Ah, freedom is a noble thing!

as says the old Scottish poet.  So I will cease my regrets, or lay them by to be taken up and used as arguments of comfort, in case I do not slip my cable after all, which is highly possible.  Lockhart and Sophia have taken up their old residence at Chiefswood.  They are very fond of the place; and I am glad also my grandchildren will be bred near the heather, for certain qualities which I think are best taught there.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

1772-1834

TO CHARLES LAMB

A sympathetic reply[1]

28 Sept. 1796.

Your letter, my friend, struck me with a mighty horror.  It rushed upon me and stupefied my feelings.  You bid me write you a religious letter; I am not a man who would attempt to insult the greatness of your anguish by any other consolation.  Heaven knows that in the easiest fortunes there is much dissatisfaction and weariness of spirit:  much that calls for the exercise of patience and resignation; but in storms, like these, that shake the dwelling and make the heart tremble, there is no middle way between despair and the yielding up of the whole spirit unto the guidance of faith.  And surely it is a matter of joy, that your faith in Jesus has been preserved; the Comforter that should relieve you is not far from you.  But as you are a Christian, in the name of that Saviour, who was filled with bitterness and made drunken with wormwood, I conjure you to have recourse in frequent prayer to ‘his God and your God’; the God of mercies, and father of all comfort.  Your poor father is, I hope, almost senseless of the calamity; the unconscious instrument of Divine Providence knows it not, and your mother is in heaven.  It is sweet to be roused from a frightful dream by the song of birds, and the gladsome rays of the morning.  Ah, how infinitely more sweet to be awakened from the blackness and amazement of a sudden horror by the glories of God manifest and the hallelujahs of angels.

As to what regards yourself, I approve altogether of your abandoning what you justly call vanities.  I look upon you as a man called by sorrow and anguish and a strange desolation of hopes into quietness, and a soul set apart and made peculiar to God.  We cannot arrive at any portion of heavenly bliss without in some measure imitating Christ; and they arrive at the largest inheritance who imitate the most difficult parts of His character, and, bowed down and crushed under foot, cry in fullness of faith, ‘Father, Thy will be done.’

I wish above measure to have you for a little while here—­no visitants shall blow on the nakedness of your feelings—­you shall be quiet, and your spirit may be healed.  I see no possible objection, unless your father’s helplessness prevent you, and unless you are necessary to him.  If this be not the case, I charge you write me that you will come.