Besides these portfolios (many of them very bulky, and some from men whose names have probably escaped me), the walls were hung with portraits of these illustrious friends, some engravings, some drawings, some oil-paintings, and many of them repeated two or three times, at different ages. Mr. Cottle was engaged in transcribing Southey's letters, for a life even then projected, and since executed by his son. He said, that of his various epistolary collections he thought Southey's the most amusing, preferring them even to those he had received from Charles Lamb. Very few of these letters are inserted in Mr. Cuthbert Southey's work (doubtless he was embarrassed by his over-riches); but I can not help thinking that a selection of familiar epistles from all the portfolios would be a very welcome gift to the literary world. People can hardly know too much of these great poets, and of such prose writers as Charles Lamb, John Foster, and Robert Hall. Both Coleridge and Southey were married at Bristol; Coleridge certainly, and Southey I think, at the beautiful church of St. Mary Redcliffe. Upon my mentioning this to the parish clerk, very learned upon the subject of Chatterton, he was surprised into confessing his ignorance of the fact, and got as near as a parish clerk ever does to an admission that he had never heard the first of those illustrious names. So strange a thing is local reputation. Plenty of people, however, were eager to shew me the localities rendered famous by Southey, and I looked with delight on his father's house, his early home. How great and how good a man he was! how fine a specimen of the generosity of labor! Giving so largely, so liberally, so unostentatiously, not from the superfluities of an abundant fortune, but from the hard-won earnings of his indefatigable toil! Some people complain of his change of politics; and I, for my own particular part, wish very heartily that he had been content with a very moderate modification of opinion. But does not the violent republicanism of youth often end in the violent toryism of age? Does not the pendulum, very forcibly set in motion, swing as far one way as it has swung the other? Does not the sun rise in the east and set in the west? As to his poetry, I suspect people of liking it better than they say. He was not Milton or Shakspeare, to be sure; but are we to read nobody but Shakspeare or Milton? I will venture to add the "Lines on a Holly-tree :" O reader! hast thou ever stood to see The eye that contemplates it well, perceives Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the atheist's sophistries. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen No grazing cattle through their prickly round But as they grow where nothing is to fear, I love to view these things with anxious eyes And in this wisdom of the holly-tree Can emblems see Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, Thus though abroad perchance I might appear Harsh and austere, To those who on my leisure would intrude Reserved and rude, Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be And as, when all the summer trees are seen The holly leaves their fadeless hue display But when the bare and wintry woods we see, So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng, So would I seem among the young and gay That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the holly-tree. R* But he has not done himself justice in this comparison. Never was a man more beloved by all who approached him. Even his peculiarities, if he had any, were genial and pleasant. One anecdote I happen to know personally. He was invited to a large evening party, at Tavistock House, the residence of Mr. Perry, proprietor of the "Morning Chronicle," a delightful person, where men of all parties met, forgetting their political differences in social pleasure. The guest was so punctual, that only two young inmates were in the room to receive him. "What are we to have to-night?" inquired he of Miss Lunan, Mr. Perry's niece, and Professor Porson's stepdaughter. 'Music, I suppose," was the reply; "at least I know that Catalani is coming!" "Ah!" rejoined the poet, then I shall come another time. You will not miss me. Make my excuses!" and off he ran, laughing at his own dislike to opera singers and bravura songs. Every body has heard the often told story of Coleridge's enlisting in a cavalry regiment under a feigned name, and being detected as a Cambridge scholar in consequence of his writing some Greek lines, or rather, I believe, some Greek words, over the bed of a sick comrade, whom, not knowing how else to dispose of him, he had been appointed to nurse. It has not been stated that the arrangement for his discharge took place at my father's house at Reading. Such, however, was the case. The story was this. Dr. Ogle, Dean of Winchester, was related to the Mitfords, as relationships go in Northumberland, and having been an intimate friend of my maternal grandfather, had no small share in bringing about the marriage between his young cousin and the orphan heiress. He continued to take an affectionate interest in the couple he had brought together, and the 15th Light Dragoons, in which his eldest son had a troop, being quartered in Reading, he came to spend some days at their house. Of course Captain Ogle, between whom and my father the closest friendship subsisted, was invited to meet the Dean, and in the course of the dinner told the story of the learned recruit. It was the beginning of the great war with France; men were procured with difficulty, and if one of the servants waiting at table had not been induced to enlist in his place, there might have been some hesitation in procuring a discharge. Mr. Coleridge never forgot my father's zeal in the cause, for kind and clever as he was, Captain Ogle was so indolent a man, that without a flapper, the matter might have slept in his hands till the Greek kalends Such was Mr. Coleridge's kind recognition of my father's exertions, that he had the infinite goodness and condescension to look over the proof-sheets of two girlish efforts, "Christina" and Blanch," and to encourage the young writer by gentle strictures and stimulating praise. Ah! I wish she had better deserved this honoring notice! I add one of his sublimest poems. HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUN Hast thou a charm to stay the Morning Star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ! Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee Till thou, still present to the bodily sense Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer Yet like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou the meanwhile wast blending with my thought, As in her natural form swelled vast to Heaven! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale! Or when they climb the sky or when they sink Companion of the Morning Star at dawn, And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, And who commanded (and the silence came), Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's orow Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frost! Once more, hoar mount, with thy sky-painting peaks, In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes, suffused with tears, To rise before me-Rise, O ever rise; |