So, what did the lake poets think of Gothic novels?
To be brief, they didn't like them much. They thought no worthy man could write such a thing, too fanciful, and a danger to children. They disliked the sensationalism and the bawdiness especially.
Wordsworth did not really read many of them and generally didn't seem to have bothered - even though he could appreciate horror stories - Coleridge especially is aghast (which I did not necessarily expect, especially because he is later asked to translate
Faust because of his own reputation as a writer of the demonic) - he has to write a few reviews as a "hireling" for the
Critical Review and seems to fall so in hate with them that he takes up reading Radcliffe's novels for fun.
«Coleridge, in a letter to Miss Robinson»
"I have a wife, I have sons, I have an infant Daughter--what excuse could I offer to my own conscience if by suffering my name to be connected with those of Mr. Lewis, or Mr. Moore, I was occasion of their reading The Monk . . . . Should I not be an infamous Pander to the Devil in the seduction of my own offspring?--My head turns giddy, my heart sickens at the very thought of seeing such books in the hands of a child of mine."
STC, 18.12.1801.
«Review of The Monk»
"A more grievous fault remains, a fault for which no literary excellence can atone, a fault which all other excellence does but aggravate, as adding subtlety to a poison by the elegance of its preparation. Mildness of censure would here be criminally misplaced, and silence would make us accomplices. Not without reluctance then, but in full conviction that we are performing a duty, we declare it to be our opinion, that the Monk is a romance, which if a parent saw in the hands of a son or daughter, he might reasonably turn pale. The temptations of Ambrosio are described with a libidinous minuteness, which, we sincerely hope, will receive its best and only adequate censure from the offended conscience of the author himself. The shameless harlotry of Matilda, and the trembling innocence of Antonia, are seized with equal avidity, as vehicles of the most voluptuous images; and though the tale is indeed a tale of horror, yet the most painful impression which the work left on our minds was that of great acquirements and splendid genius employed to furnish a *mormo* for children, a poison for youth, and a provocative for the debauchee. Tales of enchantments and witchcraft can never be *useful*: our author has contrived to make them *pernicious*, by blending, with an irreverent negligence, all that is most awfully true in religion with all that is most ridiculously absurd in superstition. He takes frequent occasion, indeed, to manifest his sovereign contempt for the latter, both in his own person, and (most incongruously) in that of his principal characters; and that his respect for the *former* is not excessive, we are forced to conclude from the treatment which its inspired writings receive from him."
Coleridge, The Critical Review 2.19 (2/1797).
It did my heart good to read, however, his opinion on the
Mysteries of Udolpho:
«Review of the Mysteries of Udolpho»
If, in consequence of the criticisms impartiality has obliged us to make upon this novel, the author should feel disposed to ask us, Who will write a better? we boldly answer her, *Yourself*; when no longer disposed to sacrifice excellence to quantity, and lengthen out a story for the sake of filling an additional volume.
Coleridge, The Critical Review, 8/1794.
Also, in a letter which describes what he thinks are repetitive features in Scottish poetry,
«Letter to Wordsworth»
"I amused myself a day or two ago on reading a Romance in Mrs. Radcliff's style with making out a scheme, which was to serve for all romances a priori--only varying the proportions . . . A Baron or Baroness ignorant of their birth, and in some dependent situation--Castle--on a Rock--a Sepulchre--at some distance from the Rock--Deserted Rooms--Underground Passages--Pictures--A ghost, so believed--or--a written record--blood on it! A wonderful Cut throat &c. &c. &c."
Coleridge, October 1810.
The manliness comes in in a review of a story by Walpole, in which he writes,
«Review of the "Mysterious Mother"»
The Mysterious Mother is the most disgusting, detestable, vile composition that ever came from the hand of a man. No one with one spark of true manliness, of which Horace Walpole had none, could have written it
Published posthumously in Table Talk.
Go get them, Col!
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