His first task there was to translate “Werther,” but the work did not seem to go.  Grub Street took up the brilliant talker, and for a time he gave parlor lectures and filled the air of thought and speculation with his brilliant pyrotechnics.  The force of his mind was everywhere acknowledged, but someway he did not seem to get on.  Men who have managed the finances of a nation often have not been able successfully to control their own; and more than once we have had the spectacle of one who could do the thinking for a world failing in the humdrum duties of a citizen and neighbor.  Coleridge tried various things, among others a secretaryship that took him to Malta, but the lack of system in his habits and his absent-mindedness made him the prey and butt of “practical” men.

* * * * *

When Carlyle said that no more dreary record than the lives of authors existed, save the Newgate Calendar, he spoke truth.

That the lives of most authors is a series of misunderstandings, blunders, heart-burnings, tragedies, is a fact.  The author is a man who diverts and amuses us by doing the things we would do if we had time; and if we like him it is only because he expresses the things we already know.  His is a hard task, requiring intense concentration—­a concentration that can only be continued for a short time without the absolute burning out of existence.

To think one’s best and write out ideas is an abnormal operation.  The most artistic work is always done in a sort of fever or ecstacy, which in its very nature is transient.  To hunt and fish and dream and to work with one’s hands are all very natural; but to sit down and think and then express your thoughts by the artificial scheme of writing on paper is a dangerous operation.  If carried to excess it shall be paid for by your life.

Coleridge had turned night into day in his hot zeal to follow the winding, dancing mystery of existence to its inmost recess.  At times he had forgotten to eat or sleep; and then to reinforce despairing nature he had resorted to stimulants.

Digestion had become impaired, circulation faulty through lack of exercise, so sleeplessness followed stimulation.  Then to quiet pain came the use of the drug that brings oblivion.  And lo! thought burned up brighter than ever and all the dreams of youth and twenty came trooping back.

Coleridge had made a discovery.  He thought he was getting the start of God Almighty; but he wasn’t, for men have tried that before, and are trying it today, and many know not yet that we are strong only as we cling close to the skirts of Mother Nature and follow lovingly in her ways.

From his twenty-ninth year we find Coleridge a wreck in mind and body; shuffling, sick, disheartened, erratic, uncertain, yet occasionally brilliant.  He tramped the streets, feared and shunned.  His money was gone, his power of concentration had vanished.  In search of bread he met an old-time friend, Doctor Gillman.