Famous Reviews by Editor: R. Brimley Johnson

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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 Shakespeare 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? Whatever made a great Poet but the inspiration of delight and
love in himself, and an empassioned 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 shows 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 p. 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 he speaks of such paltry trifles.
"They were marked _by an ease and simplicity_ which I have studied,
_perhaps with inferior success,_ to bestow on my latter compositions."
But he afterwards repents of this sneer at his later compositions, and
tells 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, on 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 galloping consumption in the twenty-eighth week of its age. He then
published the tragedy of "Remorse," which dragged out a miserable
existence of twenty nights, on the boards of Drury-Lane, and then
expired for ever, like the oil of the orchestral lamps. He then forsook
the stage for the pulpit, and, by particular desire of his congregation,
published two "Lay Sermons." He then walked in broad day-light into the
shop of Mr. Murray, Albemarle Street, London, with two ladies hanging on
each arm, Geraldine and Christabel,--a bold step for a person at all
desirous of a good reputation, and most of the trade have looked shy at
him since that exhibition. Since that time, however, he has contrived
means of giving to the world a collected edition of all his poems, and
advanced to the front of the stage with a thick octavo in each hand, all
about himself and other Incomprehensibilities. We had forgot that he was
likewise a contributor to Mr. Southey's Omniana, where the Editor of the
Edinburgh Review is politely denominated an "ass," and then _became
himself a writer in the said Review_. And to sum up "the strange
eventful history" of this modest, and obscure, and retired person, we
must mention, that in his youth he held forth in a vast number of
Unitarian chapels--preached his way through Bristol, and "Brummagem,"
and Manchester, in a "blue coat and white waistcoat"; and in after
years, when he was not so much afraid of "the scarlet woman," did, in a
full suit of sables, lecture on Poesy, to "crowded, and, need I add,
highly respectable audiences," at the Royal Institution. After this
slight and imperfect outline of his poetical, oratorical, metaphysical,
political, and theological exploits, our readers will judge, when they
hear him talking of "his retirement and distance from the literary and
political world," what are his talents for autobiography, and how far he
has penetrated into the mysterious non-entities of his own character.

Mr. Coleridge has written conspicuously 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, had 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 diction 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
ingenious 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 Greenhorn. _"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 School-master'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 labored to
make proselytes, not only _of my companions, but of all with whom I
conversed, 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, as 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 grievous 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 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 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
_"four-pence."_ 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
show 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 at 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, _deathly_ 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 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....

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 Eclogue, 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 inuendoes. He complains of the loss of all his friends,
not by death, but estrangement. He tries to account for the enmity of
the world to him, a harmless and humane man, who wishes well to all
created things, and "of his wondering finds no end." He upbraids himself
with indolence, procrastination, neglect of his worldly concerns, and
all other bad habits,--and then, with incredible inconsistency, vaunts
loudly of his successful efforts in the cause of Literature, Philosophy,
Morality, and Religion. Above all, he weeps and wails over the malignity
of Reviewers, who have persecuted him almost from his very cradle, and
seem resolved to bark him into the grave. He is haunted by the Image of
a Reviewer wherever he goes. They "push him from his stool," and by his
bedside they cry, "Sleep no more." They may abuse whomsoever they think
fit, save himself and Mr. Wordsworth. All others are fair game--and he
chuckles to see them brought down. But his sacred person must be
inviolate, and rudely to touch it, is not high treason, it is impiety.
Yet his "ever-honoured friend, the laurel-honouring Laureate," is a
Reviewer--his friend Mr. Thomas Moore is a Reviewer--his friend Dr.
Middleton, Bishop of Calcutta, was the Editor of a Review--almost every
friend he ever had is a Reviewer;--and to crown all, he himself is a
Reviewer. Every person who laughs at his silly Poems--and his
incomprehensible metaphysics, is malignant--in which case, there can be
little benevolence in this world; and while Mr. Francis Jeffrey is alive
and merry, there can be no happiness here below for Mr. Samuel
Coleridge.

And here we come to speak of a matter, which, though somewhat of a
personal and private nature, is well deserving of mention in a Review of
Mr. Coleridge's Literary Life, for sincerity is the first of virtues,
and without it no man can be respectable or useful. He has, in this
Work, accused Mr. Jeffrey of meanness--hypocrisy--falsehood--and breach
of hospitality. That gentleman is able to defend himself--and his
defence is no business of ours. But we now tell Mr. Coleridge, that
instead of humbling his Adversary, he has heaped upon his own head the
ashes of disgrace--and with his own blundering hands, so stained his
character as a man of honour and high principles, that the mark can
never be effaced. All the most offensive attacks on the writings of
Wordsworth and Southey, had been made by Mr. Jeffrey before his visit to
Keswick. Yet, does Coleridge receive him with open arms, according to
his own account--listen, well-pleased, to all his compliments--talk to
him for hours on his Literary Projects--dine with him as his guest at an
Inn--tell him that he knew Mr. Wordsworth would be most happy to see
him--and in all respects behave to him with a politeness bordering on
servility. And after all this, merely because his own vile verses were
crumpled up like so much waste paper, by the grasp of a powerful hand in
the Edinburgh Review, he accuses Mr. Jeffrey of abusing hospitality
which he never received, and forgets, that instead of being the Host, he
himself was the smiling and obsequious Guest of the man he pretends to
have despised. With all this miserable forgetfulness of dignity and
self-respect, he mounts the high horse, from which he instantly is
tumbled into the dirt; and in his angry ravings collects together all
the foul trash of literary gossip to fling at his adversary, but which
is blown stifling back upon himself with odium and infamy. But let him
call to mind his own conduct, and talk not of Mr. Jeffrey. Many
witnesses are yet living of his own egotism and malignity; and often has
he heaped upon his "beloved Friend, the laurel-honouring Laureate,"
epithets of contempt, and pity, and disgust, though now it 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.