These few words signify some unimaginable horror-and never did genius, not even Shakspeare's, so give to one of its creations, by dim revelation mysteriously diffused, a fearful being that all at once is present "beyond the reaches of our souls"-something fiendish in what is most fair, and blasting in what is most beautiful. Powerful as Prospero was Coleridge; but what kind of a wand is waved by Mr Tupper? "Thickly curls a poisonous smoke, And terrible shapes with evil names Are leaping around in a circle of flames, And the tost air whirls, storm-driven, And the rent earth quakes, charm-riven,— And-art thou not afraid ?" is dead serious, and her father hopes an immortal fame. We neither "censure him for rashness nor commend him for courage," but are surprised at his impertinence, and pained by his stupidity-and the more for that he possesses powers that, within their own proper province, may gain him reputation. We like him, and hope to praise him some day-nay, purpose to praise him this very day-therefore we shall punish him at present but with forty stripes. He need not fear a fall like that of Icarus, for his artificial wings have not lifted his body fairly off the ground-and so far from soaring through the sky like a Dædalus, he labours along the sod after the fashion of a Dodo. In the summer of 1797, Coleridge wrote the first part of Christabel in 1800, the secondand published them in 1816-so perfected, that his genius, in its happiest hours, feared to look its own poem in the face, and left it for many long And aroused the deep bay of the mastiff years, and at last, without an altered or an added word, to the delight of all ages. Mr Tupper's "GERALDINE has been the pleasant labour of a very few days!" (Loud cries of Oh! oh! oh !) Mr Tupper in the Third Canto shows us the Lady Geraldine beneath the oak the scene of the Witch's first meeting with Christabel. You remember the lines in Coleridge-and more vividly these-- "There she sees a damsel bright, And you remember how Christabel, "Her gentle limbs did she undress, And lay down in her loveliness, On her elbow did recline And how, when the Witch unbound "Her silken robe and inner vest O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!" Previous to these apparitions, the wolf has been hunting, the raven croaking, the owl screeching, the clock of course tolling twelve, "And to her cauldron hath hurried the witch, bitch ;" The moon is gibbous, and looks "All dauntless stands the maid And still with flashing eyes Hath shown-O dread! that face so fair "Now one nearer than others is heard Green as the herbs on which it couched, Of her or him we hear no more- "Her mouth grows wide, and her face And her beautiful brow becomes flat and thin, And sulphurous flashes blear and singe That sweetest of eyes with its delicate fringe, Till, all its loveliness blasted and dead, For raven locks flowing loose and long Her shrunken breasts, and lengthening And thence I vowed this self-same day, The How full of meaning the dream! Mr Tupper does not know it was a dream of love in fear; and interpreting it literally, transforms Geraldine into a " bright green snake!" and such a snake! The dragon-maid" coils herself round the "old oak stump," splitting it to the heart, which, it seems, is hollow and black-and after a while "The hour is fled, the spell hath sped; And heavily dropping down as dead, All in her own beauty drest, The white round arms are sunk in her Brightest, softest, loveliest, sides, As when in chrysalis canoe A may-fly down the river glides, Struggling for life and liberty too,— You remember the dream of Bracy the Bard in Christabel-told by himself to Sir Leoline? "In my sleep I saw that dove, That gentle bird, whom thou dost love, the old Tree. And in my dream methought I went I stooped, methought, the dove to take, Fair faint Geraldine lies on the ground, And forth from the oak In a whirl of thick smoke Leaps with a hideous howl at a bound Ryxa the hag is the Witch's mother by whom the deponent saith notand undertakes to clothe her with all beauty-in the shape of Geraldinethat she may win the love of the Lady Christabel's betrothed knight, and enjoy his embraces-only that "Still thy bosom and half thy side For that the power of hymn and harp First Canto by Coleridge. But how to It pleased Coleridge to give to each of his two Cantos a conclusion-in a what verses! separate set of verses-and Mr Tupper does the same but oh! my eye, He speaketh of hatred --or jealousy—or some infernal passion or another, which, among other evil works, "Floodeth the bosom with bitterest gall, It drowneth the young virtues all, And the sweet milk of the heart's own fountain, Choked and crushed by a heavy mountain, All curdled, and harden'd, and blacken'd, doth shrink Into the Sepia's stone-bound ink!!" &c. Think of these lines as Coleridge's, "The creature of the God-like forehead !" Part Fourth beginneth thus "The eye of day hath opened grey, And the gallant sun Hath trick'd his beams by Rydal's streams, And waveless Coniston; From Langdale Pikes his glory strikes, From heath and giant hill, From many a tairn, and stone-built cairn, And many a mountain rill: Helvellyn bares his forehead black, And Eagle-crag, and Saddleback, And Skiddaw hails the dawning day, And rolls his robe of clouds away.' Mr Tupper knows nothing of the localities and should have consulted Green's Guide before sitting down to "continue" Christabel. Coniston has no connexion with Rydal's streams, nor have they any connexion with Sir Leoline's Castle in Langdale-much less has Helvellyn-and least of all have Saddleback and Skiddaw. No doubt the "eye of day" saw them all, and many a place beside; but this slobbering sort of work is neither poetry nor painting-mere words. A stranger knight with a noble retinue arrives at the Castle gate, and "leaps the moat,"—an unusual feat. And who is he? Amador, "a foundling youth," who having been exposed in infancy "beneath the tottering Bowther-stone," and picked up by Sir Leoline, in due course of time fell in love with Christabel, and, on discovery of their mutual affection, had been ordered by the wrathful Baron away to the Holy Land, not to return "Till name and fame and fortune are his.' The progress of the loves of the "handsome (!) youth and the