“This is a most important distinction, and in the new light afforded by it to my mind, I see more plainly why mathematics cannot be a substitute for Logic, much less for Metaphysics — i.e. transcendental Logic, and why therefore Cambridge has produced so few men of genius and original power since the time of Newton. — Not only it does ‘not’ call forth the balancing and discriminating powers (‘that’ I saw long ago), but it requires only ‘attention’, not ‘thought’ or self-production.
“In a long-brief Dream-life of regretted regrets, I still find a noticeable space marked out by the Regret of having neglected the Mathematical Sciences. No ‘week’, few ‘days’ pass unhaunted by a fresh conviction of the truth involved in the Platonic Superstition over the Portal of Philosophy,
[Greek: Maedeis ageométraetos eisíto].
But surely Philosophy hath scarcely sustained more detriment by its alienation from mathematics.”
MS. Note.]
[Footnote 14:
“In my friendless wanderings on our leave-days, i.e. the Christ Hospital phrase, not for holidays altogether, but for those on which the boys are permitted to go beyond the precincts of the school (for I was an orphan, and had scarce any connexions in London), highly was I delighted, if any passenger, especially if he drest in black, would enter into conversation with me; for soon I found the means of directing it to my favourite subjects —
Of Providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,
Fix’d fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute,
And found no end, in wandering mazes lost.”]
[Footnote 15: The upper boys of the school selected for the University are so termed, though wearing the same coloured dress, but made of more costly materials.]
[Footnote 16: In a note on the History, p. 192, Mr. Trollope makes the following observation:
“From this book” (a book in which the boys were allowed to copy their verses when considered good) “the verses referred to in the text were inscribed.”
They will be found in the Literary Remains, vol. i, p.33. Trollope says,
”These verses are copied not as one of the best, but of the earliest
productions of the writer.”]
[Footnote 17: Entered at Jesus’ College, Feb. 5th, 1791, at the age of 19. — College Books.]
CHAPTER II.
COLERIDGE’S FIRST ENTRY AT JESUS’ COLLEGE. — HIS SIMPLICITY AND WANT OF WORLDLY TACT. — ANECDOTES AND DIFFERENT ACCOUNTS OF HIM DURING HIS RESIDENCE AT COLLEGE INTIMACY WITH MIDDLETON — WITH SOUTHEY. — QUITS COLLEGE FOR BRISTOL.
At Cambridge, whither his reputation had travelled before him, high hopes and fair promises of success were entertained by his young friends and relations. He was considered by the “Blues,” as they are familiarly termed, one from whom they were to derive great immediate honour, which for a short period, however, was deferred. Individual genius has a cycle of its own, and moves only in that path, or by the powers influencing it. Genius has been properly defined ‘prospective’, talent on the contrary ‘retrospective’: genius is creative, and lives much in the future, and in its passage or progress may make use of the labours of talent.
“I have been in the habit,” says Coleridge, “of considering the qualities of intellect, the comparative eminence in which characterizes individuals and even countries, under four kinds, — genius, talent, sense, and cleverness. The first I use in the sense of most general acceptance, as the faculty which adds to the existing stock of power and knowledge by new views, new combinations, by discoveries not accidental, but anticipated, or resulting from anticipation.”
‘Friend’, vol. iii. p. 85, edit. 1818.
Coleridge left school with great anticipation of success from all who knew him, for his character for scholarship, and extraordinary accounts of his genius had preceded him. He carried with him too the same childlike simplicity which he had from a boy, and which he retained even to his latest hours. His first step was to involve himself in much misery, and which followed him in after life, as the sequel will evidence. On his arrival at College he was accosted by a polite upholsterer, requesting to be permitted to furnish his rooms. The next question was, “How would you like to have them furnished?” The answer was prompt and innocent enough, “Just as you please, Sir!” — thinking the individual employed by the College. The rooms were therefore furnished according to the taste of the artizan, and the bill presented to the astonished Coleridge. Debt was to him at all times a thing he most dreaded, and he never had the courage to face it. I once, and once only, witnessed a painful scene of this kind, which occurred from mistaking a letter on ordinary business for an application for money. Thirty years afterwards, I heard that these College debts were about one hundred pounds! Under one hundred pounds I believe to have been the amount of his sinnings; but report exceeded this to something which might have taxed his character beyond imprudence, or mere want of thought. Had he, in addition to his father’s simplicity, possessed the worldly circumspection of his mother, he might have avoided these and many other vexations; but he went to the University wholly unprepared for a College life, having hitherto chiefly existed in his own ‘inward’ being, and in his poetical imagination, on which he had fed.
But to proceed. Coleridge’s own account is, that while Middleton, afterwards Bishop of Calcutta, remained at Pembroke, he “worked with him and was industrious, read hard, and obtained the prize for the Greek Ode,” &c. It has been stated, that he was locked up in his room to write this Ode; but this is not the fact. Many stories were afloat, and many exaggerations were circulated and believed, of his great want of attention to College discipline, and of perseverance in his studies, and every failure, or apparent failure, was attributed to these causes. Often has he repeated the following story of Middleton, and perhaps this story gave birth to the report.
They had agreed to read together in the evening, and were not to hold any conversation. Coleridge went to Pembroke and found Middleton intent on his book, having on a long pair of boots reaching to the knees, and beside him, on a chair, next to the one he was sitting on, a pistol. Coleridge had scarcely sat down before he was startled by the report of the pistol. “Did you see that?” said Middleton. “See what?” said Coleridge. “That rat I just sent into its hole again — did you feel the shot? It was to defend my legs,” continued Middleton, “I put on these boots. I am fighting with these rats for my books, which, without some prevention, I shall have devoured.”
There is an anecdote related of Coleridge while at College, and which I have heard him frequently repeat, when called upon to vouch for its truth. His fellow students had amused themselves, when he was in attendance at Lecture, by stealing a portion of the tail of his gown, and which they had repeated so frequently, as to shorten it to the length of a spencer. Crossing the quadrangle one day with these remains at his back, and his appearance not being in collegiate trim, the Master of Jesus’ College, who was ever kind to him, and overlooked all little inattentions to appearances, accosted him smartly on this occasion—”Mr. Coleridge! Mr. Coleridge! when will you get rid of that shameful gown?” Coleridge, turning his head, and casting his eyes over his shoulders, as if observing its length, or rather want of length, replied in as courteous a manner as words of such a character would permit, “Why, Sir, I think I’ve got rid of the greatest part of it already!”
Such were Coleridge’s peculiarities, which were sometimes construed into irregularities; but through his whole life, attracting notice by his splendid genius, he fell too often under the observation of men who busied themselves in magnifying small things, and minifying large