medical man of enlarged mind and considerable scientific attainments; and accidentally mentioning to him that a friend of mine was a great advocate for this sublime science, he remarked, "I should like to see him, and one half hour would be sufficient to despoil him of his weapons, and lay him prostrate in the dust." I said, "if you will sup with me I will introduce you to the astrologer, and if you can beat this nonsense out of his head, you will benefit him and all his friends." When the evening arrived, it appeared fair to apprise William Gilbert that I was going to introduce him to a doctor, who had kindly and gratuitously undertaken to cure him of all his astrological maladies. "Will he?" said Gilbert. "The malady is on his side. Perhaps I may cure him."
Each having a specific business before him, there was no hesitation or skirmishing, but at first sight they both, like tried veterans, in good earnest addressed themselves to war. On one side, there was a manifestation of sound sense and cogent argument; on the other, a familiarity with all those arguments, combined with great subtlety in evading them; and this sustained by new and ingenious sophisms. My medical friend, for some time stood his ground manfully, till, at length, he began to quail, apparently from the verbal torrent with which he was so unexpectedly assailed. Encountered thus by so fearful and consummate a disputant, whose eyes flashed fire in unison with his oracular tones and empassioned language, the doctor's quiver unaccountably became exhausted, and his spirit subdued. He seemed to look around for some mantle in which to hide the mortification of defeat; and the more so from his previous confidence. Never was a more triumphant victory, as it would superficially appear, achieved by ingenious volubility in a bad cause, over arguments, sound, but inefficiently wielded in a cause that was good. A fresh instance of the man of sense vanquished by the man of words.
[10] I would here subjoin, that when money, in future, may thus be collected for ingenious individuals, it might be the wisest procedure to transfer the full amount, at once, to the beneficiary, (unless under very peculiar circumstances.) This is felt to be both handsome and generous, and the obligation is permanently impressed on the mind. If the money then be improvidently dissipated, he who acts thus ungratefully to his benefactors, and cruelly to himself, reflects on his own folly alone. But when active and benevolent agents, who have raised subscriptions, will entail trouble on themselves, and with a feeling almost paternal, charge themselves with a disinterested solicitude for future generations, without a strong effort of the reasoning power, the favour is reduced to a fraction. Dissatisfaction almost necessarily ensues, and the accusation of ingratitude is seldom far behind.
[11] The Rev. James Newton, was Classical Tutor at the Bristol Baptist Academy, in conjunction with the late Dr. Caleb Evans, and, for a short season, the late Robert Hall. He was my most revered and honoured friend, who lived for twenty years an inmate in my Father's family, and to whom I am indebted in various ways, beyond my ability to express. His learning was his least recommendation. His taste for elegant literature; his fine natural understanding, his sincerity, and conciliating manners justified the eulogium expressed by Dr. Evans in preaching his Funeral Sermon, 1789, when he said (to a weeping congregation), that "He never made an enemy, nor lost a friend."
Mr. Newton was on intimate terms with the late Dean Tucker, and the Rev. Sir James Stonehouse, the latter of whom introduced him to Hannah More, who contracted for him, as his worth and talents became more and more manifest, a sincere and abiding friendship. Mr. Newton had the honour of teaching Hannah More Latin. The time of his instructing her did not exceed ten months. She devoted to this one subject the whole of her time, and all the energies of her mind. Mr. Newton spoke of her to me as exemplifying how much might be attained in a short time by talent and determination combined; and he said, for the limited period of his instruction, she surpassed in her progress all others whom he had ever known. H. More was in the habit of submitting her MSS. to Mr. N.'s judicious remarks, and by this means, from living in the same house with him, I preceded the public in inspecting some of her productions; particularly her MS. Poem on the "Slave Trade," and her "Bas Bleu." When a boy, many an evening do I recollect to have listened in wonderment to colloquisms and disputations carried on in Latin between Mr. Newton and John Henderson. It gives me pleasure to have borne this brief testimony of respect toward one on whom memory so often and so fondly reposes! Best of men, and kindest of friends, "farewell till we do meet again!"-(Bowles.)
[12] From his natural unassumed dignity, Mr. Foster used to call Mr. Hall "Jupiter."
