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LITERATURE, 1896.

SELECTIONS

FROM

WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, CAMPBELL
AND LONGEELLOW

KUITKI) WITH

INTRODUCTION, LITERARY ESTIMATE AND NOTES

WM. PA KEN HAM, B.A.,

Head Master Brockville Collegiate Institute^

AND

JOHN MARSHALL, M.A.,

EngUsh Master St. TAo/ucu Collegiate Institute.

TORONTO :
THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED.

Entered accordiiiif to Act of the Parliament o( Canada, in the year one thousand
eight hundrwl and ninety-five, by Thk Copp, Clark Compant, Limited, Toronto,
Ontario, in the Offlce of the Minister of Agriculture.

■i

PREFACE.

Influer ^ed by the modern demand on behalf of students for
"no notes " or *' few notes," the editors of these Selections have
been bold enough to depart, both in the subject-matter and
the form of this book, from the orthwlox conceptions of a
literature text, and to speak to the teaeliei.s as well as the
students. This is done, however, with no presumptuous fancy
that they are able to bring positive value to the teacher, rather
with the assurance from pei'sonal exjieriences that they do
bring suggestions for profitable modes and lines of work. Tn
the evolutionary development c^' an author's powers, with its
natural corollary, a comparati\e analysis of his work, is found,
they feel, the key-note of modern literary studies.

But they must offer apologies not so much for what they
planned to do as for what they did. Lack of time — the work
was undertaken late in the spring, lack of opportunity —
burdens are not foreign to a High School Master's life in May
and June, rendered impossible a practical apjilication of the
principles of the Introductory Chapter to the study of selected
poems, and left somewhat imperfect and incomplete the treat-
ment of Campbell and Longfellow. For the rest, let lack of
power speak.

Toronto, Jtily, 1895.

CONTENTS.

Paqb

Prkpaoe iii

Introductory Chaffkr, —

Literary (Jriticism v-xxix

WoRUSWOKTU, —

Biographical Skeivh I

Chronological List of Works 2

Development of His Thought and Style 31

His View of Life 32

Selections 41

Notes 51

Colrrii)<;k, —

Biographical Sketch 71

Chronological [jist of Works 72

Development of His Thought and Style 73

Estimate of Value of His Work 100

Selections 107

Notes 133

Campbell,—

Biographical Sketch 147

Chronological List of VVorkf? 147

Development of His Thouglit and Style 1-^9

Estimate of Value of His Work 157

Selections IGl

Notes I«i7

LONGFKLLOW, —

Biographical Sketch 1 73

Chronological List of Works 174

Literary Life and Thought 175

Selections 11)5

Notes '-'79

Bibliography 2'Jd

THE EVOLUTION OF LITERARY (lUTIClSM.

Of all forms of intellectual activity the least satisfactory,
inotho<lical and scientific is literary criticism. In our new-
born zeal for the study of literature there is indri'd no lack of
utterance on literary matters : estimates of the lives and
woiks of men of letters fill the magazines, whih^ introductions,
expositions, critiques and commentaries are poured fr(>m the
j)ress in endless profusion. But how rarely do we feel that any
current criticism has disengaged the stimulus which we are
sure the author contains for us, and brought us into immt^diate
contact with genius itself to ol)tain the incentive, the true
and the excellent, which it is the function of a work of genius
to impart.

The popular demand for this sort of work is no proof of its
scientific method. It is quite possible to write; of poets and
poetry afresh, to combat received oj)inions concerning them,
and to interest the average intelligent reader in so doing,
without the writer's applying or the i-eader's being called
on to comprehend one intelligible canon of criticism. The
average reader is like one of George Eliot's characters: " 'What
is the truth 1 ' asked Lady Chettani of Mrs. Cadwallader in
Middlemurch. 'The truth 1 he is as bad as the wrong physic
— nasty to take and sure to disagree.' ' There could not be
anything worse than that,' said Lady Chettam with so vivid
a conception of the physic that she seemed to have learned
something exact about Mr. Ca.saubon's di. sad vantages." Give
the man just emerging into the intellectual life plenty of
effusion tricked out in copious metaphorical drapery like the

THK KVOLUTION OF LITKKAKY CHITICISM.

;^i

following passage from a well known Shaksperean editor's
coMiniciit on Kiv<f Lear : " I am not cloar whotluTthe inspired
antics that sparkh^ from the surface of liis mind are in more
impressive contrast witli the da^k tragic scones into which
they are thrown like rockets into a midnight tempest or with
the nndercurrent of deep tragic thoughtfulness, out of which
they falteriiigly issue and play" — give the average reader
plenty of such figurative criticism and like Lady Chettam he
will have such a vivid conception of the figures that nothing
in the heavens above, in the earth beneath, or in the waters
under the earth will convince hira that he is really no wiser
than at first, that such verbal delirium will never bring him a
step nearer the understanding of a poet or his work.

The defect of current critical writing is its want of scientific
method. Critics so voluminously productive must feel the
excellence of the authors or works studied, like Andrea Del
Sarto's artistic contemporaries, must enter the heaven of poetic
interpretation, enter and take their place there sure enough,
though they come back and cannot tell the world. And they
■will never tell the world until they come to some agreement
as to the nature of poetry. Edgar Allen Poe, Theodore
Watts, llossetti, Swinburne, and the rest of the festhetic
school define poetry as an app'^al to the sensuous love of the
beautiful. "I would define in brief the poetry of words,"
says Poe, " as the rhythmical creation of beauty ; its solo
arbiter is taste ; with the intellect or with the conscience it
has only collateral relations ; unless incidentally, it has no
concern whatever with duty or truth." Many admirers of
Milton, althougli that is not the only characteristic of Milton's
genius, make poetry the act of conveying impressively " ideas
of worship, praise and supplication." Others, nourished on
Dryden and Pope, define poetry as the language of wit and
epigram and ratiocination. Emerson, Coleridge a,nd the
transcendentalists or romanticists deride ratiocinative poetry,

TIIR EVOLUTION OP LITKUARY CUITICISM.

Nil

and strive to limit the; t<;rin poetry to tlio iMni'loyiiUMit f)f
seiiso conceptions as symbols of a drcpor spiritual tiiitli por-
oeptihie to the imagination only. "The poot (li.sc(»vers," says
EnuTson, "tliat what men value as auhstanctis Iuino a higher
value as symbols, that nature is the immense shadow of man."

Tn each of these views th(!re is a portion of truth. They
are not contradictory but correlative. In the evolution of
criticism they liave been successively isolated and emphasized,
and therefore made to a])pear too anta;.,'onistic, but tlu- ! i 'her
synthesis in which full justice is done to each contending
principle has already been suggested. The development of
thought is everywhere the same — first, a vaguely uneei\«'d
whole; then the anal -sis of this whole and the emphasiziu^,' in
succession, even to the point of contraaiction, of eacli of its
elements; o-jid finally the synthesizing conception wh;wh
reconciles the apparent contradictions.

From the Socratic philosophy, for example, came both the
idealism of Plato and the materialism of the Cyrenaic school,
each isolating, emphasizing and therefore bringing into clearer
consciousness one aspect of the master's thought to the exclu-
sion of all the others, and then came the masterly synthesis of
Aristotle, in which th^ warring princi])les of the various schools
found their reconciliation. English criticism has obeyed a
simila:' law. Beginning with Sidney's Defence of I'o'ifiie, in
which all subsequent criticism was contained in germ, English
criticism has passed successively through the sensuous, the
moral and religious, the ratiooinative and the romantic stages,
and now awaits the synthesis which will give these various
aspects their due place in a total view of poetry. Taking the
flexible intelligence of Greece as the highest all-round develop-
ment of human nature that the world has seen, and the
Hebrew, the Latin and the Gothic minds as relatively partial
and imperfect, we may conveniently consider the history of

via

TIIK KVOLUTION OF I.ITKRAKY CRITICISM.

English criticism under tlie following heads : Premature
Helh-nisni, JFebraism, Latinisni, Romanticism and the Keturn-
ing Hellenism of IVFatthew Arnold, Stopford Brooke and oi/her
recent criticism.

Premature Hkllenism.

iVlediievalisra, the prevalent theory of life prior to the
lienaissance, may briefly be descrihed as otherworldliness. Tt
originated as a wholesome reaction against the terrible colossal
materialism which, under the lioman Empire, threatem^d the
annihilation of all the intellectual grandeur of mankind. In
this lioman world the flesh had bect)me so insolent that
Ch'-istian disci{)line was needed to chasten it. After the
carnival of sensuality of later Home there was need of the
preaching of the gospel of self-denial, continence, renunciation.
But like every other movement, rational and ])eneficent in
its origin, it came to be pursued fanatically and mechani-
cally, and of course was carried to extremes. All flesh
was condemned ; aiid not only was the supremacy of spirit
over llesh admitted, but the latter was mortified in order
to gratify the former. Through the odium cast on the
flesli the most innocent gratifications of the senses were
accounted sins; and, as it was impossible to be entirely
spiritual, the growth of hypocrisy became inevitable ; des-
potic and arbitrary forms of government found their most
ethcacious support in medijevalism, through its teaching th(^
renunciation of all earthly pleasures and the cultivation of
the virtues of abject humility and angelic patience; while
its insistence on the complete subordination of reason to
faith opposed an almost insupera])le barrier to the advance-
ment of science and perpetuated for centuries the reign
of ignoi'ant credulity. Assuming an absolute separation
between the world of nature and that of spirit as if
gome lesser god had made the world and had not force to

THE EVOLUTION OP LITERARY CRITICISM.

shape it as he would, or indeed as if Satan himself were the
lord of this lower world, mediaeval ism forbade, as Taine
says, "a life of nature and worldly hopes; erected monasti-
cism into the ideal for actual life ; and ended by replacing
spontaneity or originality, whether of thought or of action, by
submission, reducing religious enthusiasm to fixed religious
practices, the morality of the heart to outward nu'ohanical
discipline, and thinking *^o a mere mnemonic exercise." Gro-
tesqueness, hideousness and gloom in art, hypocrisy in life,
and conduct and credulity in matters of science were the
earmarks of mediaeval ism.

Against all this the great movement of thought and feeling
which thrilled the whole of Europe in the lOth century was
a protest, and it therefore exhibited in most countries three
main phases — aesthetic, religious and intellectual. In England
there was a quickening in turn of the national imagination,
will and reason corresponding to the influence of Greece, of
Judea and of Rome, which were then, through the revived
interest in the Bible and in the (iroek and Latin classics,
beginning to modify English insularity, [t would be a mis-
take, of course, to suppose that the national glow of life and
thought which characterized the age of Elizabeth was wholly
owing to foreign or external influence. No individual or race
can be influenced by another race or individual unless the
former have some spiritual kinship with the latter. The
abundance and excellence of Anglo-Saxon i)oetry and pro.se;
the freshness and vigour, the sparkling wit and genial humour
of the literature of the transition, of 77ie Oicl cnul the
NitilitiiKjale for exanqilc ; the abiding power and charm of
Chaucer's verse ; the ancient and inbj-ed integrity, piety, good
nature and good humour oi the English people sufliciently
prove the native vitality of the race, its imaginative, intellec-
tual and moral kinship, before mediicvalism laid the dead hand
upon it, with Greece, Home and Judea at their best. At the

THE EVOLUTION OP LITERARY CRITICISM.

same time when the spirit of a people is finely touched thoy
eagerly go out of thems<^lves to seize upon whatever may
sustain the flame of their own glowing life and derive great
help from contact with olde*' and more pei'fect civilizations
than their own. Though the English spirit was touched by
each of the three great ancient civilizations, it was to the
influence of Athens that England first responded, thougli the
other tendencies opei'ated ev(;n then as undercurrents and
were destined to emerge in turn as the dominating tendencies
of the nation.

