Letter from a Lotus Eater by Gearalt MacAodha
A volume of letters unearthed in a house clearance claims to cast new light on the genesis of one of Coleridge’s major poems. But our literary editor has his doubts.
While it is tempting to rejoice that such a primary source of evidence on one of our literary giants has come to light, the provenance of the letters has yet to be established. Some of the colloquialisms jar upon the ear, and while the actual draft of the poem is clearly the nascent work of a great poet, the chronology is highly suspect. I leave the readers to form their own judgement on the authenticity of the extract reprinted here.
Dear Willy,
Hope this finds you and Dorothy well. I am very comfortably settled with the De Quincy's who can't seem to do enough for me. Indeed, as you know I have long been troubled with persistent toothache and rely heavily on the laudanum to mitigate its worst excesses. Thomas has provided me with palliative drops of a quality infinitely superior to that which the pharmacist at Porlock was able to supply. I have enquired of its provenance but Thomas simply refers to it as “wicked weed from my main man.” At such times he affects a faraway look but with a trace of nervousness, so I see fit to nod and humour him and thus further interrogation is foreclosed.
Nonetheless, I have to agree with his assessment of its qualities. It is far, far superior, in terms of raising my senses, to the baked and powdered daffodil stems with which you persist in experimenting. In fact, having sprinkled some of it in some fine scones and inhaled some more in a fragrant clay pipe, my thoughts turned to your dictum of poetry consisting of emotion reflected in tranquillity. I recalled my feelings from that time when you, Dorothy, Southey and the others went rambling and I was unable to accompany you, having dashed a kettle of boiling water over my foot. These lines came to me. I think I may call it ‘This Lime Tree Bower, my Prison’.
The bastards went and left me
Slumped beneath this tree
Nursing my poor scalded foot
From ten till half past three.
I hope it rains on their picnic
And they get stung by a bee
I really hope that Willy slips
And wrenches his left knee
I hope the flies get in their jam
And there's no milk for their tea
Because the hamper was ill-packed
And they all blame Dorothy
Then will they hear upon the wind, my lost and lonely plea
And they will all come limping back to have some tea with me.
At this point I was interrupted by a man with a parcel, or “wrap,” for de Quincy.
What do you think, old friend? Obviously it needs some work and, as ever, I should be most grateful for your valued advice and unstinting criticism.
Your humble friend,
Sam
