Farewell, S. T. C.

P. S. A mad dog ran through our village, and bit several dogs. I have
desired the farmers to be attentive, and to-morrow shall give them, in
writing, the first symptoms of madness in a dog.

I wish my pockets were as yellow as George's phiz!"[37]


The preceding letter is about a fair example of that playful and
ebullient imagination for which Mr. Coleridge, at this time, was
distinguished. Subjects high and low received the same embellishment.
Figure crowded on figure, and image on image, in new and perpetual
variety.

He was once reprobating the introduction of all bull and bear similes
into poetry. "Well," I replied, "whatever your antipathies may be to
bulls and bears, you have no objection to wolves." "Yes," he answered, "I
equally abominate the whole tribe of lion, bull, bear, boar, and wolf
similes. They are more thread-bare than a beggar's cast-off coat. From
their rapid transition from hand to hand, they are now more hot and
sweaty than halfpence on a market day. I would as soon meet a wolf in the
open field, as in a friend's poem." I then rejoined, "Your objection,
once at least, to wolf similes, was not quite so strong, seeing you
prevailed on Mr. Southey to throw into the first book of "Joan of Arc," a
five-line flaming wolf simile of yours. One could almost see the wolf
leap, he was so fierce!" "Ah" said Mr. C. "but the discredit rests on
him, not on me."