ly, whether he is aware of the actual
contributions to literature--how large they were--which Coleridge made
_in spite_ of opium. All who were intimate with Coleridge must
remember the fits of genial animation which were created continually
in his manner and in his buoyancy of thought by a recent or by an
_extra_ dose of the omnipotent drug. A lady, who knew nothing
experimentally of opium, once told us, that she "could tell when Mr
Coleridge had taken too much opium by his shining countenance." She
was right; we know that mark of opium excesses well, and the cause of
it; or at least we believe the cause to lie in the quickening of the
insensible perspiration which accumulates and glistens on the face. Be
that as it may, a criterion it was that could not deceive us as to the
condition of Coleridge. And uniformly in that condition he made his
most effective intellectual displays. It is true that he might not be
happy under this fiery animation, and we fully believe that he was
not. Nobody is happy under laudanum except for a very short term of
years. But in what way did that operate upon his exertions as a
writer? We are of opinion that it killed Coleridge as a poet. "The
harp of Quantock" was silenced for ever by the torment of opium. But
proportionably it roused and stung by misery his metaphysical
instincts into more spasmodic life. Poetry can flourish only in the
atmosphere of happiness. But subtle and perplexed investigations of
difficult problems are amongst the commonest resources for beguiling
the sense of misery. And for this we have the direct authority of
Coleridge himself speculating on his own case. In the beautiful though
unequal ode entitled _Dejection_, stanza six, occurs the following
passage:

"For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient all I can;
_And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man_--
This was my sole resource, my only plan;
Till that, which suits a part, infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul."

Considering the exquisite quality of some poems which Coleridge has
composed, nobody can grieve (or _has_ grieved) more than ourselves, at
seeing so beautiful a fountain choked up with weeds. But had Coleridge
been a happier man, it is our fixed belief that we should have had far
less of his philosophy, and perhaps, but not certainly, might have had
more of his general literature. In