[13] Mr. Hall broke down all distinction of sects and parties. On one of his visits to Bristol, when preaching at the chapel in Broadmead, a competent individual noticed in the thronged assembly an Irish Bishop, a Dean, and thirteen Clergymen. The late Dr. Parr was an enthusiastic admirer of Mr. Hall. He said to a friend of the writer, after a warm eulogium on the eloquence of Mr. H. "In short, sir, the man is inspired." Hannah More has more than once said to the writer, "There was no man in the church, nor out of it, comparable in talents to Robert Hall."
[14] I presented Mr. C. with the three guineas, but forbore the publication.
[15] I received a note, at this time, from Mr. Coleridge, evidently written in a moment of perturbation, apologising for not accepting an invitation of a more congenial nature, on account of his "Watch drudgery." At another time, he was reluctantly made a prisoner from the same cause, as will appear by the following note.
"April, 1796.
My dear Cottle,
My eye is so inflamed that I cannot stir out. It is alarmingly inflamed. In addition to this, the Debates which Burnet undertook to abridge for me, he has abridged in such a careless, slovenly manner, that I was obliged to throw them into the fire, and am now doing them myself!…
[16] This "sheet" of Sonnets never arrived.
[17] A late worthy bookseller of Bristol, who by his exertions obtained one hundred and twenty subscribers for Mr. C.
[18] "My Bristol printer of the Watchman refused to wait a month for his money, and threatened to throw me into jail for betweeneightyandninetypounds; when the money was paid by a friend."—Biographia Literaria. Mr. C.'s memory was here grievously defective. The fact is, Biggs the printer (a worthy man) never threatened nor even importuned for his Money. Instead also ofninenumbers of the Watchman, there wereten; and the printing of these ten numbers, came but tothirty fivepounds. The whole of the Paper (which cost more than the Printing) was paid for by the Writer.
[19] It is evident Mr. C. must have had cause of complaint against one or more of the booksellers before named. It could not apply to myself, as I invariably adhered to a promise I had at the commencement given Mr. Coleridge, not to receive any allowance for what copies of the 'Watchman' I might be so happy as to sell for him.
[20] In all Mr. Coleridge's lectures, he was a steady opposer of Mr. Pitt, and the then existing war; and also an enthusiastic admirer of Pox, Sheridan, Grey, &c., &c., but his opposition to the reigning politics discovered little asperity; it chiefly appeared by wit and sarcasm, and commonly ended in that which was the speaker's chief object, a laugh.
Few attended Mr. C.'s lectures but those whose political views were similar to his own; but on one occasion, some gentlemen of the opposite party came into the lecture-room, and at one sentiment they heard, testified their disapprobation by the only easy and safe way in their power; namely, by a hiss. The auditors were startled at so unusual a sound, not knowing to what it might conduct; but their noble leader soon quieted their fears, by instantly remarking with great coolness, "I am not at all surprised, when the red-hot prejudices of aristocrats are suddenly plunged iuto the cool water of reason, that they should go off with a hiss!" The words were electric. The assailants felt as well as testified, their confusion, and the whole company confirmed it by immense applause! There was no more hissing.
[21] A law just then passed.
[22] It is this general absence of the dates to Mr. C.'s letters, which may have occasioned me, in one or two instances, to err in the arrangement.
[23] Mr. Wordsworth, at this time resided at Allfoxden House, two or three miles from Stowey.
[24] How much is it to be deplored, that one whose views were so enlarged as those of Mr. Coleridge, and his conceptions so Miltonic, should have been satisfied with theorizing merely; and that he did not, like his great Prototype, concentrate all his energies, so as to produce some one august poetical work, which should become the glory of his country.
[25] Sister of the Premier.
[26] It appears from Sir James Macintosh's Life, published by his son, that a diminution of respect towards Sir James was entertained by Mr. For, arising from the above two letters of Mr. Coleridge, which appeared in the Morning Post. Some enemy of Sir James had informed Mr. Fox that these two letters were written by Macintosh, and which exceedingly wounded his mind. Before the error could be corrected, Mr. Fox died. This occurrence was deplored by Sir James, in a way that showed his deep feeling of regret, but which, as might be supposed, did not prevent him from bearing the amplest testimony to the social worth and surpassing talents of that great statesman.
