STATIONS FOR THE POETS. 175 



and chats lightly on miscellaneous matters. Here is a 

 jotting which may be read with interest. Rummaging, 

 one evening, among his papers, he comes upon the un- 

 completed manuscript of the Boatman s Tale. He 

 seizes it. ' Off we went/ he proceeds, ' and in the 

 twinkle of an eye arrived at Marquis shore. Daily did 

 my fires smoke in the cave there until I had completed 

 my tale. By the way, I found your fire-box extremely 

 useful. Marquis cave has ever since my childhood been 

 a favourite haunt of mine. If the romantic scenery of 

 the great world has an effect of moulding the fancies of 

 the little one, I know no place where with better success 

 that species of poetry which I have attempted in my tale 

 may be studied. I would send your favourite Pope to 

 write verses in some august palace, where his eye might 

 rove over the chaste ornaments of architecture, or rest 

 upon gay statues and gorgeous thrones. I would place 

 Milton on the blue summit of Etna. When the sun 

 laughed upon the world which stretched beneath his feet, 

 I would fancy him enjoying its beauties. When an 

 earthquake made hills tremble and destroyed cities, or 

 when some furious storm dashed upon the base of his 

 throne, I could imagine him elate in the midst of horror 

 and death, mingling his song with the music of the tem- 

 pest. To my master, Coleridge, I will dispose of Mar- 

 quis cave. There, on the rude mass of granite, which I 

 have rolled from the beach, let him sit and enjoy the 

 fire I have kindled. There let him listen to the roar of 

 the ocean as it beats against the rocks, or to the blast 

 roaring above his head through shattered crags and 

 ragged furze, and when his mind is filled with the wild 

 images which on every hand present themselves, let him 

 sing of bewildered mariners and wretched spirits. Are 

 you not tired? I am sure I am. My spirits are 