The Attic or Hellenic genius, as described by Professor
Curtius, the famous historian of Greece, was characterized by
a love of clear thinking and fearless discussion, a gay social
temper, an ease and lightness, a gracious flexil)i]ity, a sense of
energy that abhorred every kind of waste of time, a sense (^f
measure that avoided bombast and redundancy, a clear intelli-
gence foreign to everything partaking of obscurity or vague-
ness, and a dialect characterized by superior seriousness,
manliness and vigour of language, a habit in short in all
things of advancing directly and resolutely to the goal. The
Greek ideal was no less than complete human perfection, and
the Greek genius at. its best inckided the definiteness and
practical enerL'y of the Roman with the moi'al fervor of the
Jew, while the Roman and the Jew sacrificed flexibility,
imagination — ^the one to his political, the otlun- to his moral
and religious bent.

In the 16th century an almost Athenian tuin for gaiety,
wit and fearless thinking arose, an Athenian impatience of
restraint, of all stiffness, hardness, narrowness, prejudice, and
want of amiability. Shakspere at his best is a Greek in
radiant clearness and pregnancy of utterance. In critical
as in creative writing, the clear, appreciative, Hellenic bent
appeared. Sidney's Defence, of Poesie, written between loS.l-
1595, is one of the monuments of the noblest pliase of perhaps

The evolution of litrrary criticism.

the noblest movement of English thought. Filled with a
longing for perfection beyond the thought of any but ra poet,
Sidney gives us the poetry, rather than the theory, of criticism,
and is the standing proof in his own age, as Shelley is in ours,
that there must be brought to the interpretati(Mi of poetry
some measure of the same delicacy and spontaneity of con-
sciousness as went to its production. He would not have the
poet's golden moments, those gleams like the flashing of a
shield when earth and the connnon face of Natuvc speak to
him of rememberable things, those blessed moods in which the
burthen and the mystery, the heavy and weary weight of all
this unintelligil)le world is lightened, when this earth he w;dks
on seems not earth, this light that strikes his ey(>))all is not
light, this air that smites his forehead is not air but vision —
yea, his very hand and foot, in moments when he feels he can-
not die, ami knows himself no vision to himself nor the high
(jrod, a vision, — Sidney would not have those evanescent gleams
of spirit which it is the poet's function to seize and fix in shin-
ing lines for our consolation and stay, tesled by the sordid
and narrow experience of the comfortable worldling or the
siiallow and conceited dilettante. " Disdaining to l)e tied to any
such subjection and lifted by the vigour of his own invention
into another nature, the poet is not enclosed," ho says, " witliin
the narrow warrant of Nature's gifts, but freely ranges within
the zodiac of liis own wit." Yet his enthusiasm never becomes
romantic idealism, never lets go its hold of the fact; if he peaks
of the imagination it is not of a fa,culty different from and
antagonistic to the reason, but simply the reason in a glow,
the reason lighted up with emotion, becoming enamoured of the
truth which it perceives. When we can feel with Keats that
" Beauty is truth, truth beauty," then reason has become
imagination. This is the relation that Sidney saw hetween
the two faculties : " There is no art delivered unto mankind,"
he says, " that hath not the works of Nature for its principal

Xll

THE EVOLUTION OP LlTERARf CRITICISM.

object." Poetry, that is to say, is just the breath and finer
spirit ui all knowledge. A good composition cannot be con-
trary to rules. It may be contrary to certain principles sup-
posed in ignorance to be general, but every good composition
is in perfect harmony with all known and true rules, and
thousands of others so delicate that they can never be formu-
lated, and can be traced only by the most apprehensive deli-
cacy of eye, ear or thought. The same largeness of view, the
same catholicity of taste, is shown in his treatment of form.
His classic sympathy appears in his references to Sackville's
Gorbodnc, which, while praising for climbing to the height of
Seneca's style, and as full of notable morality, he censures for
violations of the unities, both by Aristotle's precept and com-
mon reason. But he was also the eloquent champion of the
Eufrlish laniruajie and verse : " Since the modern fo! ii de-
lights," he says, " though in its own way it obtaineth the same
purpose ; there being in either sweetness ; wanting in neither,
majesty." From this it is evident that form and study of
form were regarded by Si<lney not as ends in themselves, as
with many a later poet and critic, but as means to an end, the
spiritual interpretation of life. In virtue of his preference for
the things of the spii-it, his comparative indiiierence to matters
of form, the ardour of his morality and the intensity of his
enthusiasm, Sidney has spoken to the fine spirits of all ages,
and his book is an enduring call to high thinking.

Work like Shakspere's in the creative and Sidney's in the
critical sphere makes us with whom flexibility of mind and
fearless thinking are only now after many vicissitudes coming
into honour again, to feel often as if we were only catching up
to the Elizabethan age, as if in Arnold's phrase the English
spirit had entered the prison of Puritanism in the 17th cen-
tury and turned the key upon itself for two hundred years.
But this beautiful apparition of Hellenism was a premature
appearance, as its earlier manifestation in Athens itself was

THE EVOLUTION Of MTERArY CRITICISM.

XUl

also premature. The Greek genius hreatlied like spring for a
few lovely day.s over western Europe, and the thickets were all
becoming alive with jubilant voices when returning winter
struck sadness into the heart of the year and hu.shed all the
joyous melody. And the cause of the failure of the Greek
spirit to maintain itself in the IGti) century was the same as
in the 3rd century before Christ : the moral and religious fibre
in humanity was not sufliciently braced. Indeed, its failure
was perhaps more inevitable in Elizabethan England than in
ancient Athens. The fearless thinking and flexible intelli-
gence of the Athenians were the gradual conquests of several
generations of progress, while the intellectual liberation of
England was, comparatively, an affair of a moment. Men
restored to liberty or having suddeidy recovered the u.se of a
limb, usually express their joy in all sorts of fantastic capers.
Many Elizabethans strike one as acting in a similar manner.
Suddenly emerging from the prison house of the middle ages
they cut the queerest intellectual capers, as if solely to demon-
strate their own enfranchiseuient. Shakspere, the sanest poet
of the period, is not free from conceits that can be regarded
only as a sort of intellectual gymnastics.

They tliat have power to Imrl uiid will do none,

That do not do the thin;; they iiuisl do show,

That moving others are themselves as stone,

Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow ;

They rightly do inherit heaven's ;,''raies,

And husband nature's riches from expense ;

They are the lords and owners of their faces,

Others b 'it stewards of their excellence.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,

Thouj^h to itself it only live and die ;

But if that flower with bast' infectioFi meet,

The basest weed outbraves its diifnity ;

For sweetest thinjjfs turn sourest by their deeds ;

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Examples of this curious, fanciful subtilizatiou of thought

XIV

THE RVOHJTION OP LITKRARY CRITICISM.

are abundantly found in Sliakspere. Lady Macbeth's speeches,
for example :

and again —

Meiiory, the warder of the brain,

Shall be a fume and the receipt of reason,

A limbeck only.

When you durst do that you were a man,
And to be more than what you were you would
He 80 much more the man.

This, which is a marked but not an essential feature of Shak-
spero's style, is characteristic of his lesser contemporaries,
among whom such atrocities as the following are common
enough :

Fate shall fail to vent her gall
Till mine vent thousaiida.

The nation whose poets produce such conceits must pui-ify
itself seven times in the tire, must expel its nature with a fork
before tliey are adequate to the highest spiritual effort, to the
noble simplicity and high sereneness of the greatest poetry.
It was not their fancifulness, though a strong current of
opposition to all this extravagance of sentiment and language
had been t)[)erating from the beginning, but their licentious-
ness tliat tirst rous(Hl the strong ethical conunon sense of the
English peoples In other words, it was not the influence of
Home but of Judea that first superseded that of Greece.

Hebraism.

Puritanism was the reaction of the conscience and moral
sense of our race against the moral indifference and lax rules
of conduct which came in with the Renaissance. Even apart
from the moral relaxation of the Renaissance, Puritanism had
so assimilated Bible ideas and phraseology "names," says
Matthew Arnold, "like Ebeuezer and notions like hewing

THE EVOLUTrON OF LITKHARY CUITICISM.

i,aiage

itious-
pf the

ice of

noral

rules

[apart

\\ had

says

I wing

Agag in pieces became so natural that tlie sense of aftinily
])et\vcen the Hebrew and the Teutonic nature was quite strong,
and a middle class Anglo-Saxon much more readily imagined
himself Ehud's cousin than Soj)hocles' or Euripides'." " Puri-
tanism, in short, was," Arnold says again, " the reaction of
Hebraism against Hellenism manifesting itself as was natural
in a people with a signal atEnity for the bent which was the
master bent of Hebrew life — an overp<nvering sense of righte-
ousness. It undoubtedly checked and changed the movement
uf the Renaissance which we see producing in the reign of
J'^lizabeth such wonderful fruits. Undoubtedly it stopped the
prominent rule and direct development of Hellenism and gave
])rominence to another order of ideas. But the defeat of
Hellenism proves that its ascendancy at that moment would
not have been for the world's good." Puritanism was the
appointed discipline for the licentiousness of the later Eliza-
l)ethan period. We have been singing the praises of flexible
intelligence, conduct is also deserving of praise. The idea of
a moral order of the universe which it is man's hap})inoss to go
along with and his misery to go counter to is an idea capable
of arousing the emotions and giving rise to poetry, and Puri-
tanism, too, bi-ought forth its poet and man of letters — Milton.
We are all supposed to be familiar with Milton's poetry. His
criticism, though meagre, had the same grand austerity
as his poetry — somewhat limited intellectually and a;sthetic,
but pure as the naked heavens, sonorous as the sea.

Puritanism, like Hellenism, however, soon showed its latent
faults, and England felt the imperious need of freeing itself
from the tyrannous pre-occupation with religion which the
Puritan age had exercised. The same instinct of self-
preservation which prompted the race to reject the civilization
of Home when it became licentious and materialistic, niedite-
valism, when it developed into excessive otherworldliness,
and Hellenism, when its flexibility proved a menace to moral

XVI

THK EVOLUTION OF LITKKAKV CRITICISM.

onltT niu] rij^lit, now protcstfMl against Puritanism itself--its
want of measure and sanity, its mysticism and fanaticism.

Classicism,

Cloarnoss of tliouij^ht and clearness of utterance were the
watchwords of the Augustans. They resolutely closed their
senses to all f(^iliii<,'s of mystery and awe. to all ideas of
unseen and eternal nalities so constantly pi-esent to the
Puritan mind. The boundless inia^'i nation, unsj)eakable as-
j)iration, rtvcitlowint,' enthusiasm of the Renaissance, and the
l^ui'ititn's vivid I'lvdi/ation of the su.persensual world were
e(|ually unintelli,i,Ml»le, eipially I'egarded as morbid or diseased.
Connnoii sense and iitilitarian points of view were everywhere
adopted. It was tiu; j^reat age of prose and reason The
scientific spirit, which now became domin.int, was from the
first «»tic of the undercurrents of the Rt-nais.sance movement.
From tin; earliei' part of the Ifith century we find distinct
traces of an eil'ort to define the rules of the mother tongue.
Cox's li/irforic, published in I5."50, seems to have been the tiist
of the manuals that have to do with the English language.
In ir»S() IJuiiokai- could speak of iiis JJref Gi'dmwdr as the
fii'st gi-annnai' of English that ever was. Ascham in his
JSchoohndNff'- (ir)70) argues vigorously for classic regularity,
and disparages the use of rhyme then coming in. Spenser
and Harvey were also opposed to the use of rhyme, and en-
thusiastic believers in the possibility of establishing through
the authority of })ai'liament a uniforui orthogi-ajihy and
prosody. Daniels, in his defence of rhyme, indicates a change
of opinion regarding rhyme, but he is (piite in harmony with
the writers already mentioned in his insistence on regulai-ity
and law in language and versification. Gascoigiie in 1575 al-
most anticipates the latei' classical school in his rule: Finish
llic meaning at the end of every staff' when you write staves,
and at the end of every two lines when you write ia

■^'f

■'4,

THK EVOLUTION OP LITKHARY CIUTUISM.

