436 Literary Character of Mr. Coleridge. [VOL.4 beyond the common affection which solitary whom we have thus described. they feel for their other children,—per. sons of virtuous dispositions, their best efforts are employed to give him an education that may fit him for some department of business where hard labour is not required; and he is seat to a school among his superiors in fortune, where his diffidence is regarded as sullenness, and his thoughtfulness as stupidity. His progress is slow; and he retires from this scene without leaving any favourable impression. His next appearance is either in the office of a lawyer, or the shop of an apothecary, or perhaps in the counting-house of a merchant. The bent of his mind lies not to his business; and his parents, unable to discriminate the stirrings of awakening genius from discontent, become anxious respecting him; and, ascribing the change in his character to the profitless course of his reading, embitter the little leisure that he can devote to study, by reproaching him with misspending his time. By and by he acquires confidence in himself, and, in defiance of the anger of his friends, ventures before the public as an author. He has no literary associate to point out the indications of talent scattered through his first imperfect essays, and his publication consequently incurs contempt. Conscious, however, of possessing within himself the springs of a force not yet excited, and instructed by his first failure, he perseveres on to wards the goal in view, and appears, at length, a second time with a little more success. Thus, step by step, unknown, uncheered, unpatronised, he gradually establishes a name; but his privations, his mortifications, his anxieties, and his sufferings, unparticipated and concealed, have, in the mean time, undermined his constitution, and he dies. He is then missed by the public, his works become sought after, the trade take up the question of his merits, and, about a century after his decease, the public assign to him a place among the ornaments of his country. Mr. Coleridge is professedly a man of genius, but we do not know in what respects his career resembles that of the It is however well known, that, if he has not been duly applauded in his own time, it has neither been owing to any lack of endeavour on his part, nor to want of assistance from his friends. We know not, indeed, a literary name oftener before the public than that of Coleridge, and we have never ceased to wonder how it should happen to be so. He has, it is true, occasionally sent forth lambent and luminous indications of talent; and we have contemplated them, from time to time, as the aurora of some glorious day, far out of the usual course of things. But, instead of a reddening morn, brightening more and more, the ineffectual phantom has as often been succeeded by a drizzle of nebulous sensibility, or a storm of sound and fury signifying nothing. It has been prettily observed, that the genius of Mr. Coleridge has wings, but is without hands. It is not, however, in this respect only that it resembles the cherub of a tomb-stone, for it has a marvellous 'affection towards all the varieties of cadaveries, ghosts, and other church-yard denizens and luminaries. But, to drop the metaphor, it seems to us that this learned Theban possesses the faculty of rousing but one class of intellectual associations, namely, those which are connected with such superstitious sentiments as have a tendency to excite the passion of insane fear. For, whenever he has tried to do any thing else, his failures are among the most laughable extravagances in literature. While, therefore, we do admit that he is possessed of one peculiar talent, and that one also in some degree "wildly original," we at the same time take leave to question whether such a faculty is not more akin to genuine frenzy than to that sound and vigorous intellectual power which transmits a portion of its own energy in the impulse that it gives to the public mind. "The Antient Mariner" of this poet is, in our opinion, the only one of his productions which justifies his pretensions to the title of a man of genius. It is full of vivid description, touches of an affecting simplicity, and, above all, VOL. 4.] Journey to the Great St. Bernard. it exhibits in the best manner that peculiar talent which may be considered as characteristic of his powers. It is, without doubt, the finest superstitious ballad in literature, the Lenora of Bürger not excepted; and as far superior to the Thalabas and Kehamahs of his friend and reciprocal trumpeter, Southey, the poet-laureate, as the incidents in those stories are remote from probability and common sense. Indeed, common sense and probability have very little to do with any of their poems; but admitting the principles on which they have constructed them, the fiction in the Antient Mariner is far better sustained. His poem of Cristabel is only fit for the inmates of Bedlam. We are not acquainted in the history of literature with so great an insult offered to the public