Coleridge at Cambridge, and it was to his sons
Coleridge looked for help to realize his Susquehanna dream of Utopia. But
the Wedgwoods knew the hazy, moonshine quality of the project and made
excuses.

Coleridge now appealed to them for assistance in a saner project, and they
supplied him the money to go to Goettingen.

His stay of fourteen months in Germany gave him a firm hold on the
language, and a goodly glimpse into the philosophy of Kant, Leibnitz and
Schleiermacher. When Coleridge returned to England, he went at once to see
his interesting family. Rumor has it that Mrs. Coleridge, in addition to
caring for her own little brood and assisting in the Southey household,
had also been working in the Keswick lead-pencil factory for a weekly wage
of twelve shillings. The philosopher did not much like this lowering of
dignity, and said so mildly. This led to the truthful explanation that he
had hardly done his duty by his family in allowing them to shift for
themselves or be cared for by kinsmen; and therefore advice from him was
out of place. In short, Southey intimated that while he would care for
his sisters-in-law he drew the line at brothers-in-law. And Samuel Taylor
Coleridge drifted up to London (being down) to see if something would not
turn up.

His first task there was to translate "Werther," but the work did not seem
to go. Grub Street took up the brilliant talker, and for a time he gave
parlor lectures and filled the air of thought and speculation with his
brilliant pyrotechnics. The force of his mind was everywhere acknowledged,
but someway he did not seem to get on. Men who have managed the finances
of a nation often have not been able successfully to control their own;
and more than once we have had the spectacle of one who could do the
thinking for a world failing in the humdrum duties of a citizen and
neighbor. Coleridge tried various things, among others a secretaryship
that took him to Malta, but the lack of system in his habits and his
absent-mindedness made him the prey and butt of "practical" men.

* * * * *

When Carlyle said that no more dreary record than the lives of authors
existed, save the Newgate Calendar, he spoke truth.

That the lives of most authors is a series of misunderstandings, blunders,
heart-burnings, tragedies, is a fact. The author is a man who diverts and
amuses us by doing the things we would do if we had time; and if we like
him it is only