As this is the last time in which Mr. Southey's name will be mentioned, it is a debt of justice to subjoin the following honourable testimonials.

As an evidence of the estimation in which Mr. Southey was held,—the distinctions awarded to his memory have had few parallels. His friends at Keswick, among whom he resided for thirty years, erected to him in their Church a noble monument, as a permanent memorial of their respect. His friends, in London, placed his bust in Westminster Abbey. Whilst another set of his friends in Bristol (his native city) from respect to his genius, and in admiration of his character, placed a bust of him in their own Cathedral.

PRAYER OF S. T. COLERIDGE, WRITTEN IN 1831.

Almighty God, by thy eternal Word, my Creator, Redeemer, and Preserver! who hast in thy communicative goodness glorified me with the capability of knowing thee, the only one absolute God, the eternal I Am, as the author of my being, and of desiring and seeking thee as its ultimate end;—who when I fell from thee into the mystery of the false and evil will, didst not abandon me, poor self-lost creature, but in thy condescending mercy didst provide an access and a return to thyself, even to the Holy One, in thine only begotten Son, the way and the truth from everlasting, and who took on himself humanity, yea, became flesh, even the man Christ Jesus, that for man he might be the life and resurrection!—O, Giver of all good gifts, who art thyself the only absolute Good, from whom I have received whatever good I have; whatever capability of good there is in me, and from thee good alone,—from myself and my own corrupted will all evil, and the consequences of evil,—with inward prostration of will, mind, and affections I adore thy infinite majesty; I aspire to love thy transcendant goodness!

In a deep sense of my unworthiness, and my unfitness to present myself before thee, of eyes too pure to behold iniquity, and whose light, the beatitude of spirits conformed to thy will, is a consuming fire to all vanity and corruptions;—but in the name of the Lord Jesus, of the dear Son of thy love, in whose perfect obedience thou deignest to behold as many as have received the seed of Christ into the body of this death;—I offer this my bounden nightly sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving, in humble trust that the fragrance of my Saviour's righteousness may remove from it the taint of my mortal corruption. Thy mercies have followed me through all the hours and moments of my life; and now I lift up my heart in awe and thankfulness for the preservation of my life through the past day, for the alleviation of my bodily sufferings and languors, for the manifold comforts which thou hast reserved for me, yea, in thy fatherly compassion hast rescued from the wreck of my own sins or sinful infirmities;—for the kind and affectionate friends thou hast raised up for me, especially for those of this household, for the mother and mistress of this family, whose love to me has been great and faithful, and for the dear friend, the supporter and sharer of my studies and researches; but above all for the heavenly Friend, the crucified Saviour, the glorified Mediator, Christ Jesus, and for the heavenly Comforter, source of all abiding comforts, thy Holy Spirit! that I may with a deeper faith, a more enkindled love, bless thee, who through thy Son hast privileged me to call thee Abba Father! O thou who hast revealed thyself in thy word as a God that hearest prayer; before whose infinitude all differences cease, of great and small; who like a tender parent foreknowest all our wants, yet listenest, well-pleased, to the humble petitions of thy children; who hast not alone permitted, but taught us to call on thee in all our needs,—earnestly I implore the continuance of thy free mercy, of thy protecting providence through the coming night.

Thou hearest every prayer offered to thee believingly with a penitent and sincere heart. For thou in withholding grantest, healest in inflicting the wound, yea, turnest all to good for as many as truly seek thee through Christ the Mediator! Thy will be done! But if it be according to thy wise and righteous ordinances, O shield me this night from the assaults of disease, grant me refreshment of sleep, unvexed by evil and distempered dreams; and if the purpose and aspiration of my heart be upright before thee who alone knowest the heart of man, O, in thy mercy, vouchsafe me yet in this my decay of life, an interval of ease and strength, if so,—thy grace disposing and assisting—I may make compensation to thy church for the unused talents thou hast entrusted to me, for the neglected opportunities which thy loving-kindness had provided. O let me be found a labourer in thy vineyard, though of the late hour, when the Lord and Heir of the vintage, Christ Jesus calleth for his servant.—Lit. Rem.

