The Middlebury register. [volume] (Middlebury, Vt.) 1850-1882, 1856-04-16

Lamb no good. In his confessions he
thus wrote
"The waters have gone over me. But
out of the black depths, could l be
hoard. l would cry out to all those who
have but set foot on the perilous food
Could tho youth to whom the flavor of
his first wine is delicious as the opening
scenes of life, or the entering upon some
newly discovered paradise, look into my
dcsol alton, and be made to understand
what a dreary thing it is when a man
shall feel himself going down precipico
with open eyes and passive will-to see
his destruction and have no power to
stop it, and yet to feel it all the way
emanating from himself to see all good
ness emptied out Of him. yet not to be
able to forget lime when il was other.
wise to bear about the piteous spccta
Gle of his own sclfrun- could he see my
fcvercd eye. fcvcrish with last nights
drinking, and fcverishly looking for the
nights repetition of the folly could he
feel the body of the death out of which
| cry hourly, with fecbler and fccbler
outcry to be deliverod-it were enough
to make him dash tho sparkling bovor.
age to the earth. in all the pride of its
niantling temptation.
Obi wish could transport me back
to those days of youth. when a draught
from tho next clear spring could slakc
any heats that summer suns and ycuth.
tul exercise had power to stir up in the
blood. how gladly would I return to the
pure element, the drink of children. and
the child-like. holy hermit"
a gain -
Twelve years ago I was possessed of
healthy frame of mind and body
was never strong, but | think my con
stituton. for weak one was as happily
exempt from tendency to any maady,
as 1t was possible to be- | scarce knew
what it was to all anything Now ex-
crrt when [ am losing myself in a sea
of drink, | am never free from those un-
easy sensations in the head and stomach
which are 50 much worse to bear than
many definite pains and achog. At that
time | was seldom in bed after six in
the morning. summer and winter. |
awoke refreshed and seldom without
merry thoughts in my head. or some
piece of song to welcome the new born
day. Now, the first feeling which be.
sets me, after stretching out the hours Of
remembrance to the last possible extent.
is forecast of the wearisomc dav that
lies before me, with a secret wish that !
could have lain or still. or never awak.
cned"
And once more
pcrpetuolly catch myself in tears
for any cause or none. 1t is inexprcss.
ible how much this iufrmity adds to a
sense of shame and general feeling of
deterioration
"Shall | lit up the veil of my weak
ness scv farther ? Or isths disclosure
sufficient.
have no vaniiy to consult BY these
confessions ! know not whether shall
be laughed at or heard seriously Such
as they are commend them to the rcao-
ers attentios, if lie find his own case any
way touched. | have told him what |
have come to. Let him stop in time"
There is hope that Charles Lamb took
his own advice. My mention of Samu-
el Taylor Coleridge, reminds me of his
son Hartley. When he was born his
father proposed to make him 4" Natnres
playmate" lie was sent to Westmore.
land to commune with books and mount.
aims, rivers, clouds and stars And he
did so. lie was intellectual. full of feel.
ing, simple true and dutiful lie went
to college, and alas took to drinking.
Being odd, clever, kind, and brimming
with curious talk, be was welcome
guest at the college wine parties. lie
managed. however, to secure a fellowship
at Oriel College Here he might have
cast anchor and rode out the storms of
lite Not so. The wine cup ruined all.
ne lost bis fellowship. came to London,
iailcd IN his literary life, went to Am.
olesIde, wrote for Blaekwood's Maya
zine, IN which appeared his beautiful DO.
en- OF Leonard and Susan" commenc.
ed his" Worthless of Yorkshire and Ian.
cashire," and plunged int all the fun and
frolic of the country sido He would
slt--and drink-with tourists, farmers,
gentry, peasants, lords tramps, nybody.
lie went to a sheep shearing, wedding,
a christening, or country wake. and
thCre told stories. joked danced and got
drunk. And yet he could write fine and
true poetry, like this
"Say, What is Freedom What the right of
souls
Which all who know are bound to keep or die
And who knows not is dead? In vain We pry
In musty archives, or retentive scrolls;
Charters and statutes, constitutions, rolls,
And remnants of the old worlds history:
These show what have been, not what ought to
be,
Or teach at best how wiser Time controls
NAM futile purposes. As vain the search
Of restless factions, who, in lawlcss will,
Fix the foundations OF creedless church
lawless rule, an anarchy OF i'll
But what is Freedom Rightly understood
universal license to be Good
Poor Hartley died in lS4s. and was
buried in Grasmere churchyard. Words
worth sleeps beside him. "Around
them are the quiet mountains"
DIR. Maginn comes next. Learned.
eloquent. largc.hcarted. ready, and in
good health, he might have been rich and
happy, aud useful, but fondness for the
ruby wine bligLted his career. Speak
ing of him. "a writer in the "Irish Quar-