understanding as the publication of that rhapsody of delirium, or with any thing so amusing as the sly roguery of those who, with such matchless command of countenance, ventured to recommend it to attention. It has, no doubt, here and there flashes of poetical expression, as every thing from the pen of Mr. Coleridge cannot but possess. But of coherency, and all that shows the superintendence of judgment or reason in composition, it is void and destitute. The indited ravings of a genuine madness would excite pity for the author, but the author of such a work is beyond compassion. Mr. Coleridge is justly celebrated for 437 his translations of Schiller, and it is much to be lamented that he has not been induced to favour the public with a complete version of that great poet's works. There is no other writer of the present day qualified to perform the task half so well. But, alas! he has taken to preaching lay Sermons, demonstrating that he is an apostate in politics, and that in his reasoning he can be as absurd and unintelligible as in his rhyming. He has also delivered lectures on Shakspeare, whose works he does not at all understand; and he has published two anomalous volumes respecting himself, which contain a few passages of good writing, but so interlarded with idealess nonsense, that they only serve to show that the author has estimated his stature by the length of his shadow in a sun-set of his understanding.-Some years ago he obtained a representation of a tragedy, called Remorse, which was received with a respectable degree of attention; but, as it contained no idea, either of incident or reflection, that showed the author to be possessed of any knowledge of human nature, it has sunk into oblivion, notwithstanding the beautiful fancies and elegant frenzy with which it abounds. In a word, if Mr. Coleridge is really a man of true genius, it is high time that he should give the world some proof less equivocal than any thing he has yet done. I MONASTERY OF THE GREAT ST. BERNARD. From the Monthly Magazine. WILL give you and your readers, some slender account from recollection of an interesting visit I paid last year to the Monastery of the Great St. Bernard, situate on one of the renowned Appenine passes into Italy; being that over which Napoleon Bonaparte effected the astonishing march of his army and materiel previous to the famous battle of Marengo. We went from Geneva in the month of September through the vallies of Maglan and Chamouni, the beauties and stupendous magnificence of which I cannot pretend to pourtray: the snowcovered cime of Mont Blanc, the father of mountains, apparently almost over our heads, whilst the intense heat of a blazing sun was almost melting us, and rapidly wasting away the glaciers; thus abundantly feeding those impetuous streams and cascades which rush wildly 438 Journey to the Monastery of the Great St. Bernard. down these luxuriant, fruitful, and most enchanting vallies. After visiting the Montanvert and the source of the Aveyron, we traversed the Col de Balme; and, from this elevated summit, (which is 7070 feet above the level of the sea,) we turned round to view to the greatest possible advantage, the towering snowy heights of Mont Blanc,-7700 feet above the level on which we then stood. After which we descended, by a devious and precipitous path, to Martigny, on the banks of the Rhone. The succeeding morning being a very fine one, we started about eight o'clock, on mules suitably caparisoned, with a very clever merry guide, on our expedition to the great St. Bernard. Leaving the Rhone on our left, we followed the ascending banks of the Dranse, sometimes on the right, and then on the left; crossing this wild and rapid river on bridges sufficiently rude and alarming; and, in about four hours and a half, we reached the little town of St. Pierre, fatigued with prodigious heat and dust of the valley. We there endeavoured to refresh our mules with some miserable hay, and ourselves with bread, butter, milk, honey, and eau de vie, at an auberge whose appearance would, under common circumstances, have forbid us to enter. On this morning's ascending-route we had passed several poor Swiss villages,and amongst them the devoted town of St. Branch. iere, which has since been devastated by the disruption of an immense accumulation of water, pent up by an avalanche, which fell on the course of the Dranse, impeding its waters, until the weight of the super-incumbent water burst its boundaries, and swept, with tremendous fury, every thing before it, spreading ruin and devastation through the valley. From St. Pierre our ascent became more rapid, until we approached what may be termed the foot of the mountain, when we descried, at a very considerable distance, and near the top, a large cross, apparently on an inaccessible height, which our guide told us was attached to the monastery. At length, after [VOL. 4 passing many a rocky steep, and traversing two regions of frozen snow,where the air was as keen as it is here in a morning in March, we arrived, about five o'clock, at this