S. T. C."

Mr. Coleridge wrote, in his life-time, his own epitaph, as follows:—

"Stop, Christian passer-by: stop, child of God, And read, with gentle breast. Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seemed he— O, lift a thought in prayer for S. T. C. That he who many a year with toil of breath Found death in life, may here find life in death; Mercy for praise-to be forgiven for fame He asked, and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same."

A handsome tablet, erected in Highgate New Church, to his memory, bears the following inscription:—

"Sacred to the Memory of

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,

Poet, Philosopher, Theologian. This truly great and good man resided for The last nineteen years of his life, In this Hamlet. He quitted 'the body of his death,' July 25th, 1834, In the sixty-second year of his age. Of his profound learning and discursive genius, His literary works are an imperishable record. To his private worth, His social and Christian virtues,

JAMES AND ANN GILLMAN,

The friends with whom he resided During the above period, dedicate this tablet. Under the pressure of a long And most painful disease, His disposition was unalterably sweet and angelic. He was an ever-enduring, ever-loving friend, The gentlest and kindest teacher, The most engaging home-companion.

'Oh, framed for calmer times and nobler hearts; O studious poet, eloquent for truth! Philosopher contemning wealth and death, Yet docile, child-like, full of life and love.'

HERE,

On this monumental stone, thy friends inscribe thy worth, Reader, for the world mourn. A Light has passed away from the earth! But for this pious and exalted Christian, 'Rejoice, and again I say unto you, rejoice!'" Ubi Thesaurus ibi Cor. S. T. C.



APPENDIX

* * * * *

JOHN HENDERSON.

The name of John Henderson having appeared in several parts of the preceding memoir, and as, from his early death, he is not known in the Literary World, I here present a brief notice of this extraordinary man, reduced from the longer account which appeared in my "Malvern Hills," &c.

John Henderson, was born at Limerick, but came to England early in life with his parents. From the age of three years, he discovered the presages of a great mind. Without retracing the steps of his progression, a general idea may be formed of them, from the circumstance of his having professionally TAUGHT GREEK and LATIN in a public Seminary[112] at the age of twelve years.

Some time after, his father commencing a Boarding-school in the neighbourhood of Bristol, young HENDERSON undertook to teach the classics; which he did with much reputation, extending, at the same time, his own knowledge in the sciences and general literature, to a degree that rendered him a prodigy of intelligence.

At the age of eighteen, by an intensity of application, of which few persons can conceive, he had not only thoughtfully perused all the popular English authors, of later date, but taken an extensive survey of foreign literature. He had also waded through the folios of the SCHOOLMEN, as well as scrutinized, with the minutest attention, the more obsolete writers of the last three centuries; preserving, at the same time, a distinguishing sense of their respective merits, particular sentiments, and characteristic traits; which, on proper occasions, he commented upon, in a manner that astonished the learned listener, not more by his profound remarks, than by his cool and sententious eloquence.

So surprisingly retentive was his memory, that he never forgot what he had once learned; nor did it appear that he ever suffered even an Image to be effaced from his mind; whilst the ideas which he had so rapidly accumulated, existed in his brain, not as a huge chaos, but in clear and well-organized systems, illustrative of every subject, and subservient to every call. It was this quality which made him so superior a disputant; for as his mind had investigated the various sentiments and hypotheses of men, so had his almost intuitive discrimination stripped them of their deceptive appendages, and separated fallacies from truth, marshalling their arguments, so as to elucidate or detect each other. But in all his disputations, it was an invariable maxim with him never to interrupt the most tedious or confused opponents, though, from his pithy questions, he made it evident, that, from the first, he anticipated the train and consequences of their reasonings.

His favourite studies were, Philology, History, Astronomy, Medicine, Theology, Logic, and Metaphysics, with all the branches of Natural and Experimental Philosophy; and that his attainments were not superficial, will be readily admitted by those who knew him best.—As a Linguist, he was acquainted with the Persian, Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, and Latin languages; together with the French, Spanish, Italian, and German; and he not only knew their ruling principles and predominant distinctions, so as to read them with facility, but in the greater part conversed fluently.