Mr. Coleridge's Bristol friends will remember that once Mr. Fox was idolized by him as the paragon of political excellence; and Mr. Pitt depressed in the same proportion.
[27] The following is the Sonnet to Lord Stanhope, in the first edition, now omitted.
"Not STANHOPE! with thepatriot'sdoubtful nameI mock thy worth, FRIEND OF THE HUMAN RACE!Since, scorning faction's low and partial aim,Aloof thou wendest in thy stately pace,Thyself redeeming from that leprous stain—NOBILITY! and, aye unterrified,Pourest thy Abdiel warnings on the trainThat sit complotting with rebellious pride'Gainst her, who from th' Almighty's bosom leapt,With whirlwind arm, fierce minister of love!Wherefore, ere virtue o'er thy tomb hath wept.Angels shall lead thee to the throne above,And thou from forth its clouds shalt hear the voice—Champion of FREEDOM, and her God, rejoice!
[28] The Skylark.
[29] It is to be regretted that Mr. C. in his emendations, should have excluded from the second verse of the first poem, the two best lines in the piece.
"And thy inmost soul confessesChaste Affection's majesty."
[30] Mr. C. afterward requested that the "allegorical lines" might alone be printed in his second edition, with this title: "To an Unfortunate Woman, whom the Author had known in the days of her innocence." The first Poem, "Maiden, that with sullen brow," &c. he meant to re-write, and which he will be found to have done, with considerable effect.
[31] Mr. Wordsworth lived at Racedown, before he removed to Allfoxden.
[32] Mr. C. after much hesitation, had intended to begin his second edition with this Poem from the "Joan of Arc," in its enlarged, but imperfect state, and even sent it to the press; but the discouraging remarks, which he remembered, of one and another, at the last moment, shook his resolution, and occasioned him to withdraw it wholly. He commenced his volume with the "Ode to the Departing Year."
Here Savage lingered long, and here expired!The mean—the proud—the censored—the admired!
If, wandering o'er misfortune's sad retreat,Stranger! these lines arrest thy passing feet,And recollection urge the deeds of shameThat tarnish'd once an unblest Poet's fame;Judge not another till thyself art free,And hear the gentle voice of charity."No friend received him, and no mother's careSheltered his infant innocence with prayer;No father's guardian hand his youth maintained,Call'd forth his virtues, or from vice restrain'd."Reader! hadst thou been to neglect consign'd,And cast upon the mercy of mankind;Through the wide world, like Savage, forced to stray,And find, like him, one long and stormy day;Objects less noble might thy soul have swayed,Or crimes around thee cast a deeper shade.While poring o'er another's mad career,Drop for thyself the penitential tear;Though prized by friends, and nurs'd in innocence,How oft has folly wrong'd thy better sense:But if some virtues in thy breast there be,Ask, if they sprang fromcircumstance, orthee!And ever to thy heart the precept bear,When thine own conscience smites, a wayward brother spare!
[34] My brother, when at Cambridge, had written a Latin poem for the prize: the subject, "Italia, Vastata," and sent it to Mr. Coleridge, with whom he was on friendly terms, in MS. requesting the favor of his remarks; and this he did about six weeks before it was necessary to deliver it in. Mr. C. in an immediate letter, expressed his approbation of the Poem, and cheerfully undertook the task; but with a little of his procrastination, he returned the MS. with his remarks, just one day after it was too late to deliver the poem in!
[35] Verbatim, from Burns's dedication of his Poems to the nobility and gentry of the Caledonian Hunt.
[36] It appears that Mr. Burnet had been prevailed upon by smugglers to buy some prime cheap brandy, but which Mr. Coleridge affirmed to be a compound of Hellebore, kitchen grease, and Assafoetida! or something as bad.
[37] Mr. George Burnet died at the age of thirty-two, 1807.
[38] The reader will have observed a peculiarity in most of Mr. Coleridge's conclusions to his letters. He generally says, "God bless you, and, or eke, S. T. C." so as to involve a compound blessing.
