dreams, by coarse, vulgar, and indecent ribaldry, instead of deserving the name of “sensible,” must have been a low-minded vulgar fellow, fitter for the Porter than the Master of such an Establishment.  But the truth probably is, that all this is a fiction of Mr. Coleridge, whose wit is at all times most execrable and disgusting.  Whatever the merits of his Master were, Mr. Coleridge, even from his own account, seems to have derived little benefit from his instruction, and for the “inestimable advantage,” of which he speaks, we look in vain through this Narrative.  In spite of so excellent a teacher, we find Master Coleridge,

Even before my fifteenth year, bewildered in metaphysicks and in theological controversy.  Nothing else pleased me. History and particular facts lost all interest in my mind.  Poetry itself, yea novels and romances, became insipid to me.  This preposterous pursuit was beyond doubt injurious, both to my natural powers and to the progress of my education.

This deplorable condition of mind continued “even unto my seventeenth year.”  And now our readers must prepare themselves for a mighty and wonderful change, wrought, all on a sudden, on the moral and intellectual character of this metaphysical Greenhorn. "Mr. Bowles’ Sonnets, twenty in number, and just then published in a quarto volume (a most important circumstance!) were put into my hand!" To those sonnets, next to the School-master’s lectures on Poetry, Mr. Coleridge attributes the strength, vigour, and extension, of his own very original Genius.

By those works, year after year, I was enthusiastically delighted and inspired.  My earliest acquaintances will not have forgotten the undisciplined eagerness and impetuous zeal with which I labored to make proselytes, not only of my companions, but of all with whom I conversed, of whatever rank, and in whatever place. As my school finances did not permit me to purchase copies, I made, within less than a year and a half, more than forty transcriptions, as the best presents I could make to those who had in any way won my regard. My obligations to Mr. Bowles were indeed important, and for radical good!

There must be some grievous natural defect in that mind which, even at the age of seventeen, could act so insanely; and we cannot but think, that no real and healthy sensibility could have exaggerated to itself so grossly the merits of Bowles’ Sonnets.  They are undoubtedly most beautiful, and we willingly pay our tribute of admiration to the genius of the amiable writer; but they neither did nor could produce any such effects as are here described, except upon a mind singularly weak and helpless.  We must, however, take the fact as we find it; and Mr. Coleridge’s first step, after his worship of Bowles, was to see distinctly into the defects and deficiencies of Pope (a writer whom Bowles most especially admires, and has edited), and through all the false diction and borrowed plumage of Gray!  But here Mr. Coleridge drops the subject of Poetry for the present, and proceeds to other important matters.