XVll

If— its
in.

f»t

re the

I tlu'ir

ejis of

to the

:)le as-

lul the

1 wei'e

seased.

ywliere

L The

(till tlie

etueut.

,■

listiiu't

toiiiiiic.

^'l

he lirst

i^'Uii^^e.

as the

ill his

iilarity,

>})enser

111(1 eu-

hrodgh

y and

change

ly with

ularity
575 al-

Finish

'■ ,1

staves,

ite iu

'"">
*

Unlets, ruttenhain's Art of Enylish J'ocsi/, puhHshcd in
1581), shows a praiseworthy effort in its division int<) tliree
books, the first of p(jets and poesie, the second of propor-
ti(jn, the third <»f oinanicnt. It defines one huiuh'ed and
seven figures, insists on proper a(X'entuation and ortho-
graphy, and defends rhyme as couii^ensating for tiie loss of
(juantity. The next important contribution to the develop-
ment of criticism wtus Hen .lonson's Tiniburs or Discovn'ifH ;
indeed, the Vwok may be said to contain a little of the liter
classicism. Jcmson tried to make good the long-felt w; n of
an English grammar, and he again and again says he would
have the poet such as he is or should be, by natur(», by exer-
cis(s by imitation, by study, brought through the disciplines
of grammar, logic, rhetoric and ethics. Consciousness of pur-
pose, deference to tlu^ past, accej>tance of reason, as the
suprtinc authority, mark Jonson's poetry and criticism.
Ij{ingl)aiiie, Dennis, \\'alsh, "the muse's judge and friend,"
Mr. Rymer, whose judicious observation Dryden and Pojjc
both j)raise, carried forward the classical movement, but
Diyden is tlie truest interpreter of the new spirit; in liim
tliere culminated a century and a lialf oi critical progress, a
progress towards the end of the period very much (juickened
by contact with France, for it is noteworthy that while in the
Hellenizing period the literature of Greece was the source of
inspiration and in the Hebraizing time, the Bible, France, the
inlieritor of Latin culture, was the source of stimulus at a time
when clearness and rationality were the guiding ideas. A
movement having for its object the freeing of the national mind
from its absorbing preoccupation with religimi and the attain-
ing of regularity, uniformity, precision, and balance l)oth in
thought and in expression must be ex[)ected to bring some
negative excess, some touch of fr(jst to the imagination ; the
men of letters whose destiny it may be to bring their nation to
the attainment of fit and regular vehicles of expression, must

xvin

TIIR EVOUITrON OF LITKRARY CRITICISM.

of tuH;(;ssit/y, wIksMkii' llusy work in proso or verso, give a pre-
(loriiinatiii",' mivI aliiiost exclusive Jittont/ion to the (|Uiilili(^s
moutioriod, ami this must involve some repi'essin<^ and silc^ncing
of poetry, I)rv(hMi, from his nearness to the great age of
Elizabeth, had a wide intellectual and artistic sympathy, but
there is sulUcient iwidence in his Essaif on Drauuitic Poetr// tmd
in his later preface^s that a predominant interest in form had
bi'ought a narrowing and numbing of imagination. Kthieal
aim, simple thought, regular rhythm, correct diction, sober im-
agination and respect for the authority of tlie past were what
he required of the poet. Poetry, they believed, should be
practical in purpose, definite in thought and lucid in expres-
sion. In Sidney, as we raw, form is comparatively insignifi-
cant, spirituality everything ; in Diyden, form is fully half.
From this on the interest in form is more and more exclusive,
criticism comes to be a regular occupation, reviewing arises,
the passion and passionate How of poetry become an increasing
im[)ei'tinence to the professional critic, who values nothing but
the glare and glitter of a perpetual yet broken and hetero-
geneous imag(My, or rather an ami)hibious something made up
lialf of image and half of abstract meaning of which the
following is only a more ludicrous instance :

No more will I endure love's pleasinj,' pain,
Or round my heart's leg tie his galling chain.

Romanticism.

Form witliout meaning, like every other sham, like MedijB-
valism when it had degenerated into hypocrisy, Hellenism
when its fiexibilitv had become moral inditrerence, or Puritan-
ism when its religious enthusiasm became faruitical, had to go,
and men tried to get back the passion and passionate flow of
poetry without form, if need be. That the movement from
classicism was revolutionary rather than evolutionary or
gradual, must be ascribed to the pernicious influence of the

THE F.VOLl'TION OP LITEKARY CRITICISM.

XIX

Ledia;-
leiiisin
liritan-

to go,
low of
from

•y or

)f the

roviows. I'rofcs.sioiiiil criticism, from tliu natiiro of the cast;,
loves dchiiite staiidai-ds iti tlioiijL,'ht and styh-i, and the revic'ws
were, in conse(|ueiice, the stroiii^diolds of classicism, and clas-
sicism in its most wooden foi-m. 'J'he great reading public,
which the estahlishment of neswspapers and reviews and the
general advance of knowledge were creating, dso liked definite-
ness. To one just enuM-ging into tlu; irit( -lectual life, just
beginning to take an interest in language ;t.i<l stylt?, suchgiart;
and glitter of heterogeneous imagery as the reviews inculcat<'d
an admiration for, is the height of poetical achievement. Any
one who has ever taught (;omj)osition or read the composition
of a beginnei" attentively, will admit the truth of this. In
the reviews, then, and in a class of general readtM's just enH!rg-
ing into intellectuality, a narrow classicism unable or unwilling
to adopt more delicate tests of poetical excellence was strongly
entrenched.

In the meantime, however, the scientific movement w;is
bringing to the finer spirit of tlu; time a cure for its own
materialism. The simpler and more mechanical conceptions
of the earlier stages of the scientific movement were proving
their inadequacy to explain eveiy phase of life and a more
complex, more evolutionary, moi-e modern view of life and
progress was in some quarters already finding acceptance. The
experimental philosophei-s, by a constant criticism of tlie
sources of knowledge and an extending inclusion of the mental
faculties, had indicated their own need of a more thorough
p.s3^chology, and opened the way to th(! idealism of our day.
An emotional intensity, an enthusiasm which fifty years
earlier would have been laughed at, began to mingle with the
earlier reasonableness of judgm<?nt, to guide the nation's grow-
ing sense of human interdependence, the exactcr aiialysi.^ (f
philosophy, and the splendid dcxclopint'iit, of scicnct', and to
drive the new [England to natur(i and humanity for i-elief fiom
its own shallow and artificial philosophy and art. In the

TIIK KVOLUTION OF MTKHAIIY (RITiriSM.

midst of (hr ^'rcalcst. of (ln^ classirists tlitTc wjis growijm up
in otlitT words a (iritiL-ism at once afititlic^ti'' and coMipif
nmntary to tln'ir tcacliiiit;. In snjiport of this statcnuMjt it is
omIv nt'CJ'ssaiy to rct'cr to siicli wtitcrs as Addison, (^-oxall,
I'ai'nrll, Tli(»nipson, Allan Uainsay and ^Jray, to such works
as Percy's collection of ancit'nt liallads, and to the continuous
innlation of the Spenseriati stan/a and the Miltonic; hiank
verse. In i'ai'iieH's poetry there is a ;;enuinc feeling; for
nature very uidike th(^ Auj^ustan spirit and very suggestive of
Wordsworth :

How luip yon azure dyes the wky

Where orlw of K'>I'l unniiiul)crecl lie,

While thro' tlieir ranks in silver pride

The nether crescent seems to K'lide ! »

The shiniberiny l)reeze forjfeta to hreathe,

The lake is sniootti and elear Ixineatli,

Wliere once aj,'ain the sjian^led show

Deweiitls to meet our eyes l)elow.

Parnell's Iltfinu to Contentny'tit also shows true nature feel-
ing, and again seems to foreshadow Wordsworth :

The Sim that walks his airy way

To lij;ht the world and give the day,

Tile moon that shines with borrowed Ii},'hi,

The seas that roll mnmmhered waves,

The woml tliat spreads its shady leaves,

The tleld whose ears conceal the ^'rain.

The yellow treasure of the plain.

All of these and all I see,

Should he sun^' and muiih- of me ;

They speak their maker as they can.

But want and a.sk the ton^^ue of man.

His Fairy Tale contains a breath of real romanticism

In Britain's Isle and Arthur's days,
When midni<,'ht fairies danced the maze,
Livetl Kdwin of the Green
Edwin I wis a j^entle youth.
Endowed with courage, sense and truth,
Though badly shaped had been.

TIIK KVOLI'TION OF LITKKAUY CKITKISM.

SjMico will not jifiniif tlic illiistnition nf flu- ^'r<n\tli nf
lum.uiticisiii, liut tVoiii riiiiH'Jl to (Iniy tin' stu-am luntiimcd
Ut <i;r<»w iti \olimu' iiii<l inclndy. Wlial is (•ailed llicyiavc-
yacd lilciature <»t' tin* last (eiitiiry is aiiot lit-i- t'\ idrtu'c of this
ti'iidciicv loiii;, iTtlfct iv«' vci'sos on (K'atli and iiimioital;ty
whicli, if nut cxat'tly roniatitic in tVclinj;, wen' akin 1<> Kunian
ticisni, and ccrtaiidy react iuiiary to tins Augustan sj>iiit, which
strove to exclude all shad(»\vs of the iji'aNc and all mystery of
tin' future. lUair and ^'oiin,' are f he chief ••xainples of this
school. Pei'cv's collection of hallad liteiat ure also indicated
an incj'easin;,' interest in times and conditions remote from his
(twn. Still another .n-ation was the cont iipious imitat ion
of Sj)ensei-'s stanza form an<l the many attem)tts to catch
something of the nu^lody of the Miltonic hiank \crse. Thou,i,'h
the heroic cou})let or iamltic pentametei- runnint,' in couples
was the standai'd \crse form of the classicists, we tind men
like Pi'ior. Thompson, C\iinl)ridij;<!, West, Shenstone, Wartou,
Mende/. and I)entoii fi"om time to time dui'in:,' the whoh^
classical pei-iod trying experiments in Spenser's and Milton's
favourite verse foruis.

(Jray, peneti-ated by tlu; spii-it of tlu^ future, hut true to the
logic and clearness of the old order, nught hasc made the
course of critical development much more ecjnahlc and gi'adua!
if he had oidy been able to speak out. Arnold calls Griiy the
man who nexcr spoke (tut in another sense, it is true : but it is
equally applicable to him as a i-i'itic. A narrow classicism
entrenched in the reviews had set itself against tbe encroach-
ments of the new romantic s])irit, though from time comjx-lled
to make grudging concessions to it, as for examjile in Shak-
spei'can criticism. Had Gi'ay spoken out, a happy mairiage
of classical and r-omantii-ism might luive occurred, the n-'W
criticism might have kt'j)t the best of the past, might have
been progressive and evolutionary inst(>ad of violent and
reactiouary ; might have retained from the start that apprecia-

XXll

THE EVOLUTION OF LITKKARY ORITICISM.

tion of th(! vii-tues of tlio classicists wliich we are only now
coming to admit, and the failure to see and admit which has
been very d(;triniental. As it was, lio\v(n'er, Gray never spoke
out; the cr-itics, on the principle that whom the gods destroy
they first make mad, grow more arrogant, aiid the attempt of
Jeffroy to put down Wordsworth prHci})itated the revolt in
which the whole classic tradition was swept away and a
triumphant romanticism established in its stead.

