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Hartley Coleridge
book review
HARTLEY COLERIDGE.*
IT is a common weakness in persons who are not so handsome
as they would be, or have been, to abhor a faithful
portrait-painter; and a still commoner weakness in their
friends to prefer what they call an "idealised" likeness of
them, by which they mean, not one in which the true and
permanent character prevails over the accidental
peculiarities of the face, but one which. being sufficiently
like to be recognised, approaches otherwise as nearly as may
be to the academical standard of beauty. A similar weakness
prevails with regard to men's lives and characters, and a
biographer who so portrays his subject that those who did
not know the man may know what he was like, must not expect
to escape popular censure. Yet we all long to have some
definitite image both of the features and the character of
any man in whom we are interested, whether the interest be
excited by his writings or his actions; and it is only when
a faithful record of the face or the life destroys some
cherished ideal that the minutest personal details are
unwelcome. Then, indeed, when the real man falls
short of the idea formed of him from his writings, people
are apt to exclaim, "Why undeceive us? Why publish what
might have been kept private? That part of his life and
character which his works reveal is all the the world has
interest in; why not leave it to speak for itself?" To this
appeal the obvious and sufficient answer is, that if the
works bespeak a life and character which does not correspond
with the fact, they speak falsely, and those who so
interpret them are living in a false belief, which to hold
unconsciously is an eveil, to cherish deliberately is a sin.
Some provinces of the intellect there are, indeed, which may
be said to be independent of the moral character. We may
inherit the full fruits of a life devoted to science, for
instance, without caring to imagine or to ask what sort of
man he was who bequeathed them to us. In such cases, if the
life be otherwise unworthy of rememberance, let it by all
means be forgotten. But it is not so with the poet. All
poetry which is worthy anything is a voice out of a human
heart, and every human heart beats in some individual man.
We must sympathise, and we cannot sympathise with an
abstraction. If we do not know what he was like, we imagine
him - we make a picture of him in our mind - and if we
imagine him other than he was, we deceive ourselves, and, so
far, the truth is not in us.
To us, therefore, when a poet dies whose works are worthy or
likely to live, a candid account of his personal history
shall always be welcome, and, provided it reveals the truth,
it shall not be the less welcome though the truth be
painful. Indeed we are persuaded that, even where the truth
is most painful, it is for the interest of the poet's own
memory that it should be frankly told. To estimate the
strength of a man's virtue we must
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