July 9, 1809.—There is a strong resemblance between St. Pierre’s Paul et Virginie and Gertrude of Wyoming. Perhaps the one may have elicited the other. I am far from detracting from the merit of one of the most beautiful poems in the English language by this remark. It is not the resemblance of plagiarism, but a species of likeness independent of imitation, which the admirers of both will find pleasure in tracing; and it is not uninteresting to observe what a different character may be stamped on events and situations nearly similar. In each we are presented with exquisite pictures of the lonely smiles of nature in a remote clime, where we suppose an almighty hand to have scattered with ‘boon profusion’ those beauties we endeavour to obtain by the slow progress of art and industry. In each the mind reposes on the idea of primeval innocence, and of lovers whose pure affections are guarded by their situation from any ills that may spring from intercourse with the world: who not only derive from each other their chief felicity, but to whom inconstancy, and even jealousy, are happily impossible. In each the hero is bowed to earth by the premature and sudden death of the woman he loves, who meets her fate with courage and sensibility before his eyes. In each a friend of mature age and high endowments endeavours to ‘minister to a mind diseased,’ and to soften that grief ‘which knows not consolation’s name.’ These beautiful tales have also this in common, that we conclude them with regret, wish we had been so pained a little longer, feel our hearts raised and ameliorated, our sense of domestic happiness more lively, our interest in the fate of our fellow wanderers in the path of human life more strong and tender, than before. Such ought to be the effect of every work of imagination that bears the stamp of genius, and such effects alone give immortality to its productions.
TO MRS. LEADBEATER.
Sept., 1809.
I was greatly disappointed in Madoc, which I have just read, though, I believe, it is not very new. What a strange delight Southey takes in wounds and tortures! I would almost as soon visit the Inquisition, or witness a boxing-match, as read it again.
I have seen an interesting letter from Hannah More on the subject of Cœlebs, and was greatly pleased with the candour and simplicity of her sentiments and style. She says it has gone through ten large editions, and has been the means of sending many readers to ‘the best of books;’ but she apologizes for the marks it bears of having been written when her health and spirits were somewhat impaired; and she owns that lady may have been right who said ‘it was a bad novel and a bad sermon.’
Your admiration of Gertrude of Wyoming is not greater than my own. There is an exquisite sensibility in some passages, and a pomp of poetical diction, united with apparent truth of descriptive painting, in others, which cover all the faults of its meagre, disjointed, improbable narrative, and its occasional obscurity of expression. Its condensed beauties are numerous, and particularly to be admired at present, when the art of saying much in few words seems almost forgotten.