Romanticism is characterized by mysticism, subjectivity,,
emotional intensity, love of the picturesque, love of the remote
either in space or time. The romantic writer is fond of ivy-
mantled towers and moonlit water, of old castles, of mountains,
of sunrises and sunsets. I [e is intenisted in the curious phases
of human emotion and often has a passion for the unnatural
and the horrible, as in tales of ghosts or deeds of blood.

As Romanticism was a native Teutonic or Gothic upheaval,
Germany, the Teutonic fatherhmd, naturally becam the centre
of influence, and Cohn-idge, by native temperame*.;. and inter-
course with Germany, the critic of the movement. Coleridge
had a mind .-.u})tle, sensitive and of great range and delicacy,
and his int(M'[)retation oi .special passages from Wordsworth's
and other pnctty in the /)io(/ra/>hia Llturaria has done more
than any other single influence to inspire moilern criticism
witli finenes.s, delicacy and spirituality. The most musical
and philosophical poet of the centur}'' could not bring his
poetic intuition to bear on the critical study of literature
without enriching for all time our c<mception of its spirit and
purpose. His suggestive etymologizing or discussion of the
origin and meaning of words has opened our eyes to the latent
poetry of words which in our ordinary employment of them,
like the sounds of nature referred to \)y the musician in Abt
Vo'jJci\ seem in no way remarkable, but brought together by
the poet have the power from their complementary associa-

TTIR KVOLUTION OF LITKHAUY CIUTICISM.

xxm

! only now
which has
lever si)oke
:)ds destroy
attempt of
e revolt in
kvay and a

ubjectivity,.
the remote
bnd of ivy-
mountains,
•ious phases
5 unnatural
looii.

LC upheaval,
the centi'c
and inter-
Coleridge
delicacy,
jrdsworth's
done more
criticism
;t musical
^.jring his
literature
spirit and
ion of the
the latent
of them,
ian in Abt
ether by
assouiur

tions, cnmpleinentary imaginative content — call it wliat you
will — of stirring our deepest emotional being.

Anil I know not if, save in tliin, such ^'il't iie allowrd to man,
That out of Oirce sounds lie frame, not a fourth sound, but a star.
ConsidiT it w ell : each tone of our scale in itself is '.lotight ;
It is everywhere in the world —loud, soft, and all is said:
Give it to me to use ! I mix it with two in my thouj,'ht,
^^ And, there ! Ye have heard and seen : consider and bow the head I

Such power belongs to the poet as well as to the musician,
illustrations of which can be picked up anywhere :

listen, for the vale prof )und
Is overflowing' with the sound.

That orlied maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon.
Glides plimmerinjf o'er mj' fleece-like floor
By the midnight breezes strewn.

But it was Coleridge who first turned our attention to the
poetical content, of old and homely words usc^d in new and
suggestive arrangements. He was the first, too, to state
explicitly — the poets of course always felt it instinctively — •
that metre in itself in the hands of a great poet has a wonder-
ful power of suggestiveness, of expressing the poet's criticism
of life, and therefore that metre and rhvthm must be studied
afiTsli in ••(ilation to the poet's main thought and emotion.
Finally, and almost as a neces.sary corollary of the latter, he
first pointed out the ethical value of poetry in spite of, per-
haps even in virtue of, its having no direct ethical })urposc.

But he had his limitations ; his criticism was not sulFi-
ciently inductive. There is no hard and fast line between
inductive and deductive re;isoning, the principles of the
deductive syllogism being oidy llic results of complete induc-
tion, but for practical purposes it makes considerable (lilfer-
ence whether one's mental habit is inductivt; (ir deduct i\('.
Coleridge's habit was deductive. By an examination of the

. "1

XXIV

TIIK KVOI.niON OF I.ITKRAUY {'KITICISM.

faculties of the lunuuu inind, wliicli in tlio case of every
psyclioloi^'ist means his own individual mind, Ite hoped to get
a universal test for poetry iu the discovery of a distinct poeti-
cal faculty. His famous distinction between the fancy and
tiu; imagination was the i-esult — the former only the common
understanding mascpiei'ading in poetical dress, the latter the
gtuuiine organ of poetry. I5ut the distinction means no more
than that to Colei-idge certain poems were fanciful, while
others were imaginative, and this again means only tliat
trained, as he tells us himself, to prefer Hom(!r to Vii'gil,
Thucydides and Demosthenes to Livy and Cice;o, and Hhaks-
pei"e and MiltDU to Dryden and Pope, his sympathies did
U(jt go out to th(^ classicists. In r>ther words, as the psycholo-
gist's data are after all only his own mental [)roc(^sses, tlie
att(Mnpt to find an ahsolute test for poetry hy })sychoh)gical
analysis can mean only that the critic arrests his development
at a certain [)oint, rcigai'ds his incomplete development as per-
fect culture and formulates his own likes and disUkes as
univi'rsal principles of iestlietics. If we had wills of perfect
steadiness and heads of perfect clearness, and li\-ed to he as
old as Methusaleh, it might he possihle to reach a stage whei'e
we could safely formulate laws from our (»wn inner consciousness,
but within the bi'i(!f limits <»f a human life it is hardly p(»ssible
to get a familiarity with poetry and art sutliciently wide to
make our subjictive judgments at all times pei'fectly sure and
true. That the method hampered C'oleiidge so little, tiuit his
ci'iticism was so catholic, pi'oxcs the width and sympathy of
liis mind ; l)ut it did hamj)er him to some extent. It jiar-
rowed his sympathies for tlu; classicists and gave him an
overfondness for mysticisiu. Now surely Dryden and Pope
had good in them, and more good than bad. Since Coleridge's
time the (f pviori method has become more and more (hscred-
ited, and C(»leridge's influence on subsetpient criticism lias
been niuinly to throw it into the chaotic condition mentioned

TEIK KVOLUTION OF IJTKRAHY rRITICISM.

X\V

every

fis per-

Ikes as

)erfect

l)e <as

wliei-e

usiiess,

tssihle

ide t(»

re and

it liis

lliy of

t iiar-

in an

Pope

•id^ce's

scred-

M Jias

ioned

at tlic outset. 'I'lic distinction Ix'tween fancy and inia,i,dnation
lia\in'4 liccn <liscr('<litc(l. tlieic remained of Colei'idi;e's work
on'iv liis insistence in conunon \\it!i tl^e 1 {onianticists <,'eneially
on feeliiit;'. iUit as 'me man's t'eelini,' is not anollier mans,
i-riiici^in lias reached a condition which seem-, in justify tht;
L.uin (hctuin, ''de i;ustil>us noil disputan(hnn,"' one critic
makiiiL;" the test ( f ])oet ry its liowci- to ph'ase hy its music and
sen-uou- l)(>auty, another its did, ictic purpose, another, its
insight into Jil'e and cliai'acier ; one ihiidcin^' it should he
clear and definite, another that it sliould he full of allegory
and syuiholisHi.

Thk Nkw Hellfnism.

It is in the prf)se prefaces of ^^'o!•ds\vol■th I'athei' than in the
critical writings of Coleridge that we first meet with traces of
the I'eturning Helh'nistie conception of the matter and nietlied
of [loetrv. '• I'oeti'v," savs AA'ordsworth in one j)lace, "is the
impassioned exjiression whch is in the face of all science;""
and in another. " Toe try is the hreath and liner spirit of all
kn<.wledg(\"" As regaids its nu'thod ..r style, he held tint
thei'e was im essential ditVereiice ht^twceii the l.uiguage and
the movement of poetry and those df gdod prose. In the
prose work of Matthew .\ri:old these hints li.ivc heen
de\-eloped into a systematic theory and practice of critii-ism.
Arnold discar(ls Coleridge's ti-mscendental distinction hetwcen
jthcfioineiia or appearances and things in themseKcs. To him
tlu^ ideal or nol)le :s not < li.it of which we can |)redicate only
its complete dissimilarity from the actual world of our experi-
ence. As he says in tlie preface to the Mi.rrJ A'ssai/y, " the ideal
life is, in soliei' and practical truth, none otliei- than man's
normal life as we shall one day know it." The ideal and (he
actual are not opposjtes l)ut coi'idat ive aspects \t^ 'he one
reality, the convex and I he conca\'e sides of t he same shield.
Ix't us illustrate from luatheuiatics. John Stuart Mill argued

XXVI

THR EVOLUTION OP LITERARY CRITIOISM.

that, as it was iinpossiblo for tlie inathoinatioian to draw a
figure in whicli microsco])ic examitiation would not detect
irregularity, the conclusions of mathtMnatics rested upon incom-
plete induction, and could not, tlierefore, be shown to be
universal and necessary. What Mill overlooked was that
niathematical reasoning is based not upoti (Ju; actual diagi-aui,
which undoubtedly falls short of ideal perfec-tion, but upon the
Cuncepti(jn of a pcn'fect figure, by comparison with which the
actual figure is judgeil to be iinpei'fect If this is so, as
obviously it is so, there is no such thing as a pure particular.
Every object has two aspects, the pai'ticular and the universal.
Every obj(ict is at once a finite object, existing at a particular
time and in a particular place, and an illustr-ation of a law
which is universal. This is Arnold's theory of life. The
ideal or noble is just the perfection latent in imperfection,
and towards which the imperfect tends constantly to appi-oxi-
mate, the eternal law or reason which manifests itself in the
fleeting and transitory phencnnena. ?]verything has a neces-
sary mode of existence, or, as Arnold says, a true law of its
being and its highest fruition is to be obtained only in obedi-
ence to this law. Man's true felicity, foi- e.xample, consists in
realizing here and now the possibilities of intelligence, order,
courtesy and retinemt^nt that are im[)lanted in his nature.
This is for him the ideal earthly life. Here is his present
heaven if he has a mind to make it so.

With the rejection of the otherworldliness of Coleridge and
his fellow mystics there is necessarily involved the denial of
any fun<lameutal distinction betweeii fancy and imagination,
reason and faith. For the perce[)tion of the ideal significance,
the spii'itual element in things, there is needed not a difi\ir(}nt
faculty from that em[)]oy(Ml in scientific inv(!stigation, but only
a greater intensity of soul. The objects of the poet's continn-
plati(tn are those which engage tiie attention of the man of
science. Only whereas the uiiXA of science treats them as

THE EVOLUTION OF MTKRARY CRITICISM.

