CIX. TO THE SAME.
February 28, 1800.
It goes to my heart, my dear Southey! to sit down and write to you, knowing that I can scarcely fill half a side—the postage lies on my conscience. I am translating manuscript plays of Schiller.[233] They are poems, full of long speeches, in very polish’d blank verse. The theatre! the theatre! my dear Southey! it will never, never, never do! If you go to Portugal, your History thereof will do, but, for present money, novels or translations. I do not see that a book said by you in the preface to have been written merely as a book for young persons could injure your reputation more than Milton’s “Accidence” injured his. I would do it, because you can do it so easily. It is not necessary that you should say much about French or German Literature. Do it so. Poetry of savage nations—Poetry of rudely civilized—Homer and the Hebrew Poetry, etc.—Poetry of civilized nations under Republics and Polytheism, State of Poetry under the Roman and Greek Empires—Revival of it in Italy, in Spain, and England—then go steadily on with England to the end, except one chapter about German Poetry to conclude with, which I can write for you.
In the “Morning Post” was a poem of fascinating metre by Mary Robinson; ’twas on Wednesday, Feb. 26, and entitled the “Haunted Beach.”[234] I was so struck with it that I sent to her to desire that [it] might be preserved in the “Anthology.” She was extremely flattered by the idea of its being there, as she idolizes you and your doings. So, if it be not too late, I pray you let it be in. If you should not have received that day’s paper, write immediately that I may transcribe it. It falls off sadly to the last, wants tale and interest; but the images are new and very distinct—that “silvery carpet” is so just that it is unfortunate it should seem so bad, for it is really good; but the metre, ay! that woman has an ear. William Taylor, from whom I have received a couple of letters full of thought and information, says what astounded me, that double rhymes in our language have always a ludicrous association. Mercy on the man! where are his ears and feelings? His taste cannot be quite right, from this observation; but he is a famous fellow—that is not to be denied.
Sara is poorly still. Hartley rampant, and emperorizes with your pictures. Harry is a fine boy. Hartley told a gentleman, “Metinks you are like Southey,” and he was not wholly unlike you—but the chick calling you simple “Southey,” so pompously!
God love you and your Edith.
S. T. Coleridge.
CHAPTER VI
A LAKE POET
1800-1803
CHAPTER VI
A LAKE POET
1800-1803