Here wisdom might abide, and here remorse!
Here, too, the woe-worn man, who, weak in soul,
And of this busy human heart aweary,
Worships the spirit of unconscious life
In tree or wild-flower. Gentle lunatic!
If so he might not wholly cease to BE,
He would far rather not be what he is;
But would be something that he knows not of,
In woods or waters, or among the rocks.[110]
My main comfort, therefore, consists in what the divines call the faith of adherence, and no spiritual effort appears to benefit me so much as the one earnest, importunate, and often for hours, momently repeated prayers: “I believe! Lord, help my unbelief! Give me faith, but as a mustard seed, and I shall remove this mountain! Faith! faith! faith! I believe. Oh, give me faith! Oh, for my Redeemer’s sake, give me faith in my Redeemer.”
In all this I justify God, for I was accustomed to oppose the preaching of the terrors of the gospel, and to represent it as debasing virtue by the admixture of slavish selfishness.
I now see that what is spiritual can only be spiritually apprehended. Comprehended it cannot.
Mr. Eden gave you a too flattering account of me. It is true, I am restored as much beyond my expectations almost as my deserts; but I am exceedingly weak. I need for myself solace and refocillation of animal spirits, instead of being in a condition of offering it to others. Yet as soon as I may see you, I will call upon you.
S. T. Coleridge.
CXCIX. TO CHARLES MATHEWS.
2, Queen’s Square, Bristol, May 30, 1814.
Dear Sir,—Unusual as this liberty may be, yet as it is a friendly one, you will pardon it, especially from one who has had already some connection with the stage, and may have more. But I was so highly gratified with my feast of this night, that I feel a sort of restless impulse to tell you what I felt and thought.
Imprimis, I grieved that you had such miserable materials to deal with as Colman’s Solomon Grundy,[111] a character which in and of itself (Mathews and his Variations ad libitum put out of the question) contains no one element of genuine comedy, no, nor even of fun or drollery. The play is assuredly the very sediment, the dregs of a noble cask of wine; for such was, yes, in many instances was and has been, and in many more might have been, Colman’s dramatic genius.