XX\Il

merely imiividual thiiigs or beings, the puet- clothes ihein with
a " li<>;ht that nfiver was on sea or land." Science abstracts,
isolates, breaks off portions from tlie roiuuled whole of truth.
The sense of ideal unity which scientitic analysis thus tends to
diistroy, poetiy, with its direct intuitive glance into the eternal
relations of things, attempts to restore. Science forces us to
regard particular things not as ideals, but examples merely of
general classes. Poetry treats the same particulai'S as in
Shelley's Cloud, for example, as symbols of some d(;eper s{)iri-
tual truth. Poetry is always on the watch for those brief
monu.'nts caught from fleeting time which exhibit the apjuo-
priate calm of blest eternity, for those happy combinations of
lime, place, pei'son antl circumstances which seem to point to
somt'tliing n\(»re universal. When an ol)ject or a situation has
been thus vividly apprehended by the poet he is com})e]led to
find a vehicle for his emotion in some form of artistic expi'es-
sion. He instinctively employs a heightened diction and a
more melodious movement, and the emotions of his hearers or
readers as instinctively respond to tliose modes of expi-ession.
Hence, as Arnold says, poetry is simply the most telling ci-iti-
cism of life. Keats' description of the forward-bending lover
on the Grecian urn —

Ire and
liial of
lation,
bailee,
I'erent
It only
Int.em-
lan of
iin as

Bold lover, never, never canst tliou ki^s,
Thoutfh winning near the troal— yet, do not <?ri(;ve ;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou luve and she be fair I

is the most telling way of suggesting that while in human
lives youth and beauty and love are transitory and fleeting, in
their own natures they are eternal and imptu'ishable. " In the
l)est poetry," says Arnold, "the substance and matter on the
oiii' hand an<l the style ar.d manner on the other, have a mark,
an accejit of high beauty, worth and power." " The substance
and matter of the best poetry," he goes on, '■ ac<(uire their
special character from possessing in an eminent degree truth

XXVIU

TIIK KVOI-UTION OK rjTKKAKY CRITICISM.

find scfioiisiK^ss To (lie style ;ui(l niriniicr of

the lu'st jxK'tiy, tlicir sficcial cliai'.u't or, their ficccnt, is ufiveu
hy tlioir (lictioii, jiiid yt't iiioie by their irK)venient, and thou^di
we distin.Lfiiish hetween the two ehanicters, the two accents, of
siH)eriocily, }et they ace ae\ eitheless Aitally eonnecterl one
with theothei'. "^Phe .sU|iei'ioi' character of truth and .••(pious-
ness ill tht' inatl(M' and substance of the best poetiy is in-
separable from the superif)rity of diction and movement
marking its style and mannei". The two superiorities are
closely related and ar<^ in steadfast proportion one t.^ the
other. So far as hi lib j)oetic truth and seriousness are want-
ing to a ])oet s mattei- and substance, so fai* also we nja\' be;
sure will a \\']<^\\ poetic stani]) of diction and mo\emetit bo
wanting to his style and manner. In {)i'oportion as the liigh
stamj) of dii't ion and moNcment again is absent from a poet's
style and manner, wt^ shall find also that high poetic truth and
seriousness are absent from his sul)stance and matter."

Hero we ha\t! tlu^ true Hellenic view of art wdiich, now
again emerging aftei* many vicissitudes, we may hope to see
prevail. Sjiiritual freedom and classic restraint are its watch-
words ; flexibility, delicacy, ideality, and withal, order and
sanity, its characteristics. All the charms that have ever
been felt in poetry Hellenism feels, but in their proper rela-
tive importances It admits the charm of the poetry which
the iesthetic school admires,

I.ifj^ht feet, dark violet, eyes and parted lii)s,

Soft dimpled hands, white necVt and creamy t)reast,

admits that such lines contain a criticism of life, but deiues
f (, 'e:''i/.ing or divinization of })leasui'e alone can give

. ;! V liighest poetry. Hellenism adiriits the grandeur
ti •.. . ■ ^le of the moi'ai order of the universe and its

power oi ..! Ululating races and individuals to splendid bursts
of poetry, but reminds the lovers of grave and serious poetry

TtIK KVoLUTloS* OF MTKHAHY Ci; ITiriSM.

X \ 1 X

mci" of
■^ Ljivoii
though
outs, of
('(1 one
.'■:(n'ious-
•y is In-
)venK'iit

ics are

to the
t> wiint-

may \n)
net! I )h!
blie high

a poet's
•uth and

ich, now

to S('<'

watcli

t>f and

ve over

tior reki-

V which

denies

an <i;ivii

raudeiif

anil its

'"'i

! bufsts

p(»etry

that there are other aspects of (he :;nt mirscKcs Itcsidcs the
mitral ord(.'r, tlu; world of science and ait, tor ex unjile, wiiicli
have hft'ii no less capable of insj)iring other laees and indi-
\ iduals. With Kmerson, Coleridge and the transeendentalists,
it admires in poetry the elejiient of mystery and wonder, but
then where everything is wonderful, everything providential,
everything miraculous, there is no room for exceptional eases.
The new cj'iticism has all the spirituality, the sensitiveness to
subtlf^ gleams of meaning, of the critical work of Colei'idg(i
without Coleridge's tui'gidity and mysticisni, all tiie ordei- and
sanity of the classicists without their woodenness. 'riic new
criticism more and more tends to take as the proper basis of
poetry not phantasy or superstition, nor yet connnon st^nse and
wit, but the imaginative reason. Oriental laces uv.iy continue
to rest their poetry on the sensuous imagination, society verse
may spai'kle with antithesis and epigram, Semitit- poeti \ may
separate the ideal and the actual, the human and the divine,
and place its ideal world in a life beyond the grave, the Indo-
l'iUroi)ean mind is increasingly coming to believe that the
ideal is but the true law towards which the actual constantly
approximates, to believe that all of animated nature arc but
oi'ganic harps

diversely framed
That tremble into tlKuit;tii as o'er them sweeps,
Plastic and vast, one intelleiliial bree/.e,
At once the soul of each and Qod of all,

to place its ideal in opposition to Semiticism in this woild, to
t'onsider all excessive synd)olism, all mysticism and (»ther-
worldliness as mor*^ or less of an iin[iertinence and to regai'd
jioetry as a rt^xclation through the ujedium of the music of
\erse and the subtle suggestiveness of language of the latent
beauty and spirituality of the world around us.

WTLIJAM WOKDSWOllTII.

[Williuni Wordsworth was born April 7, 1770, at Cockernioiitl), a
town on tho Derwent River, at the foot of the Cumherland high-
lands. ITis parents, who were both of hardy northern stock, died
while he was yet but a boy. At Hawkshead, a neighbouring town,
he passed his early school days, aud these were days of great free-
dom in reading and playing. In 1787, Wordsworth entered St.
Jolm'.s College, Cambridge, and in 1701, having secured his degree
after a college course by no means reniarkalde for scholastic aohieve-
nu'nts, he left Cambridge for France, whither he had gone with a
c .: go friend during his last vacation. His enthusiasm for the
""/I' lution kept him across the Channel for a year, when tbe Keign
of Terror, and, [)erhaj>s, pressure from home, drove him l)ack to
Kngland. "VN'ith no definite plans for the future he went to London
ill 17'.»2, and si)ent the summer of 1703 in the Isle of Wight. In
1705, with his sister, Dorothy, he settled at Kacedown, in Dorset-
shire, whence in 1707, to be near Coleridge at Nether Htowey, he
ji'inovcd to Alfox<len, in Somersetshire. In 1703, Wordsworth had
pul)li.shed a small volume of poems, and, in conjunction with Cole-
ridge, he issued at Bristol in 1708 the first edition of the famoua
Lyrical Jkdlads. In the same year, the two friends went to Ger-
many, Wordsworth with his sister spending the winter at Goslar,
where several of his best known shorter poems were written.
Returning to England in 1700, he finally settled with his sister in
th') North Country, at firsf at Grasmere, where in 1800 he [)ul)lished
the second edition of the Lijriml HnUmh. In 1802 he married Mary
Hutchinson. Until 18l;5 he lived in various houses in the neigh-
bourhood of Grasmcrt', but after tliat date, with the excepti()n of
vacation tours in Wales, Scotland and on the Continent, his remain-
ing years were j)assed at R3'dal Mount. After 1800, Wordsworth's
poetic career was a steady ami productive one. Many short poems,
suggested by the incidents and feelings of the day, were published
between 1803 and 1840. In 1700, whilst in Germany, he begin the

[1]

LII'K Ol' WILMAM WoilDSWoUTir.

J'reiii/O', iutiindnv^ U> iii.ikc^ il" tliu iiitrd.liiotiuii to a ;^reiit pliiloso-
phioiil poom, tlio Hrcht.'H', of wliicli only a piirfc, tho Excursion, 'vus
coiiipletud. L!ir;;c colltictioiis of somiots wv.vo the products of the
years IHOa-lH'jr). In 17'''»-<», lio attoiii[»ted dramatic ooinpoHitiun in
his Borderers, with indilForeiit success. In liis i)rofacu.s to his
various puhlicatious, in essays and pauiphU'ts upon the social and
political <|ui!stions (tf the day, he [)nived iiJMiielf to he an impas-
sioned and forcil)le prose writer. In IS.'V,), he was futlnisiastieally
honoured hy the University of Oxford, in ISl;? lie l^eeainc I*oet-
Laureate, and in 1850, after a long and singularly hai)py life, he
died at Rydal Moiuit.]

I Tin
17()S

181U

IS(i(»
l.SOli

Chronological Table of Works with Dates of Publication.

[It must be notel that tho onior licru ijjivoii is oiilv ,ip|)ro<iniatnly correi.'t Iti tho
case of several lotiyrer poein-t ami 'joiiipilatioua wlio.sii production was tho work of
years.)

Evening Walk "j

Descriptive Sketi'ln'.^ ^

The Female Vagrant I

Lyrical Ballads ( Kirst Edition) . . . .

Peter Bell ^

The Wagoner j

Lyrical Ballails (Second E'litioii)

Memorials of a Tour in Scotlaii 1 .

Prelude ISr.O

Ode— Intiniatioiis of limiioitality {''.)

Poems ... 1 SOT

The Whi'-e \)ui; of JJyLst'.ne 18 lo

Miscellaneous Somuits

Prose Pamphlets 180!»

The Excursion , 'j

- 1 8 1 4
Memorials of a Tonr in Scotland ..... j

Thanksgiving Ode . 1810

Sonnets on the Itiver Dnddon . . .... . 18-0

Memorials of a To u- on the Continent . . 1820, 22

Ecclesiastical iSketche.-i "j

Description of the Scenery of the Lakes /

Yarrow Ke visited ami Other Poems KS.SI

Minor Pieces

Ode on Liatallatiun of Prince AHiltL 1847

I82'.

GEXEKAL ESTIMATE

One of the moHt strikini,' cliarfKrtoristics of tlio nineteenth
cciritury is, as ah-eady pointed out, its interest, in the >turiy of

ontrins.

e<';nii

'\n<i with the natural s(^iene«'S, the idea of

evolution or d<;velo[)inent has invaded and revivilie(l, i-eron-
structed and transfoi-niod all depart ini'iits of Imniaii kno\vled,u;e
or is now i-aj)idly doing so, The study of litcu'atui-e, though
most conservative in its methods, has at length liegun to yield
to the evohitionary trend of all niodcrn thougiit. ( )nce,
criticism was regarded as the study of literary style only.
An advance was niad(! wjicn t(t the study of mere style there
was added a study of thought, Ihough only for the pur})ose of
showing the harmony between thought and style. The n(;xt
step was to recjuire from a writer not merely a harm(^)ny of
thought and expression hut a correspond(!nee l)etween iiis
thought and the laws of universal logic. Fn our day we are
coming to see that a writer's deviations f['(»m alisolutc logic,
tlu! personal or subjective element in his work, his powers and
his limitations can be fairly estimated oidy by viewing his life
as a process.

We no longer coufuK; our attention to a single point, '' the
culminating and exceptional point; the sunnnary, fictitious
and arbitraiy, (»f a thought and of a woi"k." Poeta 7i(iscitnr
?io>i y/<, a dictum which has done moi'e tliaii anything else in
the past to block the investigation of lit eraiy origins, is not by

[3]

1 'I

4 WOltDSWOKlit.

US so niiicli ri';,';irfl(«(l. Tlic tft'iiius is iiu loiij^or "a god scaled
imiii')val)h; amidst Ids jxirt'cft, \vt>rk, liUc! Jiipitcir on ()lym})us,"
nor Ids work a llawlcss |troduot issidni; rcady-nmdo from tliafc
(li\ irie head. We wisli to soe a pliysioffiioiny and not a li.do,
a man ratlwr (Iian a statue, to tr-aco for our profit, tli(5 l.-dxtiir,
the att(!mpts, (,lio vveaknesses and the faihires, t-o l)o shown
how the thini; is dono, Jiot to Ih; asked to venerate a model of
unapproacliahlo excellence.

