take off their shoes, and tread softly all the way upstairs, as
Christabel observes that her father is a bad sleeper. At last, however,
they do arrive at the bed-room, and comfort themselves with a dram of
some homemade liquor, which proves to be very old; for it was made by
Lady C.'s mother; and when her new friend asks if she thinks the old
lady will take her part, she answers, that this is out of the question,
in as much as she happened to die in childbed of her. The mention of the
old lady, however, gives occasion to the following pathetic
couplet.--Christabel says,
'O mother dear, that thou wert here!
I would, said Geraldine, she were!'
A very mysterious conversation next takes place between Lady Geraldine
and the old gentlewoman's ghost, which proving extremely fatiguing to
her, she again has recourse to the bottle--and with excellent effect, as
appears by these lines.
'Again the wild-flower wine she drank;
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
'And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty Lady stood upright:
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a Lady of a far countree.'
--From which, we may gather among other points, the exceeding great
beauty of all women who live in a distant place, no matter where. The
effects of the cordial speedily begin to appear; as no one, we imagine,
will doubt, that to its influence must be ascribed the following
speech--
'And thus the lofty lady spake--
All they, who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them--and for their sake
And for the good which me befel,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you well.'
Before going to bed, Lady G. kneels to pray, and desires her friend to
undress, and lie down; which she does 'in her loveliness;' but being
curious, she leans 'on her elbow,' and looks toward the fair
devotee,--where she sees something which the poet does not think fit to
tell us very explicitly.
'Her silken robe, and inner vest,
Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold! her bosom and half her side--
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
And she is to sleep by Christabel.'
She soon rises, however, from her knees; and as it was not a
double-bedded room, she turns in to Lady Christabel, taking only 'two
paces and a stride.' She then clasps her tight in her arms, and mutters
a very dark spell, which we apprehend the poet manufactured by shaking
words together at random; for it is impossible to fancy that he can
annex any meaning whatever to it. This is the end of it.
'But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest
Thou heard'st a low moaning,
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair:
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.'
The consequence of this incantation is, that Lady Christabel has a
strange dream--and when she awakes, her first exclamation is, 'Sure I
have sinn'd'--'Now heaven be praised if all be well!' Being still
perplexed with the remembrance of her 'too lively' dream--she then
dresses herself, and modestly prays to be forgiven for 'her sins
unknown.' The two companions now go to the Baron's parlour, and
Geraldine tells her story to him. This, however, the poet judiciously
leaves out, and only signifies that the Baron recognized in her the
daughter of his old friend Sir Roland, with whom he had had a deadly
quarrel. Now, however, he despatches his tame poet, or laureate, called
Bard Bracy, to invite him and his family over, promising to forgive
every thing, and even make an apology for what had passed. To understand
what follows, we own, surpasses our comprehension. Mr Bracy, the poet,
recounts a strange dream he has just had, of a dove being almost
strangled by a snake; whereupon the Lady Geraldine falls a hissing, and
her eyes grow small, like a serpent's,--or at least so they seem to her
friend; who begs her father to 'send away that woman.' Upon this the
Baron falls into a passion, as if he had discovered that his daughter
had been seduced; at least, we can understand him in no other sense,
though no hint of such a kind is given; but on the contrary, she is
painted to the last moment as full of innocence and
purity.--Nevertheless,
'His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quiver'd, his eyes were wild,
Dishonour'd thus in his old age;
Dishonour'd by his only child;
And all his hospitality
To th' insulted daughter of his friend
By more than woman's jealousy,
Brought thus to a disgraceful end.--'
Nothing further is said to explain the mystery; but there follows
incontinently, what is termed '_The conclusion of Part the Second_.' And
as we are pretty confident that Mr Coleridge holds this passage in the
highest estimation; that he prizes it more than any other part of 'that
wild, and singularly original and beautiful poem Christabel,' excepting
always the two passages touching the 'toothless mastiff bitch;' we shall
extract it for the amazement of our readers--premising our own frank
avowal that we are wholly unable to divine the meaning of any portion of
it.
'A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds and never seeks;
Makes such a vision to the sight
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love's excess
With words of unmeant bitterness.