[39] Mrs. Newton, Chatterton's sister, had complained to me of the dishonorable conduct of a gentleman, who, some years prior, had called on her, expressing an enthusiastic admiration of her brother's genius, and requesting the melancholy pleasure of seeing all the letters, then in her and her mother's possession. The gentleman appeared quite affected when he saw her brother's writings, and begged to be allowed to take them to his inn, that he might read them at leisure; the voice of sympathy disarmed suspicion, and the timely present of a guinea and a half induced them to trust him with the MSS., under the promise of their being returned in half an hour. They were never restored, and some months afterwards the whole were incorporated and published in a pamphlet, entitled "Love and Madness," by Mr. Herbert Croft. Mrs. Chatterton felt the grievous wrong that had been done her by this publication for the benefit of another, as she often received presents from strangers who called to see her son's writings; she remonstrated with Mr. Croft on the subject, and received £10 with expressions of his regard.
Here the affair rested, till 1796, when Mrs. Newton was advised to write to Mr. Croft, for further remuneration. To this letter, no answer was returned. Mrs. N. then wrote again, intimating that, acting by the advice of some respectable friends, if no attention was paid to this letter, some public notice would he taken of the manner in which he had obtained her brother's papers. Upon this he replied, "The sort of threatening letter which Mrs. Newton's is, will never succeed with me … but if the clergyman of the parish will do me the favour to write me word, through Mrs. Newton, what Chatterton's relations consist of, and,what characters they bear!I will try by everything in my power, to serve them; yet certainly not, if any of them pretend to have the smallestclaimupon me."
During Mr. Southey's residence in Bristol, I informed him of this discreditable affair, and accompanied him to Mrs. Newton, who confirmed the whole of the preceding statement. We inquired if she still possessed any writings of her brother's? Her reply was, "Nothing. Mr. Croft had them all," with the exception of one precious relic of no value as a publication, which she meant to retain till death.—The identical pocket book, which Chatterton took with him to London, and in which he had entered his cash account while there, with a list of his political letters to the Lord Mayor, and the first personages in the laud. I now wrote to Mr. Croft, pointing out Mrs. Newton's reasonable chums, and urging him, by a timely concession, to prevent that publicity which, otherwise, would follow. I received no answer. Mr. Southey then determined to print by subscription, all Chatterton's works, including those ascribed to Rowley, for the benefit of Mrs. Newton and her daughter. He sent "Proposals" to the Monthly Magazine, in which he detailed the whole case between Mrs. Newton and Mr. Croft, and published their respective letters. The public sympathized rightly on the occasion, for a handsome subscription followed. Mr. Croft, at that time resided at Copenhagen, when having heard of Mr. S.'s exposure, he published a pamphlet, with the following title.
"Chatterton, and Love and Madness. A Letter from Denmark, respecting an unprovoked attack made upon the writer, during his absence from England, &c." By the Rev. Sir Herbert Croft, Bart. In this he says:—
"I cannot be expected, by any man of honour! or feeling, to descend to answer a scurrilous person, signing himself Robert Southey.
"I have ever reverenced the little finger of Chatterton, more than Mr.Southey knows how to respect the poor boy's whole body.
"I learn so much of Mr. Southey's justice from his abuse, that I should be ashamed of myself, were this person ever to disgrace me by his praise; which might happen, did he wish to gain money, or fame! by becoming the officious editor of MY WORKS!
"Innocence would less often fall a prey to villany, if it boldly met the whole of a nefarious accusation!
"The great Mr. Southey writes prose somewhat like bad poetry, and poetry somewhat like bad prose.
"Chatterton was the glory of that Bristol which I hope Mr. S. will not farther disgrace.
"Mr. Southey, not content with trying to 'filch from me my good name,' in order to enrich himself, (conduct agreeable enough to what I have heard of BRISTOL Pantisocracy,) but condescends to steal from me my humble prose!" &c. &c.
This edition of Chatterton's works was published in three volumes, 8vo. during a ten months' residence of mine, in London, in the year 1802. Mr. Southey allowed me to make what observations I thought proper in the course of the work, provided that I affixed to them my initials; and, with the generosity which was natural to him, thus wrote in the preface: "The editors (for so much of the business has devolved on Mr. Cottle, that the plural term is necessary) have to acknowledge," &c. &c. "They have felt peculiar pleasure, as natives of the same city, in performing this act of justice to Chatterton's fame, and to the interests of his family."
The result of our labours was, that Mrs. Newton, received more than three hundred pounds, as the produce of her brother's works. This money rendered comfortable the last days of herself and daughter, and Mr Southey and myself derived no common satisfaction in having contributed to so desirable an end.