'\'\u' seeds of f^onius, we frt'l, art- wichily scattered. There
is no one who, in youth or early matdiood, has not frequently
btien startled by intimations of some

Sweet straiii^ro mystery
Of what l)c.\ orid tliesc thin^rg ni;iy Iiu
And vt't remain unseen ;

atid I ho j^lory of life is that we never entirely lose the power
of lu'ing thus impressed by the mystery of the world about us.

l)Ut the majoi'ity of men allow their first eivative sensibility
to dwindle from disuse, their souls are soon subdued to the
I'egular action of the woi-ld, their nobhist possihilities become
overlaid with an immense (h'posit of conventional habits and
Aiews. The average man is sectjirian in religion, partizan
in politics, conventional in his belicjfs and pni-c ice, a mere
pin, rounded and polished on society's great j l-uushion, indis-
tinguishable from the thousands of others. Therj are some,
however, who strive

Not without action to die
Fruitless, but sometliing' to snatch
From dull oMivion nor all
Glut the devouring grave.

These, the great original spirits, differ from the rest of man-

GKNKItAr, KSTIMATR.

(1 H('lll»'<l
yinpus,"
•um tliiifc

5 lal)t»ur,
o shown
iikmIoI of

. TIhmv
equontly

,he powor
about, us.

^nsibility
('(1 to tlie
s becoino
ibits and

pai'tiziiu
, a mero

»n, iiulis-
ire some,

of man-

kind, lint at first in ^'rrat«'r s('nsiti\»'n«'ss to undnlyin^' truth
ami IxNiuty, liut in early rt'roj;niy.in^', dimly nmu^'h perhaps,
llic sustainin;L^ and fonsolim; inlhirncc df those lirst transitory
•fleams of s[)irit and in resohiiii,' at all hazards to dierish them
until thev Imtomic a constant powci'.

Three main i|uestions are tlierefoi'e iiiNohcd in the study of
aiivirreat ixtel, the answer to which mii^l l)e sought in a chron-
(doiiical ari'anifement and examination of his works such as Mr.
Sidpfoi'd Urooke has ^'i veil us in liis "Tennyson," su|»plemenled
bv \\liatc\ci' binirrapiiical of autobiotjraphical details are avail-
able : (I) What was the nature of the stiu^;;le tlii-oUL(h which
his sjtrcial sensitiveness was de\c|(tpe(|? (J) ^\'hat powers of
style did he aopiire for the ex|iression (»f his deepei' view of
life? (.i) ^^'hat nia\' be rci^'arded as his ult iniate pronounce
rncnt on the three ^rreat themes of all ai't and thought :
nature, man, and Cnxl ?

I. — WoKDSWORTIl's PSVCIIOLOGIC.M- ] )KVF.L0PME\T.

The /'I'l/tide, a poem in fourteen bcioks, intended for an
ii\t I'o'luct ion to tlie uncoiiiplete(l /lerlm^e, contains Wctrds-
worths spiritual autobiograj)liy. The poem is of nioderalc
literary but <;'reat psyeliolo,i;ical \alue, al)oundin,G[ in passai,'es
(if e\t|uisite beauty in which tli(! poet has caught and lixed in
shinimr lines tln^ almost incommunicable intluonces leadim; him
to nat ure and devrlo[jin^" this feclin;j; into a faculty of inter-
j)retati(Ui. The main points to notice in the /'rc/wir are : I.
Oritjiit and (jroirfh : (I) thi' mysterious ori^^in of soul ; ('2) the
importance of cireumstanct s not in creating- faculty but in
<,d\ing it it.s bent ; (3) the su!tjeeti\e ajid egoistic impurity of

WOKDSWOIITH.

his (vu'lici' fccliiiLf foi' iifitiin; ; (I) tlie tracos cxcn in tliat,
furlii'r- tiiiK! of a less personal and pun;!' feelini,'. II. The,
strmjfjle irith loimr teiidencles : (1) thn beginning' \n school
time of a conscious efVort to fostiM- and cherish his j)urer feel-
ings; ('_') th(^ ne<fativ(i inlliuMice of Canibriolge ; (3) the repres-
sion of obtruding mechanical aims; (4) the dedication of his
p(»\\('is: (5) a transitory and superficial interest in the active
and di'amatic sid(> of life — London and Paris. TIT. Serduitij:
(1) the I'ecognition of his limitations ("the common growth of
mother earth suHices m(! ") ; (2) the strengthening and deepen-
ing, undt-r liis sister's inlluence, of his fciding for nature ajid
for peasant lite.

OniGIN AND (JliOWTir.

Tt can scai'cely be doubted that there ar*; innate and here-
ditary (hspositious as a rule unitiul with markiul dillerences in
temjjerament and structure of body, which man biings with
him into the world, or that AVoi'dswoi-th, sprung from hardy
>fortli of England stock', received from both parents tluj inhei'i-
tance of a moi'al nature, healthy, frugal and robust. J lis
mother especially possessed

Of luodi'st mi'fkiic'ss, simple iiiinilfdiu'sa,
A heart that found l)eiiij,'-iiity and liope
Hehi;,' itself lieiii;;ii.

This, howcN'ei, is uncertain gr<»iind. W'ordswo.t h on the
whole lays no great stress on heredity. lOach man is a new
creation, a fresh incarnatio^i of (lu^ divin(^ spirit, amiiaeh,'
whose Ijeginning transcends our ])owers of exi>lauation :

Hard task, vain hope to analyze the mind
If eai'h most ohvious and partieular thon;;ht,
Not in a mystical and iille sense,
But in the words of reason, deeply wei|j;hed,
Hath no heginnin^'.

gi:nki: \i. Ivstim ati;.

ill that
II. Th',

S('h<M»l-

rcr ivx'\-
'i repres-
iii of liis
le active;
Serenit/j:
row til of
1 deepen-
ture and

,nd heie-

[nmces in

j^s with

hardy

inhcri-

st. His

on thc!
s a new
iiiiiacle

All that Ik' call sav for cfrfaiii is that, coiisciousiicss bciLjins
with (lie a|)|ii';',ra!ict' of a power (jf corirlahiig and (list'l'inii-
iiatiiii,^ the iiiatiifoM of ('\]('! iciicc.

nn-^t lis wi! aw tlic iiiii tal sjiiril '^rows

Like liannoiiy in laiisic : ihcif is ;i durk
IiiHcnitalilc \v()ikiii:iiislii|) that recomilus
Disforiliuit cliiiK'iiis, iiiiiUes thcni iliiiLf rofi'ftlier
In one suriety.

\\'liil(' it iiiav 1)(! iiiipossil)l(' t(» say imu-h a.l)out the orij^'in of
i^i'iiius or to (IfliiH' genius itself as othtM- than a <(rt!at(M' energy
of soul, W'liiiUw (trill lias no doiilit of t he im])ortance of early
associations in (leteiinininn' l)i> heiit. I lis inhei'ited energy of
iiat (ire ini^lit uniler (hlVen nt eiiuMiiiistaiices have made him a
great aihiiinist rator, or warrior : as it was, his mind was early
tilled with ail ahsorltiiiLi" interest in the forms, colour's, sounds
aiid fragrancies of the great ohjectix,' world around him.

One, Mie fiiiiest of all ri\»M's, |(i\c(l
To lilcinl his nianniirs with my nurse's sonij

Mailf (^eas'lfss iiuisic. tiiat coiiiiKisi'd luy ni(i(i;u:tits

To more Ihiui infant suflntss, ui\iii;,' mo

Aliiii! the ficlfnl iiurlliii:;s (if niaiikilid

A foretaste, a dim (■iriie-t. of the calm

Tlia' nature hreathcs aminu' li>'r liilN and 'jroxcs.

At a reiiiarkahly early age he exliiliitcd a teiulency towards
solitary coiiiiiuiiiion with nature, to find a joy in her splend(jur
and silences :

( 111, many a t imc ha\ e I, a |i\ c yeai's cliilil.
In a small mill raio >e\ei('d from his ^l|■eanl,
.Made one lon^' hailiin;; ( f a summer's day ;

si'nnre(|
The sandy fields, lea)>iiiu thnm^rh flowery proves
Of \ello\v rairwiirl ; or u ln-n rock and hill.
The woods and di-laiit Sloddaw 's lofty hci;.dif
Were hroiized with di'e|iesl radiance, stood ulonc

llenetith the sk.\

t'air seed-time hid ni\ Mial.

WOUDSWOUTII.

As he grew older ;in(l widened the range of his sports, he
began to impress upon all forms of nature

the characters
Of (laiiKor and (k'sire ; and thns did make
The surface of ilie universal eartli
With triuni]>li and deli;,'lit, w itli liope and fear
Work like a sea.

He Ix'gan to be conscious of nature as an awful external
presence rebuking injustice and curlnng his irregular passions.

Ere I had told
Ten Ijirthday.s, . . . 'twas my joy
Witli store of siirinj,'-es over my shoulder hung
To raii<;o itic ojien lieij^hts where woodcocks run

Alonj,' tlu; smootii green turf

Mdoa and .stars

Were o'er mij head. I was alone

A nd seemed a trouble to the peace

2'hat dwelt anioiii) them. Sometimes it befell

In these iii^dit \vanderinj,'s that a stroii;,' desire

tVcrpowered my better reason, and the bird

Which was the captive of another's toil

Hccame my prey ; and ichen the deed was done

1 heard among the solitanj hills

Low hrvathin<is comiiifj after me, and sounds

Of ■inidi,-<tia;ntii<hul)le DKjtion, steits almost as silent

As the turf then trod.

!-<

Of a similar nature are his feelings after taking the boat
that did not belong to him :

I dipped my oars into the silent lake
And, as I rose upon tlie stroke, my boat
Went heavinj; throuf,4i the water like a swan ;
When, from behind that craj^gy steep, till then
The horizon's buiuid, a huge peak, black and huge,
As if with voluntary power instinct
Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,
And growing still in stature tlie grim sha]>f>
Towered n[) between me and the stars, and still.
For so it seemed, with piu'pose of its own
And measured motion like a li\ ing thing.
Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
And through the silent waters stole my way
Back to the co\ ert of the willow tree ;

ports, he

external
pasHious.

Itlie boat

'4r:f

■■H

GKXRKAL ESTIMATE. 9

for many days, my l)rain
Worlu'cl with a dim and uiuleterniiiied sense
Of nnknowii modes of Ix-'iny ; ....

hiitre anil mitilily forms, that do not live
Like living; men, moved slowly tlironjfh the mind
By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.

These T>a.ssaires show tliat Wordswortli's creative sensiljiUtv
earlv liegan to react upon nature, but they also show the sub-
jt'ctive impurity of this early feeling. Nature in both cases is
an external and minatory existence standing over against the
nature of man. The skating scene, though less impure in
feeling, especially in the lines

Far distant hills
Into the tuimilt sent an alien sound
Of melancholy not unnoticed,

is not by any means even in those lines the puicand uiiegoistic
expression of nature's rehition to the human mind that we
find in such lines as

The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is amoiij^- the lonely hills.

The bu()}aiiev of youth and the expansion of the ])hysical
litV mafle it inipo^sil)l(! for his imagination to be ([uite free ni
this time from a fault which Siielley to the end of his life failed
to eliminate — the fault of reading into nature his own feelings
of the moment.

We hissed along the polished ice in games,
Confe(lerate, imitative of the chase
And woodland pleasures

witli the din

Smitten, the precipices raii;^' aloud

while far distant hills

Into the tumult sent an alien smmd
Of melancholy, not unnoticed,

WOUD.SWOHTII.

Not si'ldoiii fiom tlio ii|>ro;ir 1 rctiri'd

Into a silent h.iy, or siiortivcly

(!l;iiii'C(l si(lc\v:iys, 1(.m\ iii;^' tin,' tunniltous tliron;j;,

To cue across tlu; ri'Hcx of a star.

un<l oftcntinicis

WIk'ii uc lia<l uivcii our liolics to the wind,

And all Mie shadowy lianks i>n cither side

C'.inic swccjiin^' throui;li the darUnc.-s, s))innin^' still

The lapiil line C'f motion, then at, once

Have I, reclinin-f hack upon my heels,

Stop|)cd short ; yet sMll the solitary clifTs

Wii:.ekMl hy me— even as if the earth liad rolled

With visiljle motion hcrdinrnal round !

