I heard a loud screaming of old and young,
Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis’ sung;
Or an Irish dump (“the words by Moore”)
At an amateur concert scream’d in score;—
So harsh on my ear that wailing fell
Of the wretches who in this limbo dwell!
It seem’d like the dismal symphony
Of the shapes Æneas in hell did see;
Or those frogs, whose legs a barbarous cook
Cut off and left the frogs in the brook,
To cry all night, till life’s last dregs,
“Give us our legs!—give us our legs!”
Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene,
I ask’d what all this yell might mean,
When the spirit replied with a grin of glee,
“’Tis the cry of the suitors in Chancery!”
I look’d, and I saw a wizard rise,
With a wig like a cloud before men’s eyes.
In his aged hand he held a wand,
Wherewith he beckoned his embryo hand,
And then mov’d and mov’d, as he wav’d it o’er,
But they never got on one inch more,
And still they kept limping to and fro,
Like Ariels’ round old Prospero—
Saying, “dear master, let us go,”
But still old Prospero answer’d “No.”
And I heard, the while, that wizard elf,
Muttering, muttering spells to himself,
While over as many old papers he turn’d,
As Hume e’er moved for or Omar burn’d.
He talk’d of his virtue—though some, less nice,
(He own’d with a sigh) preferr’d his Vice—
And he said, “I think”—“I doubt”—“I hope”—
Call’d God to witness, and damn’d the Pope;
With many more sleights of tongue and hand
I couldn’t, for the soul of me, understand.
Amaz’d and poz’d, I was just about
To ask his name, when the screams without
The merciless clack of the imps within,
And that conjurer’s mutterings, made such a din,
That, startled, I woke—leap’d up in my bed—
Found the spirit, the imps, and the conjurer fled.
And bless’d my stars, right pleas’d to see,
That I wasn’t, as yet, in Chancery.
For several years before the appearance of his solemn “Aids to Reflection” in 1825, Mr. Coleridge had been to the world “as though he was not;” and since that “Hand-book” of masterly sayings his voice has ceased from the public. Forgotten he could not be, yet when he was remembered it was by inquiries concerning his present “doings,” and whispers of his “whereabout.” On a sudden the preceding verses startle the dull town, and dwelling on the lazy ear, as being, according to their printed ascription, “by the author of Christabel.” In vindication of himself against the misconception of the wit of their real author, the imputed parent steps forth in the following note.
To the Editor of the Times.
Grove, Highgate, Tuesday Evening.
Sir,—I have just received a note from a city friend, respecting a poem in “The Times” of this morning ascribed to me. On consulting the paper, I see he must refer to “A Vision,” by the author of “Christabel.” Now, though I should myself have interpreted these words as the author, I doubt not, intended them, viz., as a part of the fiction; yet with the proof before me that others will understand them literally, I should feel obliged by your stating, that till this last half hour the poem and its publication were alike unknown to me; and I remain, Sir, respectfully yours, S. T. Coleridge.
This little “affair” exemplifies that it is the fortune of talent to be seldom comprehended.
NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 61·45.