extraordinary establishment, with all our curiosity awakened, and fancying ourselves on legendary ground. Our first surprise was at being met on the threshold of the building, not by a grey-headed, austere, and hoary monk, but by a genteel well-bred youth, habited in the costume of the order; who very politely asked us if we were not much fatigued by the laborious ascent, and in how many hours we had performed it. On our reply that we did not feel much fatigued, he invited us to take a walk on their terrace, the evening being so fine: to which we gladly assented. This terrace is a kind of shelf, about four feet wide, cut in the rock, under a peak, considerably higher than the monastery; on the right, and on the left was a perpendicular precipice of considerable depth. On his perceiving me a little fearful of the giddy height on which we were walking, he obligingly offered me the assistance of his arm, and led us round on the terrace to the scite of an ancient Roman temple, which had been dedicated to Jupiter Penninus. The founder of the monastery, not being satisfied, as he told us, with his own quantum of Christian piety in founding it, felt himself bound also to demolish this temple of idolatry; so that nothing remained of it but the scite, and a few fragments of Roman bricks. We were now in Piedmont, with Italy on one side of us, and Switzerland on the other; and, as the shades of the evening approached, he proposed our returning to their hos pitable habitation, by which time, be said, the supper would be nearly prepared. He then conducted us to the refectory, where several of the brethren were already assembled; to whom he introduced us, and especially to the superieur, who appeared a perfect gentleman, and received us with the most polished manners and attention; he had himself just returned home from shooting, a recreation in which he frequently VOL. 4.] Journey to the Monastery of the Great St. Bernard. indulged himself, pour s'amuser, as he said. After a very long grace, in which every one seemed to have a part to repeat, and which we awaited, standing in the middle of the room,-the superieur requested us to be seated at the table, lamenting that we had chanced to visit them on a meagre day, on which they restricted themselves to a vegetable diet we begged he would not disquiet himself on that account, and assured him we were fond of vegetables. Immediately the long table was supplied with a course of vegetables and eggs, cooked excellently, and in various ways, and a remove of bread, butter, and cheese the whole constituting a very excellent repast, accompanied by wines of superior quality and flavour, and enlivened by polished and interesting conversation. I remarked to the superieur, who sat next to me, that they did not appear to observe an austerity of silence, such as the order of La Trappe impose on themselves. He said, "No: they did not approve of the austerity of the Trappists; but that they also had their hours of silence, perhaps two or three hours in the day, when each attended to his particular concerns; and that this contributed to the good order of the house." There were about twelve or thirteen then resident in the house (besides servants); one of them as handsome and interesting a young man as I ever beheld, who I thought, ought not to have been a Chanoine, the title by which they designate themselves. After supper, came the dessert, consisting of a variety of fruit, such as apples, pears, plums, cherries, walnuts, and Icary nuts, the grapes not being then ripe, owing to the lateness of the season. I remarked that, although they lived on a high and barren rock, they found means to fare as sumptuously as those who inhabit more genial climes; on which the superieur smiled, and said, they possessed several farms in the Low Countries, and about Martigny, whence they were constantly supplied with every product of the season. After enjoying the society of these 439 interesting Chanoines about two or three hours, we received a polite intimation, which was not to be resisted, (although we wished to sit longer,) that it was time to retire. "You are extremely fatigued, I am sure, (said the superieur) with your day's journey, and it must be grateful to you to be conducted to bed: I will order the chamberlain to warm your beds, and trust you will rest well." We could perceive that this arrangement was not to be obstructed,-we therefore assented; and, after rising, and standing again in the middle of the room, as before, another long grace was pronounced in Latin, and we retired to bed, highly delighted and astonished at the peculiarity and novelty of the scene. We had been broiling with heat in the morning, and were now elevated to a temperature almost freezing; where the keenness of the atmosphere exhibited the luminaries of Heaven in the extreme of brilliancy, and rendered the celestial hemisphere truly magnificent. The next morning we walked again a little on the rock, and were attended at breakfast by the gentleman who had first met us on our arrival, and who now conducted