"
Coleridge's singing time was short. All his best poetry had been
written before he went to live at Keswick. There his health,
which had never been good, gave way. Unhappy in his home, and
racked with bodily pain, he at length began to use opium in order
to find relief. The habit to which he soon became a slave made
shipwreck of his life. He had always been unstable of purpose
and weak of will, never keeping to one course long. He had tried
journalism, he tried lecturing, he planned books which were never
written. His life was a record of beginnings. As each new plan
failed he yielded easily to the temptation of living on his
friends. He had always been restless in mind. He left his home,
and after wanderings now here now there, he at length found a
home in London with kind, understanding friends. Of him here we
have a pathetic picture drawn by another great man.* "The good
man--he was now getting old, towards sixty perhaps, and gave you
the idea of a life that had been full of sufferings; a life
heavy-laden, half-vanquished, still swimming painfully in seas of
manifold physical and other bewilderment.
Pages:
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881