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm
Perhaps 'tis tender too, and pretty,
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it's most used to do.'
Hence endeth the Second Part, and, in truth, the 'singular' poem itself;
for the author has not yet written, or, as he phrases it, 'embodied in
verse,' the 'three parts yet to come;'--though he trusts he shall be
able to do so' in the course of the present year.'
One word as to the metre of Christabel, or, as Mr Coleridge terms it,
'_the_ Christabel'--happily enough; for indeed we doubt if the peculiar
force of the definite article was ever more strongly exemplified. He
says, that though the reader may fancy there prevails a great
_irregularity_ in the metre, some lines being of four, others of twelve
syllables, yet in reality it is quite regular; only that it is 'founded
on a new principle, namely, that of counting in each line the accents,
not the syllables.' We say nothing of the monstrous assurance of any man
coming forward coolly at this time of day, and telling the readers of
English poetry, whose ear has been tuned to the lays of Spenser, Milton,
Dryden, and Pope, that he makes his metre 'on a new principle!' but we
utterly deny the truth of the assertion, and defy him to show us _any_
principle upon which his lines can be conceived to tally. We give two or
three specimens to confound at once this miserable piece of coxcombry
and shuffling. Let our 'wild, and singularly original and beautiful'
author, show us how these lines agree either in number of accents or of
feet.
'Ah wel-a-day!'
'For this is alone in--'
'And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity'--
'I pray you drink this cordial wine'--
'Sir Leoline'--
'And found a bright lady surpassingly fair'--
'Tu--whit!----Tu--whoo!'
_Kubla Khan_ is given to the public, it seems, 'at the request of a poet
of great and deserved celebrity;'--but whether Lord Byron, the praiser
of 'the Christabel,' or the Laureate, the praiser of Princes, we are not
informed. As far as Mr Coleridge's 'own opinions are concerned,' it is
published, 'not upon the ground of any _poetic_ merits,' but 'as a
PSYCHOLOGICAL CURIOSITY!' In these opinions of the candid author, we
entirely concur; but for this reason we hardly think it was necessary to
give the minute detail which the Preface contains, of the circumstances
attending its composition. Had the question regarded '_Paradise Lost_,'
or '_Dryden's Ode_,' we could not have had a more particular account of
the circumstances in which it was composed. It was in the year 1797, and
in the summer season. Mr Coleridge was in bad health;--the particular
disease is not given; but the careful reader will form his own
conjectures. He had retired very prudently to a lonely farm-house; and
whoever would see the place which gave birth to the 'psychological
curiosity,' may find his way thither without a guide; for it is situated
on the confines of Somerset and Devonshire, and on the Exmoor part of
the boundary; and it is, moreover, between Porlock and Linton. In that
farm-house, he had a slight indisposition, and had taken an anodyne,
which threw him into a deep sleep in his chair (whether after dinner or
not he omits to state), 'at the moment that he was reading a sentence in
Purchas's Pilgrims,' relative to a palace of Kubla Khan. The effects of
the anodyne, and the sentence together, were prodigious: They produced
the 'curiosity' now before us; for, during his three-hours sleep, Mr
Coleridge 'has the most vivid confidence that he could not have composed
less than from two to three hundred lines.' On awaking, he 'instantly
and eagerly' wrote down the verses here published; when he was (he says,
'_unfortunately_') called out by a 'person on business from Porlock, and
detained by him above an hour;' and when he returned the vision was
gone. The lines here given smell strongly, it must be owned, of the
anodyne; and, but that an under dose of a sedative produces contrary
effects, we should inevitably have been lulled by them into
forgetfulness of all things. Perhaps a dozen more such lines as the
following would reduce the most irritable of critics to a state of
inaction.
'A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she play'd,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread:
For he on honey-dew hath fed,' &c. &c.
There is a good deal more altogether as exquisite--and in particular a
fine description of a wood, 'ancient as the hills;' and 'folding sunny
spots of _greenery_!' But we suppose this specimen will be sufficient.
