‘Poem: Address on W. Allston's Large Landscape Sent by Sea to England’ (1806)

Here's another idea for a poem that Coleridge never got around to writing. This is from his notebooks [CN 2:2813], and perhaps dates to April 1806:

Poem. Address on W. Alston's large Landscape sent by sea to England/ threnic on the perishability by accident as well as time, & the narrow Sphere of action of Picture/Printing yet even MSS, Homer &c &c &c — but Apelles, Protogenes, ah where?—Spenser's Faery Queen, VI, Last Books, & his Comedies/but on what authority does this rest?—

Coleridge had befriended the American painter Washington Allston in Rome. He praisingly mentions the ‘large Landscape’ Allston had recently completed several times in the notebooks, often under the title ‘Swiss Landskip’, though Allston actually exhibited it under the title ‘Landscape, Diana on a Chase.’ Coleridge's notebook entry 2831, quoted at length below, is a detailed verbal description of the canvas. 

Before I get to that, you can see the image for yourself, reproduced at the head of this post. Or perhaps you can't see it, or at least can't see the canvas that Coleridge saw. After painting it in Rome in 1805 (from sketches Allston had made whilst travelling through Switzerland) the artist had it shipped to England. The canvas was damaged in transit. Allston himsef left Italy for America and marriage with Ann Channing in 1808; he and his new wife came to England in 1811 and stayed for many years. Allston was irked by the damage to his canvas, and further irked by what he regarded as incompetent restoration. In the words of the catalogue of the Fogg Museum (in Cambridge MA, where the painting is currently located) Allston later ‘disavowed authorship of the painting, claiming that an aggressive cleaning had ruined his original conception’.

That ruination, to whatever degree it damaged the original, was the point that Coleridge planned to highlight in his poem, of course. According to the notebook entry I've already quoted he was going to do so by comparing what happened to Allston's painting to Homer (the loss of whose comic epic Margites, to stand alongside the martial epic of the Iliad and the peripatetic epic of the Odyssey, has been widely deplored), to the near-total loss of the work of the in-their-time much-praised classical artists Apelles and Protogenes, and to the fact that Spenser only wrote half of the projected twelve books of his Fairie Queene, as well as the story that he wrote nine comic plays, none of which survive today (a letter to Spenser from his friend Gabriel Harvey mentions ‘your nine Englishe Commoedies, and your Latine Stemmata Dudleiana’, although there seems to be some scholarly doubt on whether these nine ever actually existed). Coleridge's theme, evidently, would have been the precarity of art, written or painted. 

The painting, incompetently restored though it may have been, looks fine to me. Here is Coleridge's stroke-by-stroke description of it, written at length into his notebook, perhaps soon after that earlier entry. It looks to me very much as though Coleridge is sketching out ideas for his poem.

 

Mr Allston's Landscape—— // Lefthand of the Foreground/ Side of a Rock, steep as a wall, of purplish hue, naked all but one patch of Bushage, breaking the Line of the Edge about a yard from the ground, and another much smaller and thinner a little above it/ & here and there a moss-stain. Up the rock, a regular-shaped Pine, like its own Shadow, as I have observed in Nature/ at the foot of the Pine & next the {Side} frame a bush with trodden Ferns at its feet, which almost hide a small Cleft or Fissure in the rock, beautiful purple-crimson mosses on the other side of the fissure and slopes down to the bottom, fissure with ferns & mosses & naked purple rock last/ the small Cleft touches the junction of the side & bottom frame/ & three spans from thence commences the great chasm, & dark, bridged over by the weedy tree, but slimy, the bark half-scathed & jagged/ oer a perilous bridge/ take care, for heaven's sake/ it begins smooth scathed and sattiny, mouldring, barkless, knotty/ red Flowers growing up beside it/ well, here rises the forked old Trunk, its left Fork scathed and sattiny and seeming almost to correspond with the bridge-tree Perilous ground between this Trunk and that noble Tree which with its graceful Lines of motion exhales up into the sky/ for when I look at it, it rises indeed, even as smoke in calm weather, always the same height & shape, & yet you see it move/ who has cut down its twin bough, its brother?—Well—do not blame it/ for it has made such a sweet Stool at the bottom of the Tree, with and the high top with its umbrella cloud of Foliage is over your head—behind this and the Trunk is that red spot, scarlet moss-cups or a lichen stain.—from this Tree, bushes and a most lovely pine tree {one of} the boundaries of the left forground that, & a high brown bush behind, & the great Bowder stone on its left, which at its bottom half touches the edge of the purple cloak and I must climb over it to get to the prospect of the far valley hidden by the Stone & the Rock, and a Tree all Foliage, growing behind the great stone & between it and the triangular Interspace between the Rock/ and in this vale, dim seen, field & wood & sunshine shaft is distanced by the snowy Mountain/  