beauteous maid" is described circumstantially-and we are told that, when climbing the mountains together, they did not The rapture making their hearts reel, guess that the strange joy they feel Springs from aught else than sweet Grassmere, Or hill and valley far and near, Or Derwent's banks, and glassy tide, Lowdore and hawthorn'd Ambleside." Such simplicity is rare, even now-adays, in young people on whom "life's noon is blazing bright and fair." But so it was, Mr Tupper assures us in lines that will bear comparison with any thing of the kind in any language. "Thus they grew up in each other, Till to ripened youth They had grown up for each other; Yet, to say but sooth, She had not lov'd him, as other Than a sister doth, And he to her was but a brother, With a brother's troth: But selfish craft, that slept so long, Read the strange truth, Condemned them both,— That they, who only for each other Gladly drew their daily breath, Now must curb, and check, and smother Through all life, love strong as death ; While the dear hope they just have learnt to prize, And fondly cherish, The hope that in their hearts deep-rooted lies, Must pine and perish : For the slow prudence of the worldly wise The foundling youth to woo and win the wrench as severe as that needed "To drag the magnet from the pole, But Amador, after ten years' absence -so Christabel was no girl-now re turned “with name and fame and fortune"-for "The Lion-King, with his own right hand, "In the hall He met her!-but how pale and wan! He started back, as she upon His neck would fall; He started back,-for by her side (O blessed vision!) he espied A thing divine, Poor Christabel was lean and white, Fairer and brighter, as he gazes From those glorious eyes, That in the other lies!" This is rather sudden, and takes the reader aback-for though poor Christabel had had a strange night of it, she was a lovely creature the day before, and could not have grown so very "lean and white" in so short a time. Only think of her looking "peevish"! But "A trampling of hoofs at the cullice-port, moor, A mingled numerous array, With foam and mud bespattered e'er, And now that day is dropping late, Have passed the drawbridge and the gate." Here again Mr Tupper shows, somewhat ludicrously, his unacquaintance with the Lake-Land, and makes Sir Roland perform a most circuitous journey. You know that Sir Leoline and Sir Roland had been friends in youth, and cannot have forgotten Coleridge's exquisite description of their quarrel and estrangement. He would have painted their reconciliation in a few lines of light. But attend to Tupper-and remember the parties are, each of them, bordering, by his account, on fourscore. "Like aspens tall beside the brook, 'Tis fifty years ago to-day With words of insult high; In charity to smother? - "Then, the full luxury of grief That brings the smothered soul relief, Within them both so fiercely rushed That from their vanquish'd eyes out-gushed A tide of tears, as pure and deep As children, yea as cherubs weep!" Sir Roland tells Sir Leoline, that his daughter Geraldine could not help being amused with Bard Bracy's tale that she was in Langdale, seeing that she was sitting at home in her own latticed bower; but the false one imposes on the old gentleman with a pleasant story, and, manifest impostor and liar though she be, they take her -do not start from your chair-for the Virgin Mary! Her beauty hath conquer'd: a sunny smile Laughs into goodness her seeming guile. Aye, was she not in mercy sent To heal the friendships pride had rent? Is she not here a blessed saint To work all good by subtle feint? Yea, art thou not, mysterious dame, Our Lady of Furness ?-the same, the same! O holy one, we know thee now, O gracious one, before thee bow, Help us, Mary, hallowed one, Bless us, for thy wondrous Son "At that word, the spell is half-broken, and the dotards, who had been kneeling, rise up; the Witch gives a slight hiss, but instantly recovers her gentleness and her beauty, and both fall in love with her, like the elders with Susanna. "Wonder-stricken were they then, To young Susanna's fairness knelt Their bosoms cold." They walk off as jealous as March hares, and Amador, a more fitting wooer, supplies their place. His head is cushioned on her breast, "Stung with remorse, Hath drop't at her feet as a clay-cold corse;" she raises him up and kisses him-Geraldine, with "an involuntary hiss and snake-like stare," gnashes her teeth on the loving pair. Bard Bracy plays on his triple-stringed Welsh harp a holy hymn-Geraldine is convulsed, grows lank and lean "The spell is dead--the charm is o'er, seen no more." "The spirit said, and all in light Melted away that vision bright; My tale is told." Such is Geraldine, a Sequel to Coleridge's Christabel! It is, indeed, a most shocking likeness-call it rather a horrid caricature. Coleridge's Christabel, in any circumstances beneath the sun, moon, and stars, “lean and white, and peevish"!!-a most impious libel. Coleridge's Geraldine with that dreadful bosom and side. "like a lady from a far countree "stain still the most beautiful of all the edness powerful by the inscrutable witches-and in her mysterious wicksecret of some demon-spell over the best of human innocence the dragondaughter of an old red-raged hag, hobbling on wooden crutches! Where is our own? Coleridge's bold English Barons, stiff in their green eld as oaks, Sir Leoline and Sir Roland, with rheumy eyes, slavering lips, and tottering knees, shamelessly wooing the same witch in each others presence, with all the impotence of the last stage of dotage! Enchased in gold on his helmet of steel A deer-hound stands on the high-plumed keel!" &c. And thus equipped-booted and spurred-armed cap-a-pie-he leaps the moat-contrary to all the courtesies of chivalry-and, rushing up to the lady, who had been praying for him for ten years (ten is too many), he turns on his heel as if he had stumbled by mistake on an elderly vinegar-visaged chambermaid, and makes furious love before her face to the lady on whose arm she is fainting;-and this is in the spirit of Coleridge! It won't do to say Amador is under a spell. No such spell can be tolerated-and so far from being moved with pity for Amador as infatuated, we feel assured, that there is not one Quaker in Ken |