GARDENS OF CELEBRITIES 
windows in the rear of No. 3, command a glorious prospect, for 
they look right across the ‘‘ Nightingale Valley,”’ over Lord Mans- 
field’s Park, to the sunsets, while in the early days of the nine- 
teenth century, there must have been a magnificent view from the 
front of the house also. 
Coleridge came to the Grove in 1813. An acquaintance that 
we have seen so auspiciously begun, ripened daily throughout 
the years of his residence at Highgate; and the friendship thus 
felicitously formed, only ended with his death in 1834. 
‘* Here on the brow of Highgate Hill,” wrote Carlyle, “‘ he sat 
looking down on London, and its smoke and tumult, like a sage 
escaped from the inanity of life’s battles, and attracting the 
thoughts of innumerable brave souls still engaged there—a heavy- 
laden, high aspiring, surely much suffering man.” 
Among the poet’s ardent admirers and disciples, Carlyle himself, 
then newly come to London, cannot be classed—but the picturesque ~ 
sidelights that he throws upon this period of Coleridge’s life are 
invaluable ; and it is interesting to contrast his description of his 
personal appearance in his last days, when prematurely aged, 
with that by Dorothy Wordsworth of the poet in his youth, before 
quoted: ‘‘ A good man,” he says, ‘“‘ he was now getting old and 
gave you the idea of a life full of suffering; a life heavy laden, 
half vanquished, still swimming painfully in seas of manifold 
physical and other bewilderment. Brow and head were. round 
and of massive weight, but the face was flabby, irresolute. The 
deep eyes, of a light hazel, were as full of sorrow as of inspiration, 
compressed pain looked mildly from them, as in a kind of mild 
astonishment ; the whole figure and air good and amiable, other- 
wise might be called flabby, irresolute; expressive of weakness 
under possibility of strength. He hung loosely on his limbs, 
with knees bent and stooping attitude; in walking, he rather 
shuffled than decisively stepped; and a lady once remarked he 
could never fix which side of the garden walk would suit him 
best, but continually shifted corkscrew fashion, and kept trying 
both.” 
Truly doctors differ, and it is amusing to find that Emerson 
saw in Coleridge “‘ a short, thick old man, with bright blue eyes 
and fine, clear complexion—who took snuff freely, which presently 
soiled his clothes and neat black suit.” Harriet Martineau, 
246 