This is the left hand of the Picture/the middle the sunshiny mountain all jagged and precipitous, in smooth plates of rock, yet the whole all rough from their relative positions to each other/its scales of armour, behemoth/the Lake with filmy Light, the bushy Island, the tree on its sloping bank, so steep! and shewing its steepness by its own incumbency/ observe its slim trunk seen through its vapour-cloud of Foliage/and then the dog with its two hind feet of higher ground/But the right hand of the Picture, the tree with its cavern making roots stretching out to some faintly purplish Stones that connect the right extremity with the purple rock on the left extremity (—N.B. the color is really grey-paint, but in appearance & so call it, it is grey-blue faintly purplish)—& how by small stones, scattered at irregular distances along the foreground even to one in the very centre or bisection of the foreground, which seems to balance & hold even all the tints of the whole picture, the keystone of its colors—so aided by the bare earth breaking in & making an irregular road to the Lake on which that faery figure shoots along as one does in certain Dreams, only that it touches the earth which yet it seems to have no occasion to touch/ but the delicate black & o how delicate grey-white Greyhound, whose two colors amalgamated make exactly the grey-blue of the larger & the 12 small stones behind & around them & even the halo (still with a purplish grey) of the crescent carries on the harmony, & with its bright white crescent forms a transition to the bright left-hand thick body-branch & trunk of the largest tree/What a delicious trail of ivy garlands the old thin snaggy tree broken off one third from its summit, almost a pole or a huge stake/rotten & half hollow at the bottom/—but the three Goddesses, for them I must trust to the moment of inspiration/the Sky & Perspective of the Clouds—the many many newly picturesque weeds. [Notebooks, 2:2831].

Coleridge's friendship with Allston survived a quite fiery period during the latter's time in England. Two things in particular seem to have provoked Coleridge's ire: first Allston's self-identification as an American (Britain was, of course, at war with the US 1812-15, and in 1814 we burnt the White House down) and second Allston's uxoriousness. In July 1814 STC wrote indignantly to John J. Morgan:

The same game in Bristol as in London—A. can visit me; but his own House and real feelings belong as exclusively Property to his ‘Countrymen,’ as he called one of the Beasts last Night: when to Wade's great delight I gave him a justly complimentary, but from that very cause a most severe Reproof. ‘Countryman?’ (said I) ‘Live the age of Methusalem, and you may have a right to say that, Allston.—At present, either the World is your Country, and England with all its faults your home, inasmuch as it contains the largest number of those who are capable of feeling your Fame before the idle Many, (the same in kind in all places but better (even these) in degree here, than in any other part of the world) have learnt to give you Reputation, or you are morally not worthy of your high Gifts, which as a Painter give you a praeternational Privilege, even beyond the greatest Poet, by the universality of your Language: and you prefer the accident of Place, naked Place , unenriched by any of the associations of Law, Religion, or intellectual Fountaincy, to the essential grandeur of God in Man.’

Pretty pompous! Coleridge went on to deplore Mrs. Allston, calling her ‘the little Hydatid’ and blaming her for Allston's spending so much time with other Americans. In case you need the reference explained, a hydatid (Greek ὑδατίς, “watery vesicle”) is ‘a cyst due to infection by larvae of some species of the tapeworm Echinococcus.’ Nice!

Good Heavens! that such a man with such a Heart and such Genius should be—not an American, but downright American , and I do believe 9 parts in 10 owing to the little Hydatid. О that (if only his Health could have been preserved) instead of being a good little Hydatid she had been an absolute Sarah + Mary + Eliza—Fricker (Christ! what a name for Coleridge to be transferred to!) with all the discontent, and miserableness of the Angel of the Race, self-nibbling Martha!—Then perhaps he might have hated her and been a fine fellow.

