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To this horrid incarnation of whips and scourges, Coleridge, in his Biographia Literaria, ascribes ideas upon criticism and taste, which every man will recognise as the intense peculiarities of Coleridge. Could these notions really have belonged to Bowyer, then how do we know but he wrote The Ancient Mariner? Yet, on consideration, no. For even Coleridge admitted that, spite of his fine theorizing upon composition, Mr. Bowyer did not prosper in the practice. Of which he gave us this illustration; and as it is supposed to be the only specimen of the Bowyeriana which now survives in this sublunary world, we are glad to extend its glory. It is the most curious example extant of the melodious in sound:–

”Twas thou that smooth’d’st the rough-rugg’d bed of pain.’

‘Smooth’d’st!’ Would the teeth of a crocodile not splinter under that word? It seems to us as if Mr. Bowyer’s verses ought to be boiled before they can be read. And when he says, ‘Twas thou, what is the wretch talking to? Can he be apostrophizing the knout? We very much fear it. If so, then, you see (reader!) that, even when incapacitated by illness from operating, he still adores the image of his holy scourge, and invokes it as alone able to smooth ‘his rough-rugg’d bed.’ Oh, thou infernal Bowyer! upon whom even Trollope (History of Christ’s Hospital) charges ‘a discipline tinctured with more than due severity;’–can there be any partners found for thee in a quadrille, except Draco, the bloody lawgiver, Bishop Bonner, and Mrs. Brownrigg?

The next pet was Sir Alexander Ball. Concerning Bowyer, Coleridge did not talk much, but chiefly wrote; concerning Bell, he did not write much, but chiefly talked. Concerning Ball, however, he both wrote and talked. It was in vain to muse upon any plan for having Ball blackballed, or for rebelling against Bell. Think of a man, who had fallen into one pit called Bell; secondly, falling into another pit called Ball. This was too much. We were obliged to quote poetry against them:–

‘Letters four do form his name;
He came by stealth and unlock’d my den;
And the nightmare I have felt since then
Of thrice three hundred thousand men.’

Not that we insinuate any disrespect to Sir Alexander Ball. He was about the foremost, we believe, in all good qualities, amongst Nelson’s admirable captains at the Nile. He commanded a seventy-four most effectually in that battle; he governed Malta as well as Sancho governed Barataria; and he was a true practical philosopher–as, indeed, was Sancho. But still, by all that we could ever learn, Sir Alexander had no taste for the abstract upon any subject; and would have read, as mere delirious wanderings, those philosophic opinions which Coleridge fastened like wings upon his respectable, but astounded, shoulders.

We really beg pardon for having laughed a little at these crazes of Coleridge. But laugh we did, of mere necessity, in those days, at Bell and Ball, whenever we did not groan. And, as the same precise alternative offered itself now, viz., that, in recalling the case, we must reverberate either the groaning or the laughter, we presumed the reader would vote for the last. Coleridge, we are well convinced, owed all these wandering and exaggerated estimates of men–these diseased impulses, that, like the mirage, showed lakes and fountains where in reality there were only arid deserts, to the derangements worked by opium. But now, for the sake of change, let us pass to another topic. Suppose we say a word or two on Coleridge’s accomplishments as a scholar. We are not going to enter on so large a field as that of his scholarship in connection with his philosophic labors, scholarship in the result; not this, but scholarship in the means and machinery, range of verbal scholarship, is what we propose for a moment’s review.

For instance, what sort of a German scholar was Coleridge? We dare say that, because in his version of the Wallenstein there are some inaccuracies, those who may have noticed them will hold him cheap in this particular pretension. But, to a certain degree, they will be wrong. Coleridge was not very accurate in anything but in the use of logic. All his philological attainments were imperfect. He did not talk German; or so obscurely–and, if he attempted to speak fast, so erroneously–that in his second sentence, when conversing with a German lady of rank, he contrived to assure her that in his humble opinion she was a —-. Hard it is to fill up the hiatus decorously; but, in fact, the word very coarsely expressed that she was no better than she should be. Which reminds us of a parallel misadventure to a German, whose colloquial English had been equally neglected. Having obtained an interview with an English lady, he opened his business (whatever it might be) thus–‘High-born madam, since your husband have kicked de bucket’—-‘Sir!’ interrupted the lady, astonished and displeased. ‘Oh, pardon!–nine, ten thousand pardon! Now, I make new beginning–quite oder beginning. Madam, since your husband have cut his stick’—-It may be supposed that this did not mend matters; and, reading that in the lady’s countenance, the German drew out an octavo dictionary, and said, perspiring with shame at having a second time missed fire,–‘Madam, since your husband have gone to kingdom come’—- This he said beseechingly; but the lady was past propitiation by this time, and rapidly moved towards the door. Things had now reached a crisis; and, if something were not done quickly, the game was up. Now, therefore, taking a last hurried look at his dictionary, the German flew after the lady, crying out in a voice of despair–‘Madam, since your husband, your most respected husband, have hopped de twig’—-This was his sheet-anchor; and, as this also came home, of course the poor man was totally wrecked. It turned out that the dictionary he had used (Arnold’s, we think,)–a work of a hundred years back, and, from mere ignorance, giving slang translations from Tom Brown, L’Estrange, and other jocular writers–had put down the verb sterben (to die) with the following worshipful series of equivalents–1. To kick the bucket; 2. To cut one’s stick; 3. To go to kingdom come; 4. To hop the twig.