sistible facility. His essays, or political and moral disquisitions, are not so full of original matter as Montaigne's; they are second or third rate compositions in that class. It remains that I should say a few words of Mr. Coleridge; and there is no one who has a better right to say what he thinks of him than I have. Is there here any dear friend of Cæsar? To him I say that Brutus' love to Cæsar was no less than his.' But no matter. His Ancient Mariner' is his most remarkable performance, and the only one that I could point out to any one as giving an adequate idea of his great natural powers. It is High-German, however, and in it he seems to conceive of poetry but as a drunken dream, reckless, careless, and heedless of past, present, and to come.' tragedies (for he has written two) are not answerable to it; they are, except a few poetical passages, drawling sentiment and metaphysical jargon. He has no genuine dramatic talent. There is one fine passage in his 'Christabel,' that which contains the description of the quarrel between Sir Leoline and Sir Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine, who had been friends in youth: 'Alas! they had been friends in youth, But whispering tongues can poison truth, And to be wroth with one we love, Doth work like madness in the brain. 'They stood aloof, the scars remaining, But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder The marks of that which once hath been. Stood gazing on the damsel's face; It might seem insidious if I were to praise his ode, entitled Fire, Famine, and Slaughter, as an effusion of high poetical enthusiasm and strong political feeling. His Sonnet to Schiller conveys a fine compliment to the author of the 'Robbers,' and an equally fine idea of the state of youthful enthusiasm in which he composed it: 'Schiller! that hour I would have wished to die, If through the shuddering midnight I had sent From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent, That fearful voice, a famished father's cry, sistible facility. His essays, or political and moral disquisitions, are not so full of original matter as Montaigne's; they are second or third rate compositions in that class. It remains that I should say a few words of Mr. Coleridge; and there is no one who has a better right to say what he thinks of him than I have. Is there here any dear friend of Cæsar? To him I say that Brutus' love to Cæsar was no less than his.' But no matter. His Ancient Mariner' is his most remarkable performance, and the only one that I could point out to any one as giving an adequate idea of his great natural powers. It is High-German, however, and in it he seems to conceive of poetry but as a drunken dream, reckless, careless, and heedless of past, present, and to come.' His tragedies (for he has written two) are not answerable to it; they are, except a few poetical passages, drawling sentiment and metaphysical jargon. He has no genuine dramatic talent. There is one fine passage in his 'Christabel,' that. which contains the description of the quarrel between Sir Leoline and Sir Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine, who had been friends in youth: 'Alas! they had been friends in youth, But whispering tongues can poison truth, And to be wroth with one we love, Doth work like madness in the brain. Each spake words of high disdain 'They stood aloof, the scars remaining, But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder The marks of that which once hath been. Stood gazing on the damsel's face; It might seem insidious if I were to praise his ode, entitled Fire, Famine, and Slaughter, as an effusion of high poetical enthusiasm and strong political feeling. His Sonnet to Schiller conveys a fine compliment to the author of the Robbers,' and an equally fine idea of the state of youthful enthusiasm in which he composed it: 'Schiller! that hour I would have wished to die, If through the shuddering midnight I had sent From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent, That fearful voice, a famished father's cry, 'That in no after moment aught less vast Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout, From the more withering scene diminished passed. Ah, Bard tremendous in sublimity! Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood, Wandering at eve, with finely frenzied eye, Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood, 6 6 His Conciones ad Populum,' Watchman,' etc., are dreary trash. Of his Friend' I have spoken the truth elsewhere. But I may say of him here that he is the only person I ever knew who answered to the idea of a man of genius. He is the only person from whom I ever learnt anything. There is only one thing he could learn from me in return, but that he has not. He was the first poet I ever knew. His genius at that time [1798]1 had angelic wings, and fed on manna. He talked on forever; and you wished him to talk on forever. His thoughts did not seem to come with labour and effort, but as if borne on the gusts of genius, and as if the wings of his imagination lifted him from off his feet. His voice rolled on the ear like the pealing organ, and its sound alone was the 1 See 'Memoirs of William Hazlitt,' 1867, chaps. iii.-iv.ED. |