There is here no note of discontent with
the writer's surroundings; and yet, adds Mr. Cuthbert Southey in his
_Life and Correspondence_ of his father, the remainder of this
letter was filled by Coleridge with "a most gloomy account of his
health." Southey writes him in reply that he is convinced that his
friend's "complaint is gouty, that good living is necessary and a good
climate." In July of the same year he received a visit from Southey at
Greta Hall, and one from Charles and Mary Lamb in the following summer,
and it is probable that during such intervals of pleasurable excitement
his health and spirits might temporarily rally. But henceforward and
until his departure for Malta we gather nothing from any source as to
Coleridge's _normal_ condition of body and mind which is not
unfavourable, and it is quite certain that he had long before 1804
enslaved himself to that fatal drug which was to remain his tyrant for
the rest of his days.

When, then, and how did this slavery begin? What
was the precise date of Coleridge's first experiences of opium, and
what the original cause of his taking it? Within what time did its use
become habitual? To what extent was the decline of his health the
effect of the evil habit, and to what, if any, extent its cause? And
how far, if at all, can the deterioration of his character and powers
be attributed to a decay of physical constitution, brought about by
influences beyond the sufferer's own control?

Could every one of these questions be completely answered, we should be
in a position to solve the very obscure and painful problem before us;
but though some of them can be answered with more or less approach to
completeness, there is only one of them which can be finally disposed
of. It is certain, and it is no doubt matter for melancholy