Persons in this poet's unhappy condition, generally feel the want of
sleep as the worst of their evils; but there are instances, too, in the
history of the disease, of sleep being attended with new agony, as if
the waking thoughts, how wild and turbulent soever, had still been under
some slight restraint, which sleep instantly removed. Mr Coleridge
appears to have experienced this symptom, if we may judge from the title
of his third poem, '_The Pains of Sleep_;' and, in truth, from its
composition--which is mere raving, without any thing more affecting than
a number of incoherent words, expressive of extravagance and
incongruity.--We need give no specimen of it.
Upon the whole, we look upon this publication as one of the most notable
pieces of impertinence of which the press has lately been guilty; and
one of the boldest experiments that has yet been made on the patience or
understanding of the public. It is impossible, however, to dismiss it,
without a remark or two. The other productions of the Lake School have
generally exhibited talents thrown away upon subjects so mean, that no
power of genius could ennoble them; or perverted and rendered useless by
a false theory of poetical composition. But even in the worst of them,
if we except the White Doe of Mr Wordsworth and some of the laureate
odes, there were always some gleams of feeling or of fancy. But the
thing now before us is utterly destitute of value. It exhibits from
beginning to end not a ray of genius; and we defy any man to point out a
passage of poetical merit in any of the three pieces which it contains,
except, perhaps, the following lines in p. 32, and even these are not
very brilliant; nor is the leading thought original--
'Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.'
With this one exception, there is literally not one couplet in the
publication before us which would be reckoned poetry, or even sense,
were it found in the corner of a newspaper or upon the window of an inn.
Must we then be doomed to hear such a mixture of raving and driv'ling,
extolled as the work of a '_wild and original_' genius, simply because
Mr Coleridge has now and then written fine verses, and a brother poet
chooses, in his milder mood, to laud him from courtesy or from interest?
And are such panegyrics to be echoed by the mean tools of a political
faction, because they relate to one whose daily prose is understood to
be dedicated to the support of all that courtiers think should be
supported? If it be true that the author has thus earned the patronage
of those liberal dispensers of bounty, we can have no objection that
they should give him proper proofs of their gratitude; but we cannot
help wishing, for his sake, as well as our own, that they would pay in
solid pudding instead of empty praise; and adhere, at least in this
instance, to the good old system of rewarding their champions with
places and pensions, instead of puffing their bad poetry, and
endeavouring to cram their nonsense down the throats of all the loyal
and well affected.--_The Edinburgh Review_.
ROBERT SOUTHEY
_Madoc_, by ROBERT SOUTHEY. 4to. pp. 560. 2l. 2s. Boards. Printed at
Edinburgh, for Longman and Co., London. 1805.
It has fallen to the lot of this writer to puzzle our critical
discernment more than once. In the _Annual Anthology_ we had reason to
complain that it was difficult to distinguish his jocular from his
serious poetry; and sometimes indeed to know his poetry from his prose.
He has now contrived to manufacture a large quarto, which he has styled
a poem, but of what description it is no easy matter to decide. The
title of epic, which he indignantly disclaims, we might have been
inclined to refuse his production, had it been claimed; and we suppose
that Mr. Southey would not suffer it to be classed under the
mock-heroic. The poem of Madoc is not didactic, nor elegiac, nor
classical, in any respect. Neither is it _Macphersonic_, nor
_Klopstockian_, nor _Darwinian_,--we beg pardon, we mean _Brookian_. To
conclude, according to a phrase of the last century, which was applied
to ladies of ambiguous character, _it is what it is_.--As Mr. Southey
has set the rules of Aristotle at defiance in his preface, we hope that
he will feel a due degree of gratitude for this appropriate definition
of his work. It is an old saying, thoroughly descriptive of such an old
song as this before us.
Mr. Southey, however, has not disdained all ancient precedents in his
poem, for he introduces it with this advertisement:
'Come, listen to a tale of times of old!
Come, for ye know me! I am he who sung
The maid of Arc; and I am he who framed
Of Thalaba the wild and wonderous song.
