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vigour and interest, admits not of dispute; still they have many of his wild and softer beauties; and if they fail to be read and admired, we shall not on that account think the better of the taste of the age.
With regard to the former of these poems, we have often heard, from what may be deemed good authority, a very curious anecdote, which we shall give merely as such, without vouching for the truth of it. When the article entitled 'The Inferno of Altisidora,' appeared in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1809, it will be remembered, that the last fragment contained in that singular production, is the beginning of the romance of Triermain. Report says, that the fragment was not meant to be an imitation of Scott but of Coleridge; and that for this purpose the author borrowed both the name of the hero and the scene from the then unpublished poem of Christabelle; and further,—that so few had ever seen the manuscript of that poem, that amongst these few the author of Triermain could not be mistaken. Be that as it may, it is well known, that on the appearance of this fragment in the Annual Register, it was universally taken for an imitation of Walter Scott, and never once of Coleridge. The author perceiving this, and that the poem was well received, instantly set about drawing it out into a regular and finished work; for shortly after, it was announced in the papers, and continued to be so for three long years; the author, as may be supposed, having, during that period, his hands occasionally occupied with heavier metal. In 1813 the poem was at last produced, avowedly and manifestly as an imitation of Mr Scott; and it may easily be observed, that from the 27th page onward, it becomes much more decidedly like the manner of that poet than it is in the preceding part which was published in the Register, and which undoubtedly does bear some similarity to Coleridge in the poetry, and more especially in the rythm,—as, e.g.
With the slow tunes he loves the best,
Till sleep sink down upon his breast,
Like the dew on a summer hill.'
'It was the dawn of an autumn day,
The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray,
That, like a silvery crape, was spread
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head.'
'What time, or where
Did she pass, that maid with the heavenly brow,
With her look so sweet, and her eyes so fair,
And her graceful step, and her angel air,
And the eagle-plume on her dark-brown hair,
That pass'd from my bower e'en now?'
'Although it fell as faint and shy
As bashful maiden's half-formed sigh,
When she thinks her lover near.'
'And light they fell, as when earth receives,
In morn of frost, the withered leaves
That drop when no winds blow.'
'Or if 'twas but an airy thing,
Such as fantastic slumbers bring,
Framed from the rainbow's varying dyes,
Or fading tints of western skies.'
These, it will be seen, are not exactly Coleridge, but they are precisely such an imitation of Coleridge as, we conceive, another poet of our acquaintance would write: on that ground, we are inclined to give some credit to the anecdote here related, and from it we leave our readers to guess, as we have done, who is the author of the poems in question.
It may be argued by the capricious, and those of slow-motioned souls, that this proves nothing; but we assure them it proves all that we intend or desire to have proved; for we think the present mode of endeavouring to puzzle people's brains about the authors of every work that appears extremely amusing. It has likewise a very beneficial and delightful consequence, in as much as it makes many persons to be regarded as great authors, and looked up to as extraordinary characters, who otherwise would never have been distinguished in the slightest degree from their fellows. We shall only say, once for all, that whenever we are admitted behind the curtain, we shall never blab the secrets of the green-room, for we think there is neither honour nor discretion in so doing; but when things are left for us to guess at, we may sometimes blunder on facts that will astonish these mist-enveloped authors, as well as their unfathomable printer, who we think may soon adopt for a sign-board or motto, Mr Murray's very appropriate and often-repeated postscript—☞ No admittance behind the scenes. And, at all events, if we should some-