The Argosy — page 136: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 12! poet loved best a country life; he had a great friend in Mr. Poole, who lived at the village of Nether Stowey, in Somersetshire, and Mr. and Mrs. Coleridge soon migrated to another cottage there. It was a little larger than the one at Clevedon, but still no palace. And now a picture in Coleridge’s life rises up before us; a picture which shows us how the star of fame first dawned for him; and a picture which reveals to us, too, the commencement of one of the highest and dearest friendships of his life. We will pause to gaze at it for a moment. In the cottage garden, where the summer moonlight is playing softly on the flowers, two gentlemen and two ladies are sitting. ‘The mis- tress of the house is bending tenderly over a tiny garment, upon which her skilful fingers are busy, creating pretty wonders out of lace and lawn; she sits somewhat apart from the others, and does not seem to heed much their talk, bright and beautiful talk though itis. The things spoken of between her husband and his friends are things too high for Sarah Coleridge. And besides, how can she listen now to any talk in the world except the talk of her own thoughts, when she, the young expectant mother, is preparing garments for her coming child? Her lips are silent, her eyes do not even turn towards her companions, but smiles often play round her mouth. It is an inspired face ; a face all fire; yet a face with shadows often flitting over it, the face of the man who is the greatest talker of the other three. He talks as if he were so rich in words he hardly knew which to choose first, enlarging on every subject, and turning it inside out with hghtning-like rapidity. The other man, with those deep, earnest, wondrous eyes and that brow which looks like the very sanctuary of thought, speaks less; yet when he does speak his sour seems to make every sentence like a bar of music on an organ, there is so much that is sweet and fair in the simple language. ‘The lady sitting between them says less than either of them ; but her whole face is talking, even when her lips are closed, as she glances from one ta the other with bright, keenly-interested looks ; and now and then she puts in a word which fits exactly into its place in the conversation, and makes a listener feel that it would have been incomplete without it. She is no beauty, yet hers is a sympathetic face, hers is an un- wonted play of changeful expression, and often those who watch hez say, ‘‘ How charming,” as they gaze. No wonder these three are such congenial companions, for they are Coleridge and his newly-made friends, William Wordsworth and his sweet second self, his sister Dorothy. The talk this evening is of a projected walking tour into North Devon, when they will visit Lynton ; and Coleridge is giving, by hear- say, vivid word pictures of the Devon coast, with all its romance of rock and tiny sheltered bays, fit dressing-rooms for the sea nymphs. But the worst part of the matter is that none of the party can raise enough money to pay even one night’s tavern bill. Then Coleridge COMM (A) NOOKS (CO)