Come, listen to my lay, and ye shall hear
How Madoc from the shores of Britain spread
The adventurous sail, explored the ocean ways,
And quelled barbarian power, and overthrew
The bloody altars of idolatry,
And planted in its fanes triumphantly
The cross of Christ. Come, listen to my lay!'
This _modest ostentation_ was certainly derived from the verses imputed
to Virgil;
"Ille ego, qui quondam gracili modulatus avena
Carmen; et egressus sylvis, vicina coegi
Ut quamvis avido parerent arva colono,
Gratum opus agricolis: at nunc horrentia Martis, &c."
In the very first part of the poem, also, we find Mr. Southey pursuing
the Horatian precept, "_prorumpere in medias res_;" for he commences
with the _return_ of Madoc to his native country. It is true that, like
the Messenger in Macklin's tragedy, he "goes but to return;" and the
critic is tempted to say, with Martial, _toto carere possum_.--Thus the
grand interest of the work, which ought to consist in exploring a new
world, is destroyed at once, by the reader at his outset encountering
the heroes returning "sound, wind and limb," to their native country. It
may be said that Camoens has thrown a great part of Da Gama's Voyage
into the form of a narrative: but he has also given much in description;
enough, at least, to have justified Mr. Southey in commencing rather
nearer the commencement of his tale.
That he might withdraw himself entirely from the yoke of Aristotle, Mr.
Southey has divided his poem into two parts, instead of giving it a
beginning, a middle and an end. One of these parts is concisely
entitled, 'Madoc in Wales;' the other, 'Madoc in Aztlan.' A _middle_
might, however, have been easily found, by adding, _Madoc on
Shipboard_.--The first of these Anti Peripatetic parts contains 18
divisions; the second, 27 which include every incident, episode, &c.
introduced into the poem. This arrangement gives it very much the
appearance of a journal versified, and effectually precludes any
imputation of luxuriance of fancy in the plot.
Respecting the manners, Mr. Southey appears to have been more successful
than in his choice of the story. He has adhered to history where he
could discover any facts adapted to his purpose; and when history failed
him, he has had recourse to probability. Yet we own that the
nomenclature of his heroes has shocked what Mr. S. would call our
prejudices. _Goervyl_ and _Ririd_ and _Rodri_ and _Llaian_ may have
charms for Cambrian ears, but who can feel an interest in _Tezozomoc_,
_Tlalala_, or _Ocelopan_? Or, should
----'Tyneio, Merini,
Boda and Brenda and Aelgyvarch,
Gwynon and Celynin and Gwynodyl,' (p. 129.)
"Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek,
That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp[I],"
how could we swallow _Yuhidthiton_, _Coanocotzin_, and, above all, the
yawning jaw-dislocating _Ayayaca_?--These torturing words, particularly
the latter, remind us so strongly of the odious cacophony of the Nurse
and Child, that they really are not to be tolerated. Mr. Southey's
defence (for he has partially anticipated this objection) is that the
names are conformable to history or analogy, which we are not inclined
to dispute: but it is not requisite to tread so closely in the traces of
barbarity. Truth does not constitute the essence of poetry: but it is
indispensably necessary that the lines should be agreeable to the ear,
as well as to the sense. Sorry, indeed, we are to complain that Mr.
Southey, in attempting a new method of writing,--in professing to set
aside the old models, and to promote his own work to a distinguished
place in the library,--has failed to interest our feelings, or to excite
our admiration. The dull tenor of mediocrity, which characterizes his
pages, is totally unsuitable to heroic poetry, regular or irregular.
Instead of viewing him on a _fiery Pegasus_, and "snatching a grace
beyond the reach of art," we behold the author mounted on a strange
animal, something between a rough Welsh poney and a Peruvian sheep,
whose utmost capriole only tends to land him in the mud. We may indeed
safely compliment Mr. Southey, by assuring him that there is nothing in
Homer, Virgil, or Milton, in any degree resembling the beauties of
Madoc.
Whether the expedition of Madoc, and the existence of a Welsh tribe in
America, be historically true, it is not our present business to
examine. It is obvious, however, that one great object of the poem, the
destruction of the altars of idolatry, had failed; for it is not
pretended that the supposed descendants of Madoc remained Christians.
