PEDIATRICS Vol. 64 No. 3 September 1979, pp. 303
This Article
Right arrow Full Text (PDF)
Right arrow Submit a response
Right arrow Alert me when this article is cited
Right arrow Alert me when eLetters are posted
Right arrow Alert me if a correction is posted
Services
Right arrow E-mail this article to a friend
Right arrow Similar articles in this journal
Right arrow Alert me to new issues of the journal
Right arrow Add to My File Cabinet
Right arrow Download to citation manager
Right arrow reprints & permissions
Citing Articles
Right arrow Citing Articles via CrossRef
Right arrow Citing Articles via Google Scholar
Google Scholar
Right arrow Articles by C., T. E.
Right arrow Search for Related Content
PubMed
Right arrow Articles by C., T. E., Jr

THE POET COLERIDGE RECALLS HIS CHILDHOOD

T. E. C. Jr MD

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) described himself as a precocious and imaginative child. Reading his recollection of himself as a child, one sees the emerging poet who was to become one of the most important and influential figures in the English Romantic movement.1

My father's sister kept an every-thing shop at Crediton—and there I read through all the gilt-cover little books that could be had at that time, and likewise all the uncovered tales of Tom Hickathrift, Jack the Giant-killer, etc. and etc. etc. etc.—and I used to lie by the wall, and mope—and my spirits used to come upon me suddenly, and in a flood—and then I was accumstomed to run up and down the church-yard, and act over all I had been reading on the docks, the nettles, and the rank-grass. At six years old I remember to have read Belisarius, Robinson Crusoe, and Philip Quarll—and then I found the Arabian Nights' entertainments—one tale of which (the tale of a man who was compelled to seek for a pure virgin) made so deep an impression on me (I had read it in the evening while my mother was mending stockings) that I was haunted by spectres whenever I was in the dark—and I distinctly remember the anxious and fearful eagerness with which I used to watch the window in which the books lay—and whenever the sun lay upon them, I would seize it, carry it by the wall, and bask, and read.

My father found out the effect which these books had produced—and burnt them.