Title: The Literary Remains of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Volume 1
Author: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Editor: Henry Nelson Coleridge
Release date: July 1, 2005 [eBook #8488]
Most recently updated: February 14, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, David Widger
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
Mr. Coleridge by his will, dated in September, 1829,
authorized his executor, if he should think it expedient, to
publish any of the notes or writing made by him (Mr. C.) in his
books, or any other of his manuscripts or writings, or any
letters which should thereafter be collected from, or supplied
by, his friends or correspondents. Agreeably to this authority,
an arrangement was made, under the superintendence of Mr. Green,
for the collection of Coleridge's literary remains; and at the
same time the preparation for the press of such part of the
materials as should consist of criticism and general literature,
was entrusted to the care of the present Editor. The volumes now
offered to the public are the first results of that arrangement.
They must in any case stand in need of much indulgence from the
ingenuous reader;- multa sunt condonanda in opere postumo;
but a short statement of the difficulties attending the
compilation may serve to explain some apparent anomalies, and to
preclude some unnecessary censure.
The materials were fragmentary in the extreme Sibylline
leaves; notes of the lecturer, memoranda of the
investigator, out-pourings of the solitary and self-communing
student. The fear of the press was not in them. Numerous as they
were, too, they came to light, or were communicated, at different
times, before and after the printing was commenced; and the
dates, the occasions, and the references, in most instances
remained to be discovered or conjectured. To give to such
materials method and continuity, as far as might be, to set
them forth in the least disadvantageous manner which the
circumstances would permit, was a delicate and perplexing
task; and the Editor is painfully sensible that he could bring
few qualifications for the undertaking, but such as were involved
in a many years' intercourse with the author himself, a patient
study of his writings, a reverential admiration of his genius,
and an affectionate desire to help in extending its beneficial
influence.
The contents of these volumes are drawn from a portion only of
the manuscripts entrusted to the Editor: the remainder of the
collection, which, under favourable circumstances, he hopes may
hereafter see the light, is at least of equal value with what is
now presented to the reader as a sample. In perusing the
following pages, the reader will, in a few instances, meet with
disquisitions of a transcendental character, which, as a general
rule, have been avoided: the truth is, that they were sometimes
found so indissolubly intertwined with the more popular matter
which preceded and followed, as to make separation impracticable.
There are very many to whom no apology will be necessary in this
respect; and the Editor only adverts to it for the purpose of
obviating, as far as may be, the possible complaint of the more
general reader. But there is another point to which, taught by
past experience, he attaches more importance, and as to which,
therefore, he ventures to put in a more express and particular
caution. In many of the books and papers, which have been used in
the compilation of these volumes, passages from other writers,
noted down by Mr. Coleridge as in some way remarkable, were mixed
up with his own comments on such passages, or with his
reflections on other subjects, in a manner very embarrassing to
the eye of a third person undertaking to select the original
matter, after the lapse of several years. The Editor need not say
that he has not knowingly admitted any thing that was not genuine
without an express declaration, as in Vol. I. p. 1; and in
another instance, Vol. II. p. 379, he has intimated his own
suspicion: but, besides these, it is possible that some cases of
mistake in this respect may have occurred. There may be one or
two passages they cannot well be more printed in
these volumes, which belong to other writers; and if such there
be, the Editor can only plead in excuse, that the work has been
prepared by him amidst many distractions, and hope that, in this
instance at least, no ungenerous use will be made of such a
circumstance to the disadvantage of the author, and that persons
of greater reading or more retentive memories than the Editor,
who may discover any such passages, will do him the favour to
communicate the fact.
The Editor's motive in publishing the few poems and fragments
included in these volumes, was to make a supplement to the
collected edition of Coleridge's poetical works. In these
fragments the reader will see the germs of several passages in
the already published poems of the author, but which the Editor
has not thought it necessary to notice more particularly. The
Fall of Robespierre, a joint composition, has been so long in
print in the French edition of Coleridge's poems, that,
independently of such merit as it may possess, it seemed natural
to adopt it upon the present occasion, and to declare the true
state of the authorship.
