The recollection of this
event, which happened many years afterwards (in 1834), never left Lamb
until his own death: he used perpetually to exclaim, "Coleridge is dead,
Coleridge is dead," in a low, musing, meditative voice. These exclamations
(addressed to no one) were, as Lamb was a most unaffected man, assuredly
involuntary, and showed that he could not get rid of the melancholy truth.
At this distance of time, many persons (judging by what he has left behind
him) wonder at the extent of admiration which possessed some of
Coleridge's contemporaries: Charles Lamb accorded to his genius something
scarcely short of absolute worship; Robert Southey considered his capacity
as exceeding that of almost all other writers; and Leigh Hunt, speaking of
Coleridge's personal appearance, says, "He had a mighty intellect put upon
a sensual body." Persons who were intimate with both have suggested that
even Wordsworth was indebted to him for some of his philosophy. As late as
1818, Lamb, when dedicating his works to him, says that Coleridge "first
kindled in him, if not the power, the love, of poetry, and beauty, and
kindness." He must be judged, however, by what he has actually _done_.
Pages:
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60