We shall now make some extracts from this poem, which will enable our
readers to judge whether we have spoken too severely of Mr. Southey's
labours.
[Quotes 270 lines of _Madoc_ with interpolated comments.]
If the perusal of these and the preceding verses should tempt any of our
readers to purchase Mr. Southey's volume, we can warrant equal
entertainment in all its other parts, and shall heartily wish the
gentleman all happiness with his poet.--To us, there appears a thorough
perversion of taste, in the conception and execution of the whole; and
we are disgusted with the tameness of the verse, the vulgarity of the
thoughts, and the barbarity of the manners. If this style of writing be
continued, we may expect not only the actions of Vindomarus or
Ariovistus to be celebrated, but we may perhaps see the history of the
Cherokees, Choctaws, and Catabaws, versified in quarto. The name of
Atakulla-kulla would not be inharmonious, compared with some of Mr.
Southey's heroes. Indeed, a very interesting poem might be founded on
the story of Pocahuntas, as it is detailed by Smith, in his History of
the Settlement of Virginia; and if Mr. Southey should meditate another
irruption into the territories of the Muse, we would recommend this
subject to his attention.
It must be remarked that this is a very handsome and elegantly printed
book, with engraved title-pages, vignettes, &c. and had the poet
equalled the printer, his work might have stood on the same shelf with
those of our most admired writers.--_The Monthly Review_.
[Footnote I: Milton.]
CHARLES LAMB
_Blank Verse_, by CHARLES LLOYD, and CHARLES LAMB. 12mo. 2s. 6d. Boards.
Arch. 1798.
Dr. Johnson, speaking of blank verse, seemed to have adopted the opinion
of some great man,--we forget whom,--that it is only "_poetry to the
eye_." On perusing the works of several modern bards of our own country,
we have sometimes rather inclined to the same idea, but the recollection
of Milton and Thomson presently banished it.
We have more than once delivered our sentiments respecting the poetry of
Mr. Charles Lloyd. To what we have formerly remarked, in general on this
head, we have little to add on the present occasion; except that we
begin to grow weary of his continued melancholy strains. Why is this
ingenious writer so uncomfortably constant to the _mournful_ Muse? If he
has any taste for variety, he has little to fear from _jealousy_ in the
sacred sisterhood.--Then why not sometimes make his bow to THALIA?
Mr. Lamb, the joint author of this little volume, seems to be very
properly associated with his plaintive companion.--_The Monthly
Review_.
_Album Verses, with a few others_. By CHARLES LAMB. 12mo. pp. 150.
London, 1830. Moxon.
If any thing could prevent our laughing at the present collection of
absurdities, it would be a lamentable conviction of the blinding and
engrossing nature of vanity. We could forgive the folly of the original
composition, but cannot but marvel at the egotism which has preserved,
and the conceit which has published. What exaggerated notion must that
man entertain of his talents, who believes their slightest efforts
worthy of remembrance; one who keeps a copy of the verses he writes in
young ladies' albums, the proverbial receptacles for trash! Here and
there a sweet and natural thought intervenes; but the chief part is best
characterized by that expressive though ungracious word "rubbish." And
what could induce our author to trench on the masculine and vigorous
Crabbe? did he think his powerful and dark outlines might with advantage
be turned to "prettiness and favour?" But let our readers judge from the
following specimens. The first is from the album of Mrs. Jane Towers.
"Conjecturing, I wander in the dark,
I know thee only sister to Charles Clarke!"
Directions for a picture--
"You wished a picture, cheap, but good;
The colouring? decent; clear, not muddy;
To suit a poet's quiet study."
The subject is a child--
"Thrusting his fingers in his ears,
Like Obstinate, that perverse funny one,
In honest parable of Bunyan."
We were not aware of "Obstinate's" fun before.
An epitaph:--
"On her bones the turf lie lightly,
And her rise again be brightly!
No dark stain be found upon her--
No, there will not, on mine honour--
Answer that at least I can."
Or what is the merit of the ensuing epicedium?
[Quotes 48 lines beginning:--
There's rich Kitty Wheatley,
With footing it featly, etc.]