age of nine. He soon “outstripped” all of his age. His schoolboy horizons opened, and there is evidence of much wandering about the town, and down by the River Otter, and to neighbouring houses, often in the company of Francis, with whom fraternal warfare continued. “Frank had a violent love of beating me – but whenever that was superseded by any humour or circumstance, he was always very fond of me – & used to regard me with a strange mixture of admiration & contempt – strange it was not – : for he hated books, and loved climbing, fighting, playing, & robbing orchards, to distraction.”33
One memorable trip was to the Pixies’ Parlour, a mysterious sandstone cave beneath the roots of an ancient oak tree, in a field about a mile south of the town overlooking the river. It was a place of folklore – goblins, ghosts – where Sam bravely imitated his elders by carving his initials in the shadowy recess. It was a cave that reappeared many times in his poetry, and finally became an image of his lifelong search for esoteric knowledge:
Yea, oft alone,
Piercing the long-neglected holy cave,
The haunt obscure of old Philosophy,
He bade with lifted torch its starry walls
Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame
Of odorous lamps tended by Saint and Sage.34
As an undergraduate he was to go back to find those initials, entwined with those of his heroic brothers.*
Another visit was to Sir Stafford Northcote’s new country house, the Pynes, outside Ottery. Frank had fallen in love with the baronet’s daughter Maria, to whom he was later to send messages of devotion from India. But Sam was taken by a different kind of recondite beauty – the splendid, polished, Georgian spiral staircase. Years later, when trying to explain the complex structure of his essay-collection, The Friend, with its expanding themes and “interposed” lighter pieces of diversion, or “landing-places”, he suddenly recalled his first, awesome impression of the great house.
Before all other objects, I was most struck by the magnificent staircase, relieved at well proportioned intervals by spacious landing-places, this adorned with shewy plants, the next looking out on an extensive prospect through the stately window with its side panes of rich blues and saturated amber or orange tints: while from the last and highest the eye commanded the whole spiral ascent with the marbled pavement of the great hall from which it seemed to spring up as if it merely used the ground on which it rested. My readers will find no difficulty in translating these forms of the outward senses into their intellectual analogies…35
In fact Coleridge himself always had the greatest difficulty with the “architectural” structure of his prose books, as his readers found to their cost. They were to be less like solid Georgian staircases, and far more like the visionary, suspended, self-circling stairways of Piranesi’s famous engravings. Something of this seems already foreshadowed in the childhood sense – recorded with such visual accuracy – that on looking down over the banisters from the top of Northcote’s spiral stairs, the entire structure seemed independent of the ground, simply springing up above it into the air, magically and alarmingly unsupported.
Most fondly recalled of all were the endless expeditions down to the placid, rippling waters of the Otter, which meander through low red-earthed banks and shallow shingle spits, six miles down to the sea at Budleigh Salterton:
Dear native brook! where first young Poesy
Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream!36
Paddling, paper-boat sailing, and solemn games of ducks and drakes, are all recalled in later verse. Sam also learned to swim here, a pastime he practised at home and abroad for many years, well into his middle age. The river produced the first really accomplished poem of his youth, which he wrote at the age of twenty-one, while still at university, the sonnet “To the River Otter”.
Here again, the poetic memory is far happier than those of the letters, reaching towards a more universal and perhaps more conventionally acceptable nostalgia for childhood, the Paradise lost, that the Romantics would foster. Yet it is brilliant with living detail, full of Coleridge’s sensitivity to light and movement. The rapid, effortless bouncing stone enacts the freedom of the child’s mind – the skips and flights of the imagination – while the glowing waters become a symbol of memory itself.
…What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm’d the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that vein’d with various dyes
Gleam’d through thy bright transparence!…Ah! that once more I were a careless Child!37
9
In his first year at the King’s School (1779) an epidemic swept through the pupils, and both Sam and George lay dangerously ill isolated at the top of the School House with “putrid fever”. This is the first time that Coleridge experienced the terrible nightmares that returned to him intermittently for the rest of his life, dreams so vivid and overmastering that he would wake whole households at Stowey, at Grasmere, and even at Highgate with his screams, and which are the subject – and indeed the inspiration – of many poems. Even as a boy he tried to keep them off with a poetic charm, the old rhyming prayer, “Four Angels round me spread, Two at my foot & two at my head…”
It was to give him a lifelong sympathy not only with other children suffering night terrors, but with any adult friend on a feverish sickbed, to many of whom he would prove a tender nurse. “This prayer I said nightly – & most firmly believed the truth of it. – Frequently have I, half-awake & half-asleep, my body diseased & fevered by my imagination, seen armies of ugly Things bursting in upon me, & these four angels keeping them off.”38 The suspended condition of “half-awake & half-asleep”, with the mind floating and planing between the conscious and unconscious state, always fascinated him.
During this illness, Frank, with typical daring and “in spite of orders to the contrary”, would steal up to read Pope’s Homer to his small brother. Sam also became much closer to George, then sixteen and about to go to Oxford, a quiet, kindly, studious boy whom Coleridge would soon look on as his second father. Of the first fifty letters Coleridge is known to have written, thirty-five were to George; and the Poems of 1797 would be dedicated to him, with an epigraph from Horace, “notable among brothers for his paternal spirit”.39
He later wrote – before quarrelling with him – “My Brother George is a man of reflective mind & elegant Genius. He possesses Learning in a greater degree than any of the Family, excepting myself. His manners are grave, & hued over with a tender sadness. In his moral character he approaches every way nearer to Perfection than any man I ever yet knew – indeed, he is worth the whole family in a Lump.”40
His sister Nancy also showed great kindness at this time, and Coleridge came to idealise the brother-sister relationship: “she lov’d me dearly, and I doted on her!” To Charles Lamb, so deeply attached to his own sister Mary, he would later say in a poem of 1794 that she became his only real confidante, listening to all his “puny sorrows” and “hidden maladies”, which he poured forth “As