Hehind me did they stieteh in solemn train

Feeliler and feebler, and I stood and watched

Till all was iranijuil as a dreamless sleeii.

\\''H'(]s\v«)rtli is ;i\v;uv' of t^hc, cai'ly iiii))mMty of liis iiiiaifina-
1 i.ti'i, ,ui<l ill iiiafk(;;l <':)utra;t witli tlit! (liought of tlie sixth
st;ui/.a in the gfeat o(l(> whru't^ Nature, the homely iiurbe, is
reiu'cseiUcd as doiiio- ali she can

To make her {"(uter-child, her imnale, Man,

l-"or;,'-et the ylories he liath known,
And that ininerial palace whence he came,

(hose fits of vuluar joy, those toiTors, pains and <'arly
iiiiscfie-; are exi)laiiied as th(; means (!m[»U)yed by Nature lu
build u}) llie vision and the faculty divine !

9;i

How stiaim'e that all
The terrors, pains au'I early miseries,
Ro;rets, ve\;nions, lassitudes, interfused
Wiiliin my mind, should e'er have home a part,
And that a needful part, in inakin;,' up
The calm c\is(ence that is mine when I
Am Worthy of m\ self.

Wisdom and spirit of the luiiverse I

Thou so'il that art '..; eternity of thoui;hi,

Thi! '^'isest to forms and ima;.;-es a hroalh

.Vnd ewi'last in:;' mniion, nor, in \'ain

l'>y day or star-li;.,dii . ihus from my firs! dawn

I >f childhood, ilidsi I hoii intertwine for me

I'ho ))assions that build up our huKian soul .

K !|i

GKNKUAI. ESTIMATE.

lis ini;i_i,Mna-
if the sixth
ly nurse, is

;iii(l ciirly
Niituiv to

Not with the mean and vulvar works of man,
r.iit with luj;l> ohjfcts, with eruhiriti^^ Ihiii'jfs —
With lit'o and nut iii-o — imiifyitijf thus
The elentents of fei'Iiti',' and of tliou;,'lit,
And siiMrtifyiny, liy hu 'h discipline,
Hoili i>:iii> and fi-ar, iin:il we roc.oirnizo
.4 !,'ranilfur in tlie Ijcatin;^ of tiio iieart.

lidw well the ('li-mt'iit.s of thought and tVch'tig' wci'o pui iticd,
hiiw liiii'lv. in coat I'julist iuctioii to ShoUcy, Wordswufth su<'-
et'cdcd ill I'liiiiin.itiiig tliis early iiiia;^dii;it i ve impurity of his
thought, his better liues and passai^es aluiiidaiit ly pfoNc.
I']vfii in cliildiiood there were not wiuitiii^' Hashes of a iiigdier
inspiration :

Xor sediiloiis as I have hci-n to trace
How nature l)y extriiisii'. /.rt.«("«>i first
Peopled the mind with forms suhlinie or fair,
And made me love tluni, may I here omit
How oiher |)leasiire.s ha\ e been mine, and joys
Of snlitler oriu-in ; how I ha\e felt.
Not seldom even in that tempestui)iis time,
Those hallowed and pure motions of tlieseitse
Which si-em, in their simplicity, to own
An intellectniU cluirm ;

Yes, I renieniher when the I'han^eful earth

And twice livu summers on my mind had stamjicd

The faces of the mo\in^' year, even tlien

I h(ld nneonscious interc )urse with beauty,

Olil as iriation, drirdvhiLr in a pure

Organic (ileasiire from the silver wreaths

Of cnrlin,' mist, or from thi' b'vel plain

Of w.iters coloured bv inipeiidini;' clouds.

Thus oft amid ihnse fits of vul>;ar jov

Wiiich, throu^di all seasons, on a ehil I's (lursuits

Are )>rompt attendants, 'miff that,i;id<ly bliss

Which, like a tenipi^l, works alon,;; the blood,

And is forgotten ; even then I felt

Gleams like the flashing;- of a shield ;-the earth

Anil eoimiion fai^e of nature spake to lue

Hememberable thiiiL's.

SehudI time is not wanting in "those fits of \iilgai- joy,"

WOROSWOKTH.

l)ut tlune is also observable a growing delicacy and fineness ot
perception :

Anil that sinj,'le wren
Which one day sauj,'' so sweetly in the nave
Of the old chnreh ....
So sweetl}' 'mid tlie ^dooni, tlie in\ isihle hird
Sanjf to lierself, that there 1 could liave made
My dwellinff-iilace, and lived forever there
To hear such nnisie.

TIIK STRUGGLE WITH LOWER TENDENCIES.

JNIore rcinarkiible, however, is the dawning consciousness of
the worth of those :-. ^bii ,'isitations and the be<jinninf; of a
conscious etlbrt to foster and develop the power of receiving
them :

Nature intervenieiit till this time

And secondary, now at length was sought

For her own sake

For I would walk alone,
Under the ([uiet stars, and at that time
Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound
To breathe an ele\ ated mood, by form
Or iniag'e un))rofunfd ; and I would stand,
If the ni!;ht Idackeiicd with a coming' storm,
Beneath some rock, listenini;' to notes that are
The jihoslly lan,L;'un'ie of tlie ancient eaith.
Or make their dim alioile in distant winds.
Thence did 1 drink the visionary power.

This is the ptirting of the ways, perhaps the most important
moment in Wordsworth's life, the beginning of the many
silent wrestlings of thought which build up the poet's mind.
Mere s,asceptibility will not make one a genius. Every young
soul is all budding with susceptibilities and capabilities, but
the diiliculty ( ver is to know which is the right one and, when
recognized, to lie true to it at all costs. That the average
man soon gives up the struggle is too sadly obvious. The

il!

(1 fineness ot

jciousness of
jinning of a
af receiving

important

the many

loot's mind.

Ivery young

)ilities, l^ub

and, when

he average

ious. The

OKNERAL ESTIMATK.

sonsuaf appetites are the most pressing j the spiritual needs
not so pressing. It would be well to satisfy both, but if that
is impossible without effort anrl repression, attend to the
more obvious needs of the body and the othoi-s will die of
iiiatiltion and cease to trou])le us. Wordsworth on the other
hand cherishes the visionary power, the obscui-e intimations,
too fugitive and infrecjuent then to be caught iind fixed in
words, but later on in his dedicated life lo speak in clearer
t(»nes in Tintern Abbey and other high verse. He will not
surrender on the fn-st summons like the nuiss of nwn to the
call of conventional aims and pursuits ;

By the rog'ular action of the world
My soul was unsubdued :

and this soon begins to bring its reward in a powor to udd
" the light that never was on sea or land, the coiisecration and
till' poet's dream : "

An auxiliar liifht
Cainc from my mind, which on the setting' sun
Bestowed now s]>lendour; tlie melodious birds,
The flutterini; breezes, fountains that run on
Munnnrini^ so sweetly in themselves, obex ed
A like dominion, and the midnight storm
Grew darker in the presenee of my eye :
Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence

And hence my transport

my seventeen! h year was come ;
And, whether from this habit rooted now
So deeply in my mind, or from excess
In the <freat social principle of life
(^^oercing' all thiny^s into syni))athy,
To miorganic natures were transferred
My own enjoymeiits.

lie ceases to regard nature as a distinct external and minatory
existence and begins to feel the organic unity uf \\vv litV in
which he has a part ; to b(> conscious of an immanent spirit)

'■( w

WOHDsWOIi'lir.

" wlioso chvoiliiiijf is (Jk^ linjlit nf sotting suns, ;iii<i the r(>iiii<l
ocean and lli<' living aii' and the liliie sk}', and in IIk; mind of
man,"— " to rocognizf! a comincn souivi* of all those shailuwy
intimations, divirni questionings, l)lank misgivings, visionai-y
gl(>ams" and to exporience a new sense of "abiding calm and

joy."

I felt ttic soiiliini'iit. of I't'iiij;' spread
O'er all that, lo«it l)e.vonfl the roach of thought
And liiiiiia'i kiiowled^'fc, to the human eye
Ii»\ isiblc, yd li\ut,h Lo the heart.

Thus ('(juippcd, with few fi'icnds, litOc liook nullure, and his
sensitiveness to all nat-in-al [)li('n()iiu'na, he goes up to Ca-m-
hridgc. Very slight importance is attached by Wordsworth
to college associations. lit; cannot indeed print the gi'ouiid
where the grass had yicldc:! to the st(^ps of gcMicratioiis of
illustrious men, nor niiiigliMvith -'so many divers sam[)l(vs from
the growth of life's sweet season," frcipient the I'ooms once
oocupicMl hy Spen.ser and hy Milton, nor lie within tlu; sight of

t he aiitcrhapel

wliore the statue stood
Of Newton with his prism and silent face,
The marble index of a mind forever
Voyaging throui;h strange seas of thoiiLfht alone

without emotion and stimulus, hut college labours seem frivolous
after the grave and strenuous peasant life he has known.

Of ooUene laliour^;, of the lecturer's room

All studded round, as tliirk as i:liairs could stand,

With loyal students, failhful to their books.

Let others that know more s)>eak as they know.

Such glory was Init little sou<j;ht bj' me

.A.Md little won.

He would not allow jiimself to be betrayed into hjwet
mechanical phases of enetgy or occupation, and yet fi'om tlu'

OKNKUAI. KSTIMATK.

[ I he run IK I
;he miiul oi
ise slKulowy
s, visionaiy
,!_' calm and

,ure, and liis
up to Cani-

WoiiNNvortli
J the gi-iiuii(l

MUM'atinlls ot"

imi)les frtim

rooms once.

the si;j;ht of

riMu frivolous
jiown.

into loNvcf
ret from the

natur(! of the place it is inipossil)Ie to prexcnt lower aims
ohtrudiiig themselves.

From the first crnrle days
Of sellHii); tinii.' in tliis untrifd abode,
I was (listurbed at times by prudent tho\ii;htH

some fear

About my future worldly iiKiinleiiiuice
And, more tlian all, a stranu'encHM in the mind,
A foelin;: that I was not fi:r that liour
Nor for ib.at jjlace.

I fere we have the pressurti of prudential oonsidcM-ations rein-
foifi'd l)y a dititdence a..s to the genuineness of the >-all to
highei' woi-k against which all greut men have to struggle.
For' this struggle .strength is always to he had in solitary c<»m-
munion with nature.

Oft-times did I <|uit

My comrades

And a^^ I jiaced alone the level fields

What independent solaces were mine
To miti^'ate the injurious swuy of place
Or circumstance

I looked for luiiversal Ihinj^'s ; perused
The conmion coimlcnance of earth and .sky

felt

IncunibeiKMcs more awful, \isitin;,'s
Of the upholder of the trani|uil soul
Thp.t tolerates the indi;^nilies of lime
And, from the centre of Kternity
All finite motions o\ crrr.lin;,', lives
In j,'lory immutable.

No mere delirium of mysticism this ! Keen analytic thought
is laying the foundation of that minuteness of ohsei\ation
which makes his poetry as he defines it, tiie " hreath and iiuer
spirit of all knowledge."

The bodily e\C
Amidst my strongest uorkin;.;-s evermore
Was seari.'hin^r out the lines of difference
.\s they lie hid in all external forms.

wounswoKTii.

Ill f.'icrt (»ii(! of tlic rciniirk;il)I(! things about Woi'dswortli is his
sanity, tlie vory slight li'acos anywhci'e in his works of a
mystical or morhid llousscauistic feeling for nature. The joy
f«!lt in those moments is the joy that coraes from all successful
exercise of faculty, a sure premonition of the success that is
lo be acliicvcd along that line. These loft}^ contemplative
moments are much broken in upon by unavoidable college asso-
ciations.