About the age of twenty-two, he accidentally met with the acute and learned Dr. Tucker, Dean of Gloucester, in a stage coach, who soon discovered the superiority of his companion, and after a reasonable acquaintance, in which the opinion he had at first entertained of John Henderson's surprising genius was amply confirmed, he wrote to his father, urging him to send a young man of such distinguished talents to an UNIVERSITY, where only they could expand, or be rightly appreciated; and, in the most handsome way, he accompanied this request with a present of TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. Such an instance of generosity, will confer lasting credit on the name of DEAN TUCKER.

On John Henderson's arrival at Oxford, he excited no small degree of surprise among his tutors, who very naturally inquired his reason for appearing at that place, and, as might be supposed, were soon contented to learn, where they had been accustomed to teach.[113]

It might be stated also, the late Edmund Rack, a gentleman possessed of much general knowledge, and antiquarian research, and whose materials for the "History of Somersetshire," formed the acknowledged basis of Collinson's valuable History of that county, thus expressed himself, in writing to a friend in London.

"My friend, Henderson, has lately paid me a visit, and stayed with me three weeks. I never spent a three weeks so happily, or so profitably. He is the only person I ever knew who seems to be a complete master of every subject in literature, arts, sciences, natural philosophy, divinity; and of all the books, ancient and modern, that engage the attention of the learned; but it is still more wonderful, that at the age of twelve, he should have been master of the Latin and Greek; to which he subsequently added, the Hebrew, Italian, Spanish, German, Persian, and Syriac languages; and also, all the ancient rabbinical learning of the Jews, and the divinity of the fathers; this was, however, the case. The learned DR. KENNICOTT told me, four years since, 'That the greatest men he ever knew were mere CHILDREN, compared to HENDERSON.' In company he is ever new. You never hear a repetition of what he has said before. His memory never fails, and his fund of knowledge is inexhaustible."

Dr. Kennicott, (before whom nothing superficial could have stood for a moment,) died in the year 1783, and John Henderson, at the time Dr. K, passed on him this eulogium, could have been only twenty-three years of age! One year after he had entered at Oxford.

Though not of the higher order of attainments, it may not be improper to mention his singular talent for IMITATION. He could not only assume the dialect of every foreign country, but the particular tone of every district of England so perfectly, that he might have passed for a native of either: and of the variations of the human accent in different individuals his recollection was so acute, and the modulation of his voice so varied, that, having once conversed with a person, he could most accurately imitate his gestures and articulation for ever after.[114]

No man had more profoundly traced the workings of the human heart than himself. A long observation on the causes and effects of moral action, with their external symbols, had matured his judgment in estimating the characters of men, and from the fullest evidence, confirmed him in a belief of the Science of PHYSIOGNOMY.

Though the "Physiognomical Sensation," in a greater or less degree, may exist in all, yet the data which support it are so obscure, and at all times so difficult to be defined, that if nature does not make the Physiognomist, study never will: and to be skilled in this science requires the combination of such rare talents, that it cannot excite wonder, either that the unskilful should frequently err, or that the multitude should despise, what they know they can never attain.

But John Henderson's discrimination qualified him to speak of all persons, in judging from their countenances, with an almost infallible certainty: he discovered, in his frequent decisions, not an occasional development of character, but a clear perception of the secondary as well as predominant tendencies, of the mind.

"Making his eye the inmate of each bosom." COLERIDGE.

It would appear like divination, if John Henderson's friends were to state the various instances they have known of that quick discernment which he possessed, that, as it were, penetrated the veil of sense, and unfolded to him the naked and unsophisticated qualities of the soul. There are many who will cordially admit the fact, when it is said, that, his eye was scarcely the eye of a man. There was a luminousness in it—a calm but piercing character, which seemed to partake more of the nature of spirit than of humanity.

His conversation was such as might have been expected from a man whose fancy was so creative, whose knowledge omnifarious, and whose recollection so unbounded. He combined scholastic accuracy with unaffected ease; condensed and pointed, yet rich and perspicuous. Were it possible for his numerous friends, by any energy of reminiscence, to collect his discourse, John Henderson would be distinguished as a voluminous author, who yet preserved a Spartan frugality of words.

