Preface

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.

Contents

the Fall of Robespierre

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.

Yet much they talk ­ and plausible their speech. Couthon's decree has given such powers, that ­

That what?

The freedom of debate ­

Transparent mask! They wish to clog the wheels of government, Forcing the hand that guides the vast machine To bribe them to their duty. ­ English patriots! Are not the congregated clouds of war Black all around us? In our very vitals Works not the king-bred poison of rebellion? Say, what shall counteract the selfish plottings Of wretches, cold of heart, nor awed by fears Of him, whose power directs th' eternal justice? Terror? or secret-sapping gold? The first. Heavy, but transient as the ills that cause it; And to the virtuous patriot render'd light By the necessities that gave it birth: The other fouls the fount of the Republic, Making it flow polluted to all ages; Inoculates the state with a slow venom, That once imbibed, must be continued ever. Myself incorruptible I ne'er could bribe them ­ Therefore they hate me.

Are the Sections friendly?

There are who wish my ruin ­ but I'll make them Blush for the crime in blood!

Nay ­ but I tell thee, Thou art too fond of slaughter ­ and the right (If right it be) workest by most foul means!

Self-centering Fear! how well thou canst ape Mercy! Too fond of slaughter! ­ matchless hypocrite! Thought Barrere so, when Brissot, Danton died? Thought Barrere so, when through the streaming streets Of Paris red-eyed Massacre, o'er wearied, Reel'd heavily, intoxicate with blood? And when (O heavens!) in Lyons' death-red square Sick fancy groan'd o'er putrid hills of slain, Didst thou not fiercely laugh, and bless the day? Why, thou hast been the mouth-piece of all horrors, And, like a blood-hound, crouch'd for murder! Now Aloof thou standest from the tottering pillar, Or, like a frighted child behind its mother, Hidest thy pale face in the skirts of ­ Mercy!

O prodigality of eloquent anger! Why now I see thou'rt weak ­ thy case is desperate! The cool ferocious Robespierre turn'd scolder!

Who from a bad man's bosom wards the blow, Reserves the whetted dagger for his own. Denounced twice ­ and twice I sav'd his life!

The Sections will support them ­ there's the point! No! he can never weather out the storm ­ Yet he is sudden in revenge ­ No more! I must away to Tallien.

Didst thou present the letter that I gave thee? Did Tallien answer, he would soon return?

He is in the Tuilleries ­ with him, Legendre ­ In deep discourse they seem'd: as I approach'd He waved his hand, as bidding me retire: I did not interrupt him.

Thou didst rightly.

O this new freedom! at how dear a price We've bought the seeming good! The peaceful virtues And every blandishment of private life, The father's cares, the mother's fond endearment, All sacrificed to liberty's wild riot. The winged hours, that scatter'd roses round me, Languid and sad drag their slow course along, And shake big gall-drops from their heavy wings. But I will steal away these anxious thoughts By the soft languishment of warbled airs, If haply melodies may lull the sense Of sorrow for a while.

Music, my love? O breathe again that air! Soft nurse of pain, it soothes the weary soul Of care, sweet as the whisper'd breeze of evening That plays around the sick man's throbbing temples.

Tell me, on what holy ground May domestic peace be found? Halcyon daughter of the skies, Far on fearful wing she flies, From the pomp of sceptred state, From the rebel's noisy hate. In a cottag'd vale she dwells, List'ning to the Sabbath bells! Still around her steps are seen Spotless honour's meeker mien, Love, the sire of pleasing fears, Sorrow smiling through her tears, And conscious of the past employ, Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

I thank thee, Adelaide! 'twas sweet, though mournful. But why thy brow o'ercast, thy cheek so wan? Thou look'st as a lorn maid beside some stream, That sighs away the soul in fond despairing, While sorrow sad, like the dank willow near her, Hangs o'er the troubled fountain of her eye.

Ah! rather let me ask what mystery lowers On Tallien's darken'd brow. Thou dost me wrong ­ Thy soul distemper'd, can my heart be tranquil?

Tell me, by whom thy brother's blood was spilt? Asks he not vengeance on these patriot murderers? It has been borne too tamely. Fears and curses Groan on our midnight beds, and e'en our dreams Threaten the assassin hand of Robespierre. He dies! ­ nor has the plot escaped his fears.

Yet ­ yet ­ be cautious! much I fear the Commune ­ The tyrant's creatures, and their fate with his Fast link'd in close indissoluble union. The pale Convention ­

Hate him as they fear him, Impatient of the chain, resolved and ready.

Th' enthusiast mob, confusion's lawless sons ­

They are aweary of his stern morality, The fair-mask'd offspring of ferocious pride. The Sections too support the delegates: All ­ all is ours! e'en now the vital air Of Liberty, condens'd awhile, is bursting (Force irresistible!) from its compressure ­ To shatter the arch chemist in the explosion!

Tallien! was this a time for amorous conference? Henriot, the tyrant's most devoted creature, Marshals the force of Paris: The fierce club, With Vivier at their head, in loud acclaim Have sworn to make the guillotine in blood Float on the scaffold. ­ But who comes here?

Say, are ye friends to freedom? I am hers! Let us, forgetful of all common feuds, Rally around her shrine! E'en now the tyrant Concerts a plan of instant massacre!

Away to the Convention! with that voice So oft the herald of glad victory, Rouse their fallen spirits, thunder in their ears The names of tyrant, plunderer, assassin! The violent workings of my soul within Anticipate the monster's blood!

Hear ye that outcry? ­ If the trembling members Even for a moment hold his fate suspended, I swear by the holy poniard, that stabbed Caesar, This dagger probes his heart!