coming." This last sentence is a sort of half-prophetic
summary of his life's work; but the poetry soon gave way to the prose,
and he never again so nearly realized his poetical ideal as he had
already done in "The Ancient Mariner."

Of his person and the impression he made upon people at this time there
are various contemporary accounts. To Thelwall, in November, 1796, he
sent the following description of himself: "... my face, unless when
animated by immediate eloquence, expresses great sloth, and great,
indeed almost idiotic good-nature. 'Tis a mere carcass of a face; fat,
flabby, and expressive chiefly of inexpression. Yet I am told that my
eyes, eyebrows, and forehead are physiognomically good; but of this the
deponent knoweth not. As to my shape, 'tis a good shape enough if
measured, but my gait is awkward, and the walk of the whole man
indicates _indolence capable of energies_.... I cannot breathe through
my nose, so my mouth, with sensual thick lips, is almost always open. In
conversation I am impassioned, and oppose what I deem error with an
eagerness which is often mistaken for personal asperity; but I am ever
so swallowed up in the _thing_ said that I forget my _opponent_. Such am
I." The Rev. Leapidge Smith, in his "Reminiscences of an Octogenarian,"
remembered him as "a tall, dark, handsome young man, with long, black,
flowing hair; eyes not merely dark, but black, and keenly penetrating; a
fine forehead, a deep-toned, harmonious voice; a manner never to be
forgotten, full of life, vivacity, and kindness; dignified in person
and, added to all these, exhibiting the elements of his future
greatness."[1] Hazlitt, in "My First Acquaintance with Poets" (a paper
that every student of Coleridge's life and poetry should read),
describing him as he appeared on his visit to Hazlitt's father at Wem in
1798, says: "His complexion was at that time clear, and even bright. His
forehead was broad and high, light as if built of ivory, with large
projecting eyebrows, and his eyes rolling beneath them like a sea with
darkened lustre.... His mouth was gross, voluptuous, open, eloquent; his
chin good-humored and round, but his nose, the rudder of the face, the
index of the will, was small, feeble, nothing--like what he has done."
And Dorothy Wordsworth (to close with a contemporary and sympathetic
impression) set him down in her journal after their first meeting at
Racedown thus: "He is a wonderful man. His conversation teems wi