His contemporaries at Oxford well remember, the enthusiasm with which every company received him; and his friends, in that University, consisted of all who were eminent for either talent or virtue.

It would be injustice to his memory not to mention the great marks of attention which were paid him, and the high estimation in which he was held by the late Edmund Burke and Dr. Johnson; the former of whom strenuously urged him either to apply to the bar, or to the church, and told him, that, in that case, it was impossible to doubt, but that he would become either a judge or a bishop. Such was the great lexicographer's admiration, also, of John Henderson, that in his annual visits to Oxford, to whatever company he was invited, he always stipulated for the introduction of his young friend, John Henderson,[115] which, in the result, converted a favour into an obligation. It might be named also, that many of the heads of colleges and other eminent characters, habitually attended his evening parties; an honour unknown to have been conferred before on any other under-graduate.

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....

J. C.



ROWLEY AND CHATTERTON

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, (in his own hand-writing, copied, as he 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 - - 1186 Seyncte Baldwin - - - - - - 1247 Seyncte Warburgie - - - - - - 1247 John De Burgham - - - - - - 1320 The Rawfe Cheddar Chappmanne - - - - 1356 Syr Thybbot Gorges - - - - - - 1440 Syr Wm. Canynge - - - - - - 1469 Thomas Rowley - - - - - - 1479 Carpenter, Bishoppe of Worcester Ecca, Bishoppe of Hereforde Elmar, Bishoppe of Selseie John Ladgate, or, Mayster John a 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 that were 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 of Rowley's verse, may be derived from the commencement of the chorus in Godwin.

"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...."

J. C.



THE WEARY PILGRIM

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 remain When 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, knows What 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 soil We are bound, and will not hear.

Heaven attracts not! On we dream; Cast like wrecks upon the shore Where 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 desires Centred, 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 conspire Not 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 voice Steals 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.

J. C.

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.

STONEHENGE.

Was it a spirit on yon shapeless pile? It wore, methought, a holy Druid's form, Musing on ancient days! The dying storm Moan'd in his lifted locks. Thou, night! the while Dost listen to his sad harp's wild complaint, Mother of shadows! as to thee he pours The broken strain, and plaintively deplores The fall of Druid fame! Hark! murmurs faint Breathe on the wavy air! and now more loud Swells the deep dirge; accustomed to complain Of holy rites unpaid, and of the crowd Whose 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 hand Drop 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!...

S. T. C."

[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 between eighty and ninety pounds; 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 of nine numbers of the Watchman, there were ten; and the printing of these ten numbers, came but to thirty five pounds. 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 the patriot's doubtful name I 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 train That 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 confesses Chaste 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."

[33] WRITTEN, (1793) WITH A PENCIL, ON THE WALL OP THE ROOM IN BRISTOL NEWGATE, WHERE SAVAGE DIED.

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 shame That 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 care Sheltered 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 from circumstance, or thee! And ever to thy heart the precept bear, When thine own conscience smites, a wayward brother spare!

J. C.

[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 L10 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 smallest claim upon 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."

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

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.

George Campbell, Curate.

Witnesses—Joseph Cottle, Sarah Cottle."

[52] At the instant Mr. Southey was about to set off on his travels, I observed he had no stick, and lent him a stout holly of my own. In the next year, on his return to Bristol, "Here" said Mr. S. "Here is the holly you were kind enough to lend me!"—I have since then looked with additional respect on my old igneous traveller, and remitted a portion of his accustomed labour. It was a source of some amusement, when, in November of 1836, Mr. Southey, in his journey to the West, to my great gratification, spent a few days with me, and in talking of Spain and Portugal, I showed him his companion, the Old Holly! Though somewhat bent with age, the servant (after an interval of forty years) was immediately recognised by his master, and with an additional interest, as this stick, he thought, on one occasion, had been the means of saving his purse, if not his life, from the sight of so efficient an instrument of defence having intimidated a Spanish robber.

[53] See page 32 [Paragraph starting with "The deepest sorrow often admits...." Transcriber.].

[54] During the French war, Spanish dollars received the impression of the King's head, and then passed as the current coin at 4s 6d.

[55] Dr. Hunter, translated St. Pierre.