In this edition Mr. Southey arranged all the old materials, and the consideration of the authenticity of Rowley, I regret to say, devolved exclusively on me. Mr. S. would doubtless have been more successful in his investigations at the Bristol Museum and Herald's College than myself. I however did not spare my best efforts, and was greatly assisted by the late Mr. Haslewood, who had collected one copy of every work that had been published in the Controversy. And as I had obtained much new documentary evidence since that period, besides knowing many of Chatterton's personal friends, I condensed the arguments in his favor into four essays, distinguished by the initials, "J. C."
In the year 1829, having received still an accession of fresh matter, I enlarged these Essays, and printed them in the fourth edition of "Malvern Hills, Poems, and Essays." I thought the subject worthy a full discussion, and final settlement; and to this point I believe it now to be brought.
Higher authority than that of Mr. Wordsworth could hardly be adduced, who on being presented by me with a copy of the above work thus replied,
"My dear sir,
I received yesterday, through the hands of Mr. Southey, a very agreeable mark of your regard, in a present of two volumes of your miscellaneous works, for which accept my sincere thanks. I have read a good deal of your volumes with much pleasure, and, in particular, the 'Malvern Hills,' which I found greatly improved. I have also read the 'Monody on Henderson,' both favorites of mine. And I have renewed my acquaintance with your observations on Chatterton, which I always thought very highly of,as being conclusive on the subject of the forgery….
With many thanks, I remain, my dear Mr. Cottle,
Your old and affectionate friend,
William Wordsworth.
Patterdale, August 2nd, 1829."
[40] War, a Fragment.
[41] John the Baptist, a Poem.
[42] Monody on John Henderson.
[43] Miss Sarah Fricker, afterwards, Mrs. Coleridge.
[44] Relating to these Sonnets, chiefly satirising himself, Mr. C. has said, in his "Biographia;" "So general at that time, and so decided was the opinion concerning the characteristic vices of my style, that a celebrated physician, (Dr. Beddoes) speaking of me, in other respects, with his usual kindness, to a gentleman who was about to meet me at a dinner party, could not however resist giving him a hint not to mention, in my presence, 'The House that Jack Built' for that I was as sore as a boil about that sonnet, he not knowing that I myself was the author of it."
Mr. Coleridge had a singular taste for satirising himself. He has spoken of another ludicrous consequence arising out of this indulgence.
"An amateur performer in verse, expressed to a common friend, a strong desire to be introduced to me, but hesitated in accepting my friend's immediate offer, on the score that 'he was, he must acknowledge, the author of a confounded severe epigram on Mr. C.'s 'Ancient Mariner,' which had given him great pain.' I assured my friend, that if the epigram was a good one, it would only increase my desire to become acquainted with the author, and begged to hear it recited; when, to my no less surprise than amusement, it proved to be one which I had myself, sometime before, written and inserted in the Morning Post."
Your Poem must eternal be,Dear Sir, it cannot fail,For 'tis incomprehensible,And without head or tail."
[45] The motto was the following:
Duplex nobis vinculum, et amicitae et similium junctarumque Camoenarum; quod utinam neque mors solvat, neque temporis longinquitas!—Groscoll. Epist. ad Car. Utenhov. et Ptol. Lux. Tast.
[46] Eminent writers, particularly poets, should ever remember, they wield a mighty engine for evil or for good. An author, like Mr. Coleridge, may confidently talk of consigning to "pitch black oblivion," writings which he deems immoral, or calculated to disparage his genius; but on works once given to the world, the public lay too tenacious a hold, to consult even the wishes of writers themselves. Improve they may, but withdraw they cannot! So much the more is circumspection required.
[47] Chemical Lectures, by Dr. Beddoes, delivered at the Red Lodge.
[48] A portrait of Mr. Wordsworth, correctly and beautifully executed, by an artist then at Stowey; now in my possession.
[49]Joan of Arc, 4to. first edition, had twenty lines in a page.
[50] Did the report of the "still," in the former page, originate in this broken bottle of brandy?
[51] "Robert Southey and Edith Pricker were married, in St. Mary Redcliffe Church, in the City of Bristol, the 14th day of November, 1795, as appears by the Register of the Parish.