To those who have been kind enough to communicate books and
manuscripts for the purpose of the present publication, the
Editor and, through him, Mr. Coleridge's executor return their
grateful thanks. In most cases a specific acknowledgement has
been made. But, above and independently of all others, it is to
Mr. and Mrs. Gillman, and to Mr. Green himself, that the public
are indebted for the preservation and use of the principal part
of the contents of these volumes. The claims of those respected
individuals on the gratitude of the friends and admirers of
Coleridge and his works are already well known, and in due season
those claims will receive additional confirmation.
With these remarks, sincerely conscious of his own inadequate
execution of the task assigned to him, yet confident withal of
the general worth of the contents of the following pages
the Editor commits the reliques of a great man to the indulgent
consideration of the Public.
Lincoln's Inn, August 11, 1836.
L'Envoy.
He was one who with long and large arm still collected precious armfulls in whatever direction he pressed forward, yet still took up so much more than he could keep together, that those who followed him gleaned more from his continual droppings than he himself brought home; nay, made stately corn-ricks therewith, while the reaper himself was still seen only with a strutting armful of newly-cut sheaves. But I should misinform you grossly if I left you to infer that his collections were a heap of incoherent miscellanea. No! the very contrary. Their variety, conjoined with the too great coherency, the too great both desire and power of referring them in systematic, nay, genetic subordination, was that which rendered his schemes gigantic and impracticable, as an author, and his conversation less instructive as a man.
Auditorem inopem ipsa copia fecit.
Too much was given, all so weighty and brilliant as to preclude a chance of its being all received, so that it not seldom passed over the hearer's mind like a roar of many waters.
and other poems
to H. Martin, Esq.
of Jesus College, Cambridge
Dear Sir
Accept, as a small testimony of my grateful attachment, the
following Dramatic Poem, in which I have endeavoured to detail,
in an interesting form, the fall of a man, whose great bad
actions have cast a disastrous lustre on his name. In the
execution of the work, as intricacy of plot could not have been
attempted without a gross violation of recent facts, it has been
my sole aim to imitate the impassioned and highly figurative
language of the French Orators, and to develope the characters of
the chief actors on a vast stage of horrors.
Yours fraternally,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
Jesus College, September 22, 1794.
the Fall of Robespierre
an Historic Drama. 1794 1
ACT I.
scene the Tuileries
BARRERE.
The tempest gathers be it mine to seek
A friendly shelter, ere it bursts upon him.
But where? and how? I fear the tyrant's soul
Sudden in action, fertile in resource,
And rising awful 'mid impending ruins;
In splendour gloomy, as the midnight meteor,
That fearless thwarts the elemental war.
When last in secret conference we met,
He scowl'd upon me with suspicious rage,
Making his eye the inmate of my bosom.
I know he scorns me and I feel, I hate him
Yet there is in him that which makes me tremble!
It was Barrere, Legendre! didst thou mark him?
Abrupt he turn'd, yet linger'd as he went,
And tow'rds us cast a look of doubtful meaning.
I mark'd him well. I met his eye's last glance;
It menac'd not so proudly as of yore.
Methought he would have spoke but that he dar'd not
Such agitation darken'd on his brow.
'Twas all-distrusting guilt that kept from bursting
Th' imprison'd secret struggling in the face:
E'en as the sudden breeze upstarting onwards
Hurries the thunder cloud, that pois'd awhile
Hung in mid air, red with its mutinous burthen.
Perfidious traitor! still afraid to bask
In the full blaze of power, the rustling serpent
Lurks in the thicket of the tyrant's greatness,
Ever prepar'd to sting who shelters him.
Each thought, each action in himself converges;
And love and friendship on his coward heart
Shine like the powerless sun on polar ice:
To all attach'd, by turns deserting all,
Cunning and dark a necessary villain!
Yet much depends upon him well you know
With plausible harangue 'tis his to paint
Defeat like victory and blind the mob
With truth-mix'd falsehood. They, led on by him,
And wild of head to work their own destruction,
Support with uproar what he plans in darkness.
O what a precious name is liberty
To scare or cheat the simple into slaves!
Yes we must gain him over: by dark hints
We'll show enough to rouse his watchful fears,
Till the cold coward blaze a patriot.