If only Ann Allston had been so obnoxious as to drive him away, all would have been well! But alas she has encysted her adoring husband! These were hard years for Coleridge, emotionally and physically, although I'm not sure how far we want to invoke that to justify such hyperbolic nastiness. The two men's friendship did weather the tempest, though: Allston was a frequent visitor to Coleridge when he was finally parked in Highgate, sometimes even staying the night with the Gillmans; and for all its quarrels 1814 was also the year of Allstone's famous portrait of Coleridge, now in the National Portrait Gallery

So what if we took seriously the idea that STC's lengthy notebook entry quoted above, describing Allston's ‘Landscape, Diana on a Chase’, constituted the first prose draft of a poem about the canvas, and the precarity of art? The passage seems to me to shake out, with a surprisingly small amount of adjustment and consolidation, into blank verse. Was this what Coleridge planned? A poem somewhat after the manner of the landscape descriptions of ‘This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison’ maybe, although in this case describing not a real west-country scene but rather as-it-were walking around the landscape of Allston's painting?

If so, and absent what I assume would be an opening section setting the poem up, and a closing section drawing the poem's moral with respect to the transitory and precarious nature of art, then ‘Address on W. Allston's Large Landscape Sent by Sea to England’ might have read something like this:  

Left-hand, beside a rock steep as a wall
Of purplish hue, naked all but one patch
Stands bushage, breaking the line of the edge
And here and there a moss-stain. Up the rock,
A well-shaped pine-tree stands, like its own shadow;
And at its base a shrub with trodden ferns,
Which almost hide a small cleft in the rock.
Beautiful purple-crimson mosses coat
The fissure's other side, which slopes down to
Ferns, mosses and bare purple rock at last.

Three spans from thence commences a great chasm,
Dark and bridged-o'er by a weedy tree,
But slimy, bark half-scathed and jaggéd o'er—
A perilous bridge! Take care, for heaven's sake!
Where it begins, smooth-scathed and sattiny,
Mouldering, barkless, knotty, red flowers
Grow, and the antique forkéd Trunk puts out
Its left horn scathed and smooth beside the bridge.
A dang'rous ground between that Trunk and yon
High noble Tree which with in graceful Lines
Almost of motion exhales itself up
Into the sky, rising even as smoke
In calm weather, of equal height and shape,
And yet you see it move!

Who has cut down that twin bough, its brother?
Well—do not blame them, for it has made such
A sweet stool at the bottom of the Tree,
Neath the high top and its umbrella cloud
Of foliage to shade you oer your head—
Behind are scarlet moss-cups, lichen stains,
A high brown bush and mighty bowder stone
Which I must over-climb to reach the prospect
Of the far valley hidden by the rock:
And in this vale, dim seen, are field and wood,
A sunshine-shaft by snowy Mountain peak
All jagged and precipitous, smooth plates
Of rock—scales of a behemoth's armour!

The Lake with filmy light, the bushy island,
The tree upon its sloping bank, so steep!
Shewing how steep by its incumbency
Observe its slim trunk through its vapour-cloud
Of foliage, and standing to its right
A dog, with its hind feet on higher ground.

Consider now the right hand of the Picture:
A tree stands, with its cavern-making roots
Stretching out to small, grey-purplish stones
Scattered at irregular distances,
Bare earth breaking in, an irregular road
To the Lake oer which a faery figure
Shoots along as one might in a dream!

Touching the earth which yet it seems to have
No occasion to touch, black delicate
And grey-white a Greyhound stands, whose twinned hues
Amalgamated match exactly the
Grey-blue of the twelve smaller stones behind
Even the halo (still a purplish grey)
Of the crescent carries on the harmony:
Its bright whiteness forms a transition to
The bright left-hand thick body-branch and trunk
Of the scene's largest tree.

What a delicious trail of ivy garlands
The old thin snaggy tree, top broken off
One third from its summit, more like a pole
Or huge and rotten stake half hollow at
The bottom—here stand the three Goddesses!
For them I must trust to inspiration!
The sky perspective of the clouds above,
The many many weeds, new picturesque!

Conceivably the opening would have been a verse-paragraph saying something like ‘How well I yet recall that painting by/My friend the genius of the visual art etc’; and the poem would have ended with a rather longer passage, regretting the damage the painting had suffered in transit, and a meditation on how often great art falls prey to accident and destruction. And perhaps there would have been a twist at the end, whereby STC's ability imaginatively to reconstruct Allston's image (evidenced in this passage) offers the consolation of the esemplastic powers of that faculty.

What we have, I'd say, is a pretty good passage of extended Coleridgean descriptive blank-verse; still quite rough, in the form I've blocked it out here, but on it's way to somewhere quite interesting.