THE COMPLETE PLAYS OF S. T. COLERIDGE. Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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desirous of being apprenticed to this man, to learn the art of shoemaking; and in due time, when some of the boys were old enough to leave the school, and be put to trade, Coleridge, being of the number, tutored his friend Crispin how to apply to the head master, and not to heed his anger should he become irate. Accordingly, Crispin applied at the hour proposed to see Bowyer; who, having heard the proposal to take Coleridge as an apprentice, and Coleridge’s answer and assent to become a shoemaker, broke forth with his favourite adjuration, “‘Ods my life, man, what d’ye mean?” At the sound of his angry voice, Crispin stood motionless, till the angry pedagogue becoming infuriate, pushed the intruder out of the room with such force, that Crispin might have sustained an action at law against him for an assault. Thus, to Coleridge’s mortification and regret, as he afterwards in joke would say,
“I lost the opportunity of supplying safeguards to the understandings of those, who perhaps will never thank me for what I am aiming to do in exercising their reason.
“Against my will,” says he, “I was chosen by my master as one of those destined for the university; and about this time my brother Luke, or ‘the Doctor,’ so called from his infancy, because being the seventh son, he had, from his infancy, been dedicated to the medical profession, came to town to walk the London Hospital, under the care of Sir William Blizard. Mr. Saumarez, brother of the Admiral Lord Saumarez, was his intimate friend. Every Saturday I could make or obtain leave, to the London Hospital trudged I. O the bliss if I was permitted to hold the plasters, or to attend the dressings. Thirty years afterwards, Mr. Saumarez retained the liveliest recollections of the extraordinary, enthusiastic blue-coat boy, and was exceedingly affected in identifying me with that boy. I became wild to be apprenticed to a surgeon. English, Latin, yea, Greek books of medicine read I incessantly. Blanchard’s Latin Medical Dictionary I had nearly by heart. Briefly, it was a wild dream, which gradually blending with, gradually gave way to a rage for metaphysics, occasioned by the essays on Liberty and Necessity in Cato’s Letters, and more by theology. After I had read Voltaire’s Philosophical Dictionary, I sported infidel! but my infidel vanity never touched my heart:”
nor ever with his lips did he for a few months only support the new light given him by Voltaire.
“With my heart,” says he, “I never did abandon the name of Christ.”
This reached Bowyer’s ears, and he sent for him: not to reason with him, as teachers and parents do too often, and by this means as often increase the vanity of these tyro-would-be-philosophers; but he took the surest mode, if not of curing, at least of checking the disease. His argument was short and forcible.
“So, sirrah, you are an infidel, are you? then I’ll flog your infidelity out of you;”
and gave him the severest flogging he had ever received at his hands. This, as I have often heard Coleridge say, was the only just flogging he had ever given him: certainly, from all I ever heard of him, Bowyer was strictly a flogging master. Trollope, in his History of Christ’s Hospital, page 137, says of him,
”His discipline was exact in the extreme, and tinctured, perhaps, with
more than due severity.”
Coleridge, in his ‘Biographia Literaria’, after paying a just compliment to Bowyer as a teacher, says,
“The reader will, I trust, excuse this tribute of recollection to a man, whose severities, even now, not seldom furnish the dreams by which the blind fancy would fain interpret to the mind the painful sensation of distempered sleep, but neither lessen nor diminish the deep sense of my moral and intellectual obligations.”
He had his passionate days, which the boys described as the days he wore his Passy wig (passy abbreviated from passionate). “Sirrah! I’ll flog you,” were words so familiar to him, that on one occasion, some female relation or friend of one of the boys entered his room, when a class stood before him and inquired for Master — ; master was no school title with Bowyer. The errand of this lady being to ask a short leave of absence for some boy, on the sudden appearance in town of his country cousin, still lingering at the door, after having been abruptly told to go, Bowyer suddenly exclaimed, “Bring that woman here, and I’ll flog her!”
Coleridge’s themes in his fifteenth year, in verse as well as prose, marked him as a boy of great talent, but of talent only according to his own definition of it (vide “Friend,” vol. iii. edit. 1818). His verse was good, his prose powerful, and language correct, and beyond his years in depth of thought, but as yet he had not manifested, according to the same test, anything of genius. I met among some of his notes, written at the age of fifty-one, the following critique on one of his schoolboy themes:
“This theme was written at the age of fifteen: it does not contain a line that any schoolboy might not have written, and like most school-poetry, there is a putting of thoughts into verse. Yet such verses as a striving of mind and struggles after the intense and vivid, are a fair promise of better things.”
The same observation might be made in the intense application of his intellectual powers in search of truth, at the time he called himself an infidel; in this struggle of mind was the “fair promise of better things.” It was the preparation necessary for such a mind; the breaking up and tilling of the soil for the successful germination of the seeds of truth.
The sleeping powers of thought were roused and excited into action.
Perhaps this may be considered, as entering too early into the history of his mind in boyhood: to this I reply, that the entire man so to speak, is to be seen even in the cradle of the child.
The serious may be startled at the thought of a young man passing through such an ordeal; but with him it was the exercise of his strength, in order that he might “fight the good fight,” and conquer for that truth which is permanent, and is the light and the life of every one who comes into the world, and who is in earnest search of it.
In his sixteenth year he composed the allegory of “Real and Imaginary Time,” first published in the Sibylline Leaves, having been accidentally omitted in the Juvenile Poems, —
”On the wide level of a mountain’s head,
(I knew not where, but ‘twas some fairy place)
Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,
Two lovely children run an endless race,
A sister and a brother!
That far outstripped the other;
Yet ever runs she with reverted face,
And looks and listens for the boy behind;
For he, alas! is blind!
O’er rough and smooth with even step he passed,
And knows not whether he be first or last.”
in which may be traced the first dawnings of his genius. He pictures to himself a boy returning to school after the holidays; in his daydreams making plans for the future, and anticipating the pleasure he is to enjoy on his return home; his vivid thoughts, and sanguine expectations “far outstripping” the reality of time as marked by the watch or almanack. Real time is personified as a blind boy steadily pursuing his path; whilst imaginary time is represented as a fleeting girl, looking back and listening for her brother whom she has outrun. Perhaps to Mr. Bowyer’s excellent method of instruction may be attributed this early developement of his genius. Coleridge remarks of him,
“He was an admirable educer, no less than educator of intellect; he taught me to leave out as many epithets as would make eight syllable lines, and then ask if the exercise would not be greatly improved.”
Although in this year he began to indulge in metaphysical speculations, he was wedded to verse, and many of his early poems were planned; some of which he finished, and they were published in the “Juvenile Poems,” on his entry into life; but as many more were scattered among his friends, who had greatly increased in number. About this time he became acquainted with a widow lady,
“whose son,” says he, “I, as upper boy, had protected, and who therefore looked up to me, and