O Danton! murder'd friend! assist my counsels
Hover around me on sad memory's wings,
And pour thy daring vengeance in my heart.
Tallien! if but to-morrow's fateful sun
Beholds the tyrant living we are dead!
Yet his keen eye that flashes mighty meanings
Fear not or rather fear th' alternative,
And seek for courage e'en in cowardice
But see hither he comes let us away!
His brother with him, and the bloody Couthon,
And, high of haughty spirit, young St. Just.
What! did La Fayette fall before my power
And did I conquer Roland's spotless virtues
The fervent eloquence of Vergniaud's tongue,
And Brissot's thoughtful soul unbribed and bold!
Did zealot armies haste in vain to save them!
What! did th' assassin's dagger aim its point
Vain, as a dream of murder, at my bosom;
And shall I dread the soft luxurious Tallien?
Th' Adonis Tallien, banquet-hunting Tallien,
Him, whose heart flutters at the dice-box! Him,
Who ever on the harlots' downy pillow
Resigns his head impure to feverish slumbers!
I cannot fear him yet we must not scorn him.
Was it not Antony that conquer'd Brutus,
Th' Adonis, banquet-hunting Antony?
The state is not yet purified: and though
The stream runs clear, yet at the bottom lies
The thick black sediment of all the factions
It needs no magic hand to stir it up!
O, we did wrong to spare them fatal error!
Why lived Legendre, when that Danton died,
And Collot d'Herbois dangerous in crimes?
I've fear'd him, since his iron heart endured
To make of Lyons one vast human shambles,
Compar'd with which the sun-scorch'd wilderness
Of Zara were a smiling paradise.
Rightly thou judgest, Couthon! He is one,
Who flies from silent solitary anguish,
Seeking forgetful peace amid the jar
Of elements. The howl of maniac uproar
Lulls to sad sleep the memory of himself.
A calm is fatal to him then he feels
The dire upboilings of the storm within him.
A tiger mad with inward wounds! I dread
The fierce and restless turbulence of guilt.
Is not the Commune ours? the stern Tribunal?
Dumas? and Vivier? Fleuriot? and Louvet?
And Henriot? We'll denounce a hundred, nor
Shall they behold to-morrow's sun roll westward.
Nay I am sick of blood! my aching heart
Reviews the long, long train of hideous horrors
That still have gloom'd the rise of the Republic.
I should have died before Toulon, when war
Became the patriot!
Most unworthy wish!
He, whose heart sickens at the blood of traitors
Would be himself a traitor, were he not
A coward! 'Tis congenial souls alone
Shed tears of sorrow for each other's fate.
O, thou art brave, my brother! and thine eye
Full firmly shines amid the groaning battle
Yet in thine heart the woman-form of pity
Asserts too large a share, an ill-timed guest!
There is unsoundness in the state to-morrow
Shall see it cleansed by wholesome massacre!
Beware! already do the Sections murmur
"O the great glorious patriot, Robespierre
The tyrant guardian of the country's freedom!"
'Twere folly sure to work great deeds by halves!
Much I suspect the darksome fickle heart
Of cold Barrere!
I see the villain in him!
If he if all forsake thee what remains?
Myself! the steel-strong rectitude of soul
And poverty sublime 'mid circling virtues!
The giant victories, my counsels form'd,
Shall stalk around me with sun-glittering plumes,
Bidding the darts of calumny fall pointless.
So we deceive ourselves! What goodly virtues
Bloom on the poisonous branches of ambition!
Still, Robespierre! thou'l't guard thy country's freedom
To despotize in all the patriot's pomp.
While conscience, 'mid the mob's applauding clamours,
Sleeps in thine ear, nor whispers blood-stain'd tyrant!
Yet what is conscience? superstition's dream
Making such deep impression on our sleep
That long th' awaken'd breast retains its horrors!
But he returns and with him comes Barrere.
There is no danger but in cowardice.
Barrere! we make the danger, when we fear it.
We have such force without, as will suspend
The cold and trembling treachery of these members.
Twill be a pause of terror.
But to whom?
Rather the short-lived slumber of the tempest,
Gathering its strength anew. The dastard traitors!
Moles, that would undermine the rooted oak!
A pause! a moment's pause! 'Tis all their life.