us to the museum, the chapel, and other points of interest; of whom we took a friendly leave, and, mounting our mules, descended by the way we had come; and, in about nine hours, arrived again at Martigny, highly gratified and delighted with our excursion. This monastery was, as far as we could learn, built and endowed by a father of the Benedictine order, for the purpose of preserving, protecting, and entertaining, all travellers, without distinction, passing this way to Italy; and any one is entitled to bed and board for three days, without fee or reward; and, as many travellers are annually distressed, and lost in the snow on this mountain, they keep large dogs, of a peculiar breed, somewhat between the mastiff and the Newfoundland, but larger than either, and of very noble mien, all well trained to the service of seeking out and delivering such objects. Every morning during winter, one or 440 Journey to the Monastery of the Great St. Bernard. other of these Chanoines visit certain points of observation, accompanied by one of the dogs, in search of misfortune; and, if any travellers are found distressed and alive, they are brought home and nurtured; and, if any have actually perished, their remains are deposited in a charnel-house, where we saw very many, with a scanty covering of cloth, in good preservation,-for, the general temperature of the air being so low as not to promote putrefaction, they keep a long time with very little offensive effluvia: we saw them through a grated window, and I asked our conductor why they did not inter these bodies? to which he replied, smiling, "Ah! monsieur, nous n'avons point de terre ici" and, truly enough, they have no earth, all being purely bare rock. Besides travellers who pass that way,there are particular feast days, on which all the neighbouring inhabitants frequent this hospitable mansion, and eat, drink, and sleep, to the number of several hundreds at a time, without fee or reward. Nevertheless, opulent travellers, who are drawn there from motives of curiosity, are expected to deposit some pecuniary remuneration in a box, which is placed in the chapel, for the benefit of more needy visitors. Our guide had informed us, on our way thither, that some English had lately been there, who had omitted this reasonable sacrifice; and that the Chanoines had felt hurt at the omission, inasmuch as the resources of the establishment had suffered much loss under the reign of Napoleon, and they were consequently not nearly so rich as heretofore. We determined not to subject ourselves to such anti-national animadversions, and therefore looked sharply out for the receptacle, which we might otherwise have passed easily by, as no intimation whatever, either by word or gesture, was afforded by our conductor whilst in the chapel; and the box was a few louis the richer for our discovery. I enquired whether certain persons, who had been soliciting subscriptions in London, purporting to be for their assistance, had any authority from them. The superieur told me, I might rely on [VOL 4 it they had not; for, although the establishment had been dilapidated, in some degree, during the revolution, they should detest any aid of the kind; and that all persons soliciting on their behalf must be gross impostors. Although the inhabitants of this singular establishment do not merit the epithet of Lord Byror of "the fat and lazy monks of St. Bernard," yet it appeared to us that they were not habituated to the pursuit of any object of science. I expressed my admiration of the peculiar brightness of the atmosphere, and presumed that, under such favourable circumstances, they applied themselves to the study of astronomy: "Pas du tout, monsieur," was the reply. "Have not you telescopes and globes?" "No: they were all broken, and never renewed." The last prior, then recently deceased, had been a man of some science, and had collected a little museum of minerals; but even that taste seemed to have died with him,―for the few specimens he had left were exhibited without any indication of a similar taste and interest. Theology seemed to be the only study they pursue; and it appeared to us that, when students in other academies entered on some particular branch of theology. they removed up to St. Bernard; and surely no spot could be better calculated to impress the mind with grand and awful ideas of the power and workings of Omnipotence than this stupendous height,-nearly 8000 feet above the level of the sea, and the highest habitation in the old world. Six or eight of the strongest and most robust, of whom our informant was one, remained during the rigors of winter; and, I think, he had done so for six successive years: but they who feel themselves more weakly, and unequal to such an ordeal, were allowed to go into the valley for shelter and comfort. Indeed, every thing indicated a degree of liberality and indulgence which we did not expect to find within the walls of a monastery; and the superieur himself had passed the last winter at Lausanne, enjoying the agremens of polished society. |