ABSTRACT
Mr. Coleridge may certainly be ranked among the most fortunate men of this age. He has acquired the reputation of lofty genius in poetry, profound metaphysical knowledge, and unrivalled powers of conversation. Numbers have committed themselves on these points, and stand pledged to prove their words. He has consequently a party; and in the eyes of this party, which, if not numerous, is enthusiastic and indefatigable, he is everything but a god. He knows whatever can be known—he has weighed all authors in his balance—he has philosophized—he has discoursed—he has written upon every thing—he is the high-priest of nature. In one thing only is he deficient—the art of being intelligible. This, in one way or another, is pretty generally acknowledged: it is differently accounted for. His friends assert that his meaning escapes us only because, like a river rolling through Alpine chasms, it lies too deep to be reached by the eye; his adversaries insinuate that the stream of his thoughts appears deep, because it is muddy. By friends and foes the fact, that his meaning is frequently not perceived, is admitted. We have in fact met with one of the initiated, who assured us that there were not above eight persons in this populous city (himself included), who could be said to understand Mr. Coleridge. We were quite of that opinion; but had no claim to be numbered among the mystical eight. We certainly do not always understand him. We feel that there is some mysterious power at work near us, as we know in the dark, by the whirring and rustling of its wings, that some night bird is passing over us, but cannot tell what manner of being it is, or whither it is tending. His disciples, to whom darkness is visible, should they stand beside us at these moments, point out to us a strange being, ‘aloft, incumbent on the 515dusky air, that feels unusual weight’; but we can distinguish neither ‘member, joint, nor limb’. This makes us peevish: we cannot tell whether it be an eagle or an owl.
