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“Sunday, April 20, 1804.—Went to church, “ plain chapel with a picture behind the pulpit, " which I was not close enough to see, and at the “ other end in a nitch, a cross painted! Was it “ there before ? or was it in complaisance to “ Maltese superstitions !--Called on Sir A. Ball“ there I met General Valette, and delivered my “ letter to him,—a striking room, very high, ths “ of its height from the ground hung with rich “crimson silk or velvet ; and the įth above, a mass “ of colours, pictures in compartments rudely “ done and without perspective or art, but yet “ very impressively and imagination-stirringly, “ representing all the events and exploits of the “ Order.-Some fine pictures, one by Correggio, “one of a Cain killing Abel, I do not know by 66 whom.
“ Monday, April 21, 1804, Hardkain.--Sir A. “ Ball called on me, and introduced me to Mr. “ Lane, who was formerly his tutor, but now his “ chaplain. He invited me to dine with him on “ Thursday, and made a plan for me to ride “ to St. Antonio on Tuesday morning with Mr. “ Lane, offering me a horse. Soon after came “ on thunder and storm, and my breathing was " affected a good deal, but still I was in no diso comfort.
“ April 22, Tuesday morning, six o'clock, was “ on horseback, and rode to St. Antonio.-Fields “ with walls, to keep the fort from the rain-mere “ desolation seemingly, and yet it is fertile. St. “ Antonio, a pleasant country-house, with a fine “ but unheeded garden, save among the low “ orange and lemon trees, still thick with fruit “ on many of the trees, fruit ripe, blossoms, and “ the next year's fruit. Pepper-trees very beau“ tiful, and the locust-tree not amiss. Visited “ St. John's–O magnificence!
“ Wednesday, April 23.—General Valette I “ called on at his country-house, just out of the “ gates, near the end of the Botanic Garden, and “ it is the pleasantest place I have seen here. “ The multitude of small gardens and orangeries, “ among the huge masses of fortifications, many “ of them seeming almost as thick as the gardens “ inclosed by them are broad. Pomegranate in “ (beautiful secicle) flower. Under a bridge over “a dry ditch saw the largest prickly pear. Elk“ horns for trunk, and then its leaves--but go “and look and look.—(Hard rain.) We sheltered “in the Botanic Garden ; yet reached home not “unwetted.”
The simplicity of Coleridge's manners, and entire absence of all show of business-like habits, amongst men chiefly mercantile, made him an object of curiosity, and gave rise to the relation of many whimsical stories about him. But his kindness and benevolence lent a charm to his behaviour and manners, in whatever he was engaged. From the state of his own lungs, invalid-like, he was in the habit of attending much to those about him, and particularly those who had been sent to Malta for pulmonary disease. He frequently observed how much the invalid, at first landing, was relieved by the climate and the stimulus of change ; but when the novelty, arising from that change, had ceased, the monotonous sameness of the blue sky, accompanied by the summer heat of the climate, acted powerfully as a sedative, ending in speedy dissolution,-even more speedy than in a colder climate. The effects on Coleridge seemed to run parallel to this. At first he remarked that he was relieved, but afterwards speaks of his limbs “as “lifeless tools,” and of the violent pains in his bowels, which neither opium, ether, nor peppermint, separately or combined, could relieve. These several states he minuted down, from time to time, for after-consideration or comparison. He most frequently sought relief from bodily suffering in religious meditations, or in some augmented exercise of his mind :
“ Sickness, 'tis true,
* I would fain request the reader to peruse the poem, entitled “ A Tombless Epitaph,” to be found in Coleridge's Poetical Works, 1834, page 200.
The citadel did, indeed, remain unconquered even to his last hour-he found in religious meditation and prayer that solace and support which, during a life of misery and pain, gave him his extraordinary patience and resignation. If an ejaculation escaped him, it was usually followed by some moral or religious reflection, as thus runs one of his notes:—“ O me mi “serum! Assuredly the doctrine of grace, atone“ment, and the spirit of God interceding by “groans to the spirit of God, (Rev. viii. 26.), “is founded on constant experience, and even if “ it can be ever explained away, it must still re“main as the rising and setting of the sun itself, " as the darkness and as the light-it must “needs have the most efficient character of re“ality,-quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab om“nibus! Deeply do I both know and feel my “ weakness—God in his wisdom grant, that my “ day of visitation may not have been past.” .
Lest some will-worshiping individuals, inflated by vanity, and self-righteousness, should misunderstand or misconstrue him, the following lines are copied from his poems :
“ HUMILITY, THE MOTHER OF CHARITY."
“ Is but the fewest faults to have :-
There is not, perhaps, to be found on record a more perfect example of humility and charity; than that which he exhibited and sustained for so long a period of suffering and trial. Surely he could not be compared to the generality of his fellows—to men who, though possessing great worldly reputation, never gave him their support; but, on the contrary, were sometimes even ready to whisper down his fair name?
“For whispering tongues can poison truth;
Christabel. Some of these might be well meaning enough to believe, that in giving publicity to what they erroneously considered moral infirmities, (not pos sessing the knowledge to discriminate between moral and physical infirmities), they were performing a religious duty-were displaying a beacon to deter others from the same course. But in the case of Coleridge, this was a sad misconception. Neither morally nor physically was he understood. He did all that in his state duty could exact; and had he been more favoured in his bodily constitution, he would not have been censured for frailties which did not attach to him.
Alas! how little do the many know of the hearts of truly great men! Least of all could such men as Coleridge be known by modern pharisees. “ It is no uncommon thing,” says an af