The eloquence which failed to impress the tallowchandler inspired admiration and astonishment in more sympathetic minds, and Coleridge's canvass was a brilliant. success. He returned to Bristol with about a thousand subscribers, and issued his first number of The Watchman on the 1st of March, 1796. He worked hard at tasks that were the reverse of congenial-condensing parliamentary reports, arranging foreign and domestic intelligence, and the like. It would not do. Dissatisfaction began to show itself among the subscribers at an early stage. One man thought he did not get enough for his fourpence; another was of opinion that his boys did not profit under the publication; a third wanted more reviews; a fourth demanded more politics; some of the subscribers gave up the paper because it did not contain sufficient original composition, and a far larger number abandoned it because it contained too much. And of all men on earth Coleridge was the most likely to be fretted by such perplexities. The Watchman went on to May 14th, having passed through ten numbers, and then it ceased to cry the state of the political atmosphere. “The reason for relinquishing it," said the editor, "is short and simple-the work does not pay for its expenses." Back numbers of the miscellany were more than plentiful at the house of the proprietor. One morning Coleridge found the servant girl lighting the fire with some copies. “What have you there?" he asked. "La, sir, it's only Watchmans," the girl answered.

In April, 1796, Coleridge's first volume of poems appeared. It attracted no special attention. The Monthly Review observed that though poets had been called

maniacs, and their writings too frequently justified the application of the degrading epithet, yet as it was time to enthrone reason on the summit of Parnassus, Mr. Coleridge seemed solicitous to consecrate his noble lyre to truth, virtue, and humanity. Poor fustian as this may be, it seems to be all that the critical press had to put forth. Later in the year Coleridge printed privately an anthology of twenty-four sonnets; and later still he published his "Ode to the Departing Year." In 1796 Southey's "Joan of Arc" appeared, and in that poem there were about four hundred lines by Coleridge. Thus was Coleridge fairly launched as a poet.

The poet and his wife had grown weary of Clevedon; it was too far from the city library; it was difficult of access to friends, and the neighbours were tattling and inquisitive. Moreover, Mrs. Coleridge was looking forward to her first confinement. So they returned to Bristol. There is reason to think that at this period Coleridge paid another visit to his native place, and that the family unpleasantness was thereby much modified. The poet had previously made some concessions in the pathetic epistle to his brother George. With the failure of The Watchman the old embarrassments began to press heavily. There was always an idea that a Unitarian pulpit might be found for Coleridge. He preached twice in Bath, when he dressed for the pulpit in a blue coat and white waistcoat, and on several occasions during his canvass, when he permitted his garments of various hue to be enveloped in the sable gown. He was not an impressive preacher. His first sermon was delivered to a congregation of seventeen persons. The discourse

was on the Hair Powder Tax, and before it was half done one of the seventeen opened his pew silently and stole quietly out of the chapel. In a few minutes more a second auditor did the same; then a third, and a fourth. Matters looked ominous. It seemed as if in a short time every pew would be empty. Still the preacher went on without any consciousness of what was happening, and finished with great self-content. There is a fable which says that beside Coleridge's personal friends there was one elderly lady who sat out the sermon quite stoically; but then she was asleep. The pulpit was not destined to hold Coleridge's wings; the idea of making the poet a Unitarian minister came to nothing. The twin taskmasters, bread and cheese, were again inexorable, when a new friend, Thomas Poole, invited the poet to Nether Stowey, Somersetshire, where a comfortable cottage at seven pounds a year was to be rented near to his own home. Poole was a prosperous tanner, a cultured man who had travelled extensively. He had a luxurious house and a good library, and was anxious to secure Coleridge as a neighbour. The poet saw in the proposal a chance of retrenching domestic expenses. About the same time one of the gentlemen whom Coleridge met in Birmingham, on the memorable occasion of his essay in smoking, suggested that his son should lodge with the poet for the benefit of that society which was in itself a liberal education. Both proposals were accepted. Thus did Coleridge temporize with his necessities. His first child, Hartley, was born in Bristol in September, 1796, and soon afterwards the Coleridge household, including Charles Lloyd, a young man of

literary tastes and some literary pretensions, was settled at Nether Stowey.

The twin taskmasters were temporarily appeased, and the poet wrote more at leisure than before. He had carried on a correspondence with Lamb since the nights at the "Salutation and Cat." The interval had witnessed many changes in the life of his schoolfellow. Lamb's father had fallen into dotage, and been pensioned off by his employer. His mother was now deprived of the use of her limbs. These two had been pleasure-loving people in their time, and now they were exacting invalids. The burden of their sickness and society had fallen upon Charles and his sister Mary, whose elder brother, a selfish, unamiable soul, had carried himself off to a more comfortable home. The resources of the household were limited. They had removed from their rooms in the Temple to poorer lodgings in Little Queen Street, Holborn. Charles's salary was hardly more than a hundred pounds a year, and his father's pension was not material. A querulous old aunt lived with the family, and contributed towards the general maintenance. Mary became a needlewoman, and had a young girl for apprentice. It was a straitened sort of existence, but Charles and his sister bore up under it as well as they could. Not long after Coleridge's return to Bristol, at the beginning of 1795, Lamb's reason gave way. He was six weeks in a mad-house. When he recovered his reason, his heart was a void; hope was not easily regained. He toiled on, and was stimulated by his correspondence with Coleridge. The old schoolfellows discussed poetry and religion. But there was not much time for such indul

gences. The day was given to the "desk's dry wood," and the nights to cribbage with his poor crazy father. "If you will not play with me, you might as well not come home," said the old man one night when his son had taken up pen and paper. "There is nothing to say to that," Lamb thought, and so he took up the cards. It was a paralysing situation. And Charles was not more deeply involved than Mary. That pure soul had no touch of selfishness. Night and day she toiled for her helpless mother, without even the reward of gratitude. The mother was a woman of a different mould, and the daughter's very caresses were often met by coldness and repulsion. Still she held on until reason became unsettled. "Polly, what are those poor crazy moythered brains of yours thinking of always?" the grandmother used to say. The tragedy reached a catastrophe at length. One day, about the middle of September, 1796, the "poor crazy moythered brains" led Mary to snatch. up a knife and make a sudden attack upon her apprentice. The girl escaped, but the invalid mother interposed, and Mary's frenzy was then directed towards her. Charles was near, but he was only in time to snatch the knife out of his sister's hand when its dreadful work was done. Mary had killed her mother. Her father had also been wounded in the forehead. Mary was removed. That night while the body of the mother lay in their little lodging, the old aunt lay insensible, like one dying. Charles was very calm, though brought down to the depths of nervous misery. He dared not give way, for he had his own reason to hold in command. An inquest brought in a verdict of insanity, and Mary was removed