[56] Dr. Gregory's life was prefixed entire the collection of Chatterton's works, 8 vols. 8vo. Mr. Southey never fulfilled his intention of writing a life Shatterton. The able review of this week, in the Edinburgh was written by Sir Walter Scott.

[57] It was not true, but a vain fancy; causelessly entertained, by, at least, four other ladies, under the same delusion as Miss. W.

[58] On visiting Mr. Southey, at Christ-Church, he introduced to me this Mr. Rickman, whom I found sensible enough, and blunt enough, and seditions enough; that is, simply anti-ministerial. The celebrated Sir G. Rose, had his seat in the vicinity. Sir George was a sort of King of the district. He was also Colonel of a regiment of volunteers. Mr. Rickman told me that the great man had recently made a feast for the officers of his regiment, about a dozen of them, the substantial yeomen of the neighbourhood. After the usual bumper had uproariously been offered to the "King and Constitution; and confusion to all Jacobins," the Colonel, Sir G. called on the Lieutenant-Colonel, after the glasses were duly charged, for a lady-toast. "I'll give you," he replied, "Lady Rose." This being received with all honours, the Major was now applied to for his lady-toast "I can't mend it," he replied, "I'll give Lady Rose." A Captain was now called on; said he, "I am sure I can't mend it, Lady Rose." So that the whole of these military heroes, concurred in drinking good Lady Rose's health.

One of the officers, it appeared, was a bit of a poet, and had composed a choice song for this festive occasion, and which was sung in grand chorus, the Right Honourable Colonel himself, heartily joining. The whole ditty was supremely ludicrous. I remember only the last verse.

"Sir George Rose is our Commander, He's as great as Alexander; He'll never flinch, nor stir back an inch, He loves fire like a Salamander.

CHORUS—He loves fire like a Salamander."

[59] Walter Savage Landor.

[60] The character of Exeter has been completely changed since the period when this letter was written; and from a town, the least attractive, for improvements of every description it may now vie with any town in England.

[61] Mr. Southey paid this second visit to Lisbon, accompanied by Mrs. Southey.

[62] By comparing Mr. Cattcott's copy with the original, it appeared that Mr. C. had very generally altered the orthography so as to give the appearance of greater antiquity, as 'lette' or 'let,' and 'onne' for 'on,' &c.

[63] The home of an 'Ap (son of) Griffiths, ap Jones, ap Owen, ap Thomas.' Some of the old Welsh families carry their Apping pedigrees down to Noah, when the progress is easy to Adam. Mr. Coleridge noticed how little diversity there was in the Welsh names. Thus in the list of subscribers to 'Owen's Welsh Dictionary,' to which none but Welshmen would subscribe, he found of

The letter D, of 31 names, 21 were Davis or Davies E, 30 16 ... ... Evans G, 30 two-thirds ... ... Griffiths H, all Hughes and Howell I, 66 all ... ... Jones L, all Lloyds, except 4 Lewises, and 1 Llewellyn M, four-fiths ... ... Morgans O, all ... ... Owen R, all Roberts, or Richards T, all ... ... Thomases V, all ... ... Vaughans W, 64 56 ... ... Williams

Mr. Southey felt great satisfaction when he had found a house in Wales that exactly suited him. It was half way up one of the Glamorganshire mountains; well wooded; the immediate scenery fine; the prospect magnificent. The rent was approved, the time of entrance arranged, when, before the final settlement, Mr. S. thought, on a second survey, that a small additional kitchen was essential to the comfort of the house, and required it of the proprietor, preparatory to his taking a lease. To so reasonable a request the honest Welshman stoutly objected; and on this slight occurrence, depended whether the Laurent should take up, perhaps, his permanent residence in the Principality, or wend his way northward, and spend the last thirty years of his life in sight of Skiddaw.

[64] Wm. Churchey was a very honest worthy lawyer, of Brecon, who unfortunately adopted the notion that he was a poet, and to substantiate his claim published the most remarkable book the world ever saw! It was a poem called 'Joseph,' with other poems, in 4to, and of a magnitude really awful! a mountain among the puny race of modern books. The only copy I ever saw was af an old book stall, and I have regretted that I did not purchase it, and get some stout porter to carry it home. Wm. Churchey was a friend of John Wesley. His prodigious 4to was published by subscription, and given away at the paltry sum of one guinea. I have an autograph letter of John Wesley, to his friend Churchey, in which he says,

"My dear brother,

... I have procured one hundred guineas, and hope to procure fifty more.

John Wesley."

Mr. Churchey's pamphlet is thus entitled, "An Apology, by Wm. Churchey, for his public appearance as a Poet. Printed at Trevecca, Breconshire, by Hughes and Co., 1805; and sold by the author, at Brecon, price 6d."

The first paragraph in the 'Apology,' begins thus, the italics the author's own.

"The author has been ostracised from Parnassus by some tribe of the critics on his former work of Weight, if not Merit, one set of whom —the most ancient, the wisest of them all—condemned it in the lump. A whole volume of ten thousand lines, in one paragraph of their Monthly Catalogue, for which they were paid—nothing! without quoting one line! Whereas a score (!) out of some idle sonnet, or some wire-drawn Cibberian ode, shall be held up out of the mud with a placid grin of applause. The author has forgiven them, and keeps, therefore, the name of their pamphlet in the back ground, in the charitable hope of their having fifteen years ago, repented of that injustice' This ponderous work however, to which the author alludes, was his 'Poems and Imitations of the British Poets, in one large vol. in 4to, price only L1 1s. on excellent paper and print! The same price as even 'Jeffrey Gambado's Gambol of Horsemanship' went off as current, at the same time. He out-jockied me; I always was a bad Horseman." &c., &c.

As illustrating one of the extreme points of human nature, I may casually mention that, after Mr. Churchey's death, which soon succeeded the issuing of his 'Apology,' from understanding that his widow was in straitened circumstances, and meeting with a gentleman who was going to Brecon, I requested the favour of him to convey to her a guinea, as a small present. A week after, I received a letter from the widow, thanking me for my kind remembrance, but she said that she was not benefited by it, as Mr. —— said to her, 'This is a guinea, sent to you from Mr. Cottle, of Bristol, but as your husband owed me money, I shall carry it to the credit of his account'; when, buttoning his pocket, he walked away.' I immediately sent another guinea, and requested her not to name so disreputable an action, in one, from whom I had hoped better conduct. This gentleman, till the period of his death, twenty years after, always shunned me! At the time the abstraction took place, he was a wealthy man, and kept his carriage; but from that time he declined in prosperity, and died in indigence.

[65] In a better sent to me by Mr. Foster, dated June 22, 1843, he thus explains the mysterious circumstances, relating to the publication of "Wat Tyler."

"My dear sir,

... I wonder if Mr. Southey ever did get at the secret history of that affair. The story as I heard it was, that Southey visited Winterbottom in prison, and just as a token of kindness, gave him the M.S. of 'Wat Tyler.' It was no fault of Winterbottom that it was published. On a visit to some friends at Worcester, he had the piece with him; meaning I suppose, to afford them a little amusement, at Southey's expense, he being held in great reproach, even contempt, as a turn-coat. At the house where Winterbottom was visiting, two persons, keeping the piece in their reach at bed-time, sat up all night transcribing it, of course giving him no hint of the manoeuvre. This information I had from one of the two operators....

[66] Poor John Morgan was the only child of a retired spirit merchant of Bristol, who left him a handsome independence. He was a worthy kind-hearted man, possessed of more than an average of reading and good sense; generally respected, and of unpresuming manners. He was a great friend and admirer of Mr. Coleridge; deploring his habits, and labouring to correct them. Except Mr. Gillman, there was no individual, with whom Mr. Coleridge lived gratuitously so much, during Mr. M's. residence in London, extending to a domestication of several years. When Mr. Morgan removed to Calne, in Wiltshire, for a long time, he gave Mr. C. an asylum, and till his affairs, through the treachery of others, became involved, Mr. Coleridge, through him, never wanted a home. That so worthy, and generous a minded man should have been thus reduced, or rather ruined in his circumstances, was much deplored by all who knew him, and marked the instability of human possessions and prospects, often little expected by industrious parents.