Full oft tlic quiet and exaltPfl thoui^hts

Of loneliiu'ss <;;ivo way fo eiiipty noise

Anil siiiifrtlciul jiristinu's ; now ainl then

Forci'il laliour, ; nd nioro fri'(|iicntly forci'il liopps ;

And, worst of ail, a troasonalile jji'owlh

Of inilcrisi\ e judu'inciits, that inipaired

And shook the mind's siniplieily.

And it is interesting t(^ compare the regrctfid rotrosp(>ot
with which Wordsworth looks back upon tlicx' interruptions
of th<! contem}>liUi\e ha])it, with Carlyle's account, in the
Sarfor /iisdiitis, of his college years and his keen interest in
the dramatic movement of life.

Witli Wordsworth, "companionships, friendships, acquaint
ances wei'O welcome all," but in such companionships lie often
"at, the stars came forth, perhaps without one quiet thought,''
and on the whole the time spent at the university was to him
a period of somewhat unprofitable contact with the world.

In l>ook IV, light is dawning upon him. He is becoming
conscious of a strength and liuoyancy of soul, an originative
aiul iiiler[)retative })owcr of mind upon which life can b(
based, the result of lonely brooding, of ciierisiiing and foster

II ii|i.

ii\g into faculty his fugitive intentions.

;'§

"'i

CENKHAL RSTIMATR.

vorth is his
works of a
). Tho j<»y
11 succossiul
3C(jss that is
iiteniplativti
college asso-

I roti'ospcct
utcrniplioiis
Hint, in tho

II interest in

|js, acqunint-
liips he often
|iet thought,''
was to him
lie world.

is becominj;

h oriLrinativc

life can be

and foster

I had inward lioius
And swellings of the spirit, wan wrapped and soothed,
Converst'd witii proniisen, luid j^liiiinR-riiig views
How life porva<li;s tlio iwidccuji iiiu initnl ;
How the immortal soul with <io<llilto power
Inforti M, cri'iitt'M and thaws the deepest sleep
That time can lay upon l>er ; how on earth
Man, If he do but live within the light
Of hij^h endeavours, daily spreads abroad
His being, anncd with strength that cannot fall.

Peasant Vife appears in a now light. He sees more clearly and
honours the small joys and sorrows of Hawksliead, feels a
dce])er sympathy with the "old dame," tho frank-hearted
maids, tht^ woodmen and shepherds :

I read without design, the opinions, thoughts
Of those plain living people now observed
With clearer knowleilLje ; with another eye
I saw the quiet woodman in the woods,
The shepherd roam the hilh. With now delight,
This chiefly, did I note my grey-haired dame ;
Saw her go forth to church or other work.

There are not wanting occasional deviations.

A swarm
Of heady sciiemcs jostling each other, gawds,
And feast and dance and |>ublic revelry, —

Slight shocks of young love-liking interspersed, —
W^hose transient jibnisiu'e mounted to the head
And tingled through the veins.

It was after one of these revels that the cr-sis of his life was
reached. He was on his way homeward in the early morning.

Magnificent
The morning rose, in lueniorable pomp,
Glorious as e'er I bad beheld— iti front.
The sua lay laugliing at a distance ; near
The solid nioniilain shone, bright as the clouds,
Grain tinctured, drenched in empyrean light ;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a coiuniou dawn —
Dews, vapours, and tho melody of birds,

18 vvo»i)s\vf)i!Tri.

AimI laliDiirirs ;^ciiin; furili to till llif llrldH.
M.v lu'iirl wiiM full ; I iiiiuli! no vowh, tmt vows
Were (hiTt! mailc fur iiu.' ; lioiid iiiikiiowii t<i iiic
W'liH !,'i\cn, lliat I should l)i', v\m: wirniiny ;;rfiitl,^ ,
A duiliciiti'd s|>irit.

lit' iii;iy i"<'<nr!i to (hn University nr Im' temporarily carried
awav l)y tlic rcvohil ioiiaiy forvour of a\v;ik(Mi('(l France, hut the
l)(!iit of his miiid is fixcl, he iiuist in the end rotur'ii to iiatui'c.
There is where he has \ ilal c<nitact. whi're h(! i'eceiv«>s HilSfires-
tioiis tliat can he laiih ii|> into far I'eacliiiii;, decisive jud,i,'nieiits.
\t\ l>(»ok V he satirizes tlie external and niechanicnl ac(juisition
of knowltidi^e uhith he ol)ser\ed on return to tht; University,
and contrasts with it the \ital movement of liis thou,i,dit- when
vacation I'eturned liim to liis fatliers honn; and to coinuiunifui
with wo(tds and lields. liook vi contains a sutfijjestive re-
fercMUM! to the diU'ereiiee Wet ween t he^ cirriiuistances of his
own development and those of his fiM(>nd Coleridge.

I have tliouirht
Of dill', 1I13 leaniinir. jiorn-cnus uli>(|Uftii'C
And all the strunjilli and ipluina:;*} of Uiy youth,
Thy suliilo siiuculaliiiiis, toils iilistriisc
AnmnLr the schoolnifn and I'lalonic forms
Of wild ideal iia;;L'antn

The selfcreatcd sustunance of a mind
Debarred from Nature's livin'„'- imaires-

As if Coleridge, with his finer intelle tual insight and wider
assimilative powers, did not eater a heaven that was shut to
Wordsworth.

Tn his third (Jamhridge vacation he made, with a colle<re
fritjnd, a fourteen wtseks' tour of Switzerland and the Alps,
lleturnirig to Cambridge he took his degriie in Jaiuiary,
1791, and went up to Londoii, where he spent some months.

OESr.RAL KSTIMATK.

lit

•arily curriod
aiicc, but the
ni to iiatuf*'.
xnvos Huggos-
(! jiulgiiH'iits.
Ill ac(iuisitit»M
i; IJnivtirsity,
liouglit. wboii
o coininuMioii
suggestive re-
taiices of liis

lit .111(1 wider
was shut to

lith a C( (liege

|i(l the Alps.

in January,

Lnue months.

l;.M.|< \ii <(»iilains his inipn'ssinns of Tiondttn, and is a snlli-
ciciii jiioot" of his miiuluiess to lifoon its grrat vanity-faii- side,
ill has ohserved carefully and truthfully, l)ut thei-c are uot
line tho gleam.s of insj>iratiun that we fitul in his touches <»f
iiral (N'scription. He does not f(M>l (Kniply enough. The
\riv flatness of his style shows that the life of LoikIou streets
was ipiite uuvital to him:

A raroo show is here
Witli chililroti :,'alliuriMl round ; aiiDtlur street
Pro«ent3 ,

•Malays, Lascars, thu Tartar, the Cliiruwo
And Ufifro ladies in white muslin },'i>w ris.

'ii|uali\' iinvital is his (U^scfiption of the theatre. His refer-

.•nccs to Parjiaiiient and ihu'ke are Ixitter, hut on the whole

irdsworlh gaiiu;d little fioni this contact with tlie active

iiiatic side of life. With what a dilVei-eiit cy(> Chaucer,

Sliaks|)ere, Hums, C'arlyK^ or drowning would have viewed

the grand spiH-tach; of UKitropolitan life — its extremes of*

pitNcrty and wealth, its roar and rush, its \ivMcity and humoui',

its follies and passion, its manifold presentation of humanity

in various stages of deviation from the one true law! To

W'urdsworth, rjf)n(lon was a "monstrous ant-hill on the plain

' a too busy world," "a press of self-destroying, transitory

till, fs," an unvital subject seen witli half-open eye. He kept

his own centre tirm and unshaktMi, however, rejecting wliat

bidui^ht no sustenance to his spirit, but eagerly seizinir upon

simi '

kept

ipl(

Book vni is a retrospect of tin,' influences wliich acted upon
his childhood and youth up to his twenty-second year, prior to

--.■H^.«.^...-V ..^.,,^.„.^^, ■. „.^^„ ,.., .,. , -^, ,1

WORDS WORTH.

I' l:i

wliicrli, tlioiij;li his own pursuits and aniuial adivil ios and all
their trivial pleasures had dr(i(i})ed and ,i;iadually expired, and
Niitnro prized for her own sake Ix'came his joy, man in liis
afleetions and regards was subordinate to her visible forms

and viewless agencies :

A passion, sho,
A ni])! lire often, and inimciliale love
Ever at hand ; lie, only a delijLjlit
Occasional, an accidental },'race,
llis hour hi'in^'' iiol yet come. Far lesx had then
The inferior creatures, heart or Imd, att unccl
My spirit to that j^'-enticness of love.
Won from me those minute obeisances
Of tenderness, which I number now
With my lirst lilessiTiys.

Now he is coming to look at nature "not as in the Lour of
thoughtless y(»uth, l)ut hearing ofteittimes the still sad music
of humanity." The life that attr-acts him is the simple shep-
herd life, a kind of life in which man is, as he says, a fellow
lal)oarer with Nature —not the she])herd of Theocritus <»r
• Virgil,

Not sucii as i^atnrii ruled 'mid Iiatiau w ilds.
With ails and i:nvs so temi>eied iliat their lives
Left, even to us loilitii;' in this later day,
A bright tradition of ihu ijolden age ;
Not such as, 'mid Arca<lian fastnesses
Seqiiestered, handed down among' themselves
Felicity, in Orecian song renowned.

Still less is his peasant life the artificial Arcadia of Pope's
pastorals.

Man snfferiiig among awful powers and forms.

the tragedies of former times,
Hazards .tiid strange escajies, of which the rocks
InMuulalilc and o\erHowiiig streams,
\\ iiere'ei- 1 roamed, were speaking momiments —

the hard life, in short, of the shej)herd of his own Cumberland

OENKHAL F.STIMAIE.

ios and all
pi red, and
nan in liis
ible forms

the hour of

sad music

dmple shop-

s, a fellow

eocritus (»r

of I*op(!'s

't^

indierland

mouTilains, wliere "'tis the slie})hei-d's task the winter loui; to
wait ujioii ihe storms; of their approach saj^'acious, into shel-
tering coxes to drive his tlock."

From London he went t(» Wales, and from "Wales to Frjince,
hirt^d fortli. as he tells us, by the draniatir s])eetacle of tiie
Revolution. liooks IX, X, XI record his iin])r(>ssions of a
sojourn of some months in France. It woidd Iwnc Itccn snr-
prisinj^ if Woi'dswoilii had not felt sonu^ of the t■n^llnsi;^^nl of
a new era which cai'ried away many of the strongest and hcst
spirits of the time. "Joy was it," he tells us, "to l)e alive,
but to be young was very lieaveu." Yet, as hr eonfes.ses, the
scene had coin{)aratively little interest for him. l*.orn " in a
poor district wiiich yet I'ctaineth more of ancifiit. homeliness
than any other nook of English ground," and in later years
bred in "academic institutes where all stood n]ion e(|ua1
ground, .vhere distinction open lay to all that came and wealth
and titles were in less esteem than talents, woi-th and pros-
jierous industiy," he felt it a democratic duty to sympathi/e
with i-e\(»lutionary France, and e\on thought that he might
]ilay a leading part in French politics. Yet "inl onest truth,"
he says, " I looked for something that 1 could not Ihid, ailect-
ing more emotion than I felt."

Ail tliiii;,'-'^ wcri? to me
Loose ami ilisjoiiitcd, and Iho afTfctions left
Without a viUil iutcresit.

The sight of revolutionary Paris tossing h'ke a ship in a
temp(\st was less to him, he says, than the painted Magdalen
of Le Brun. Still he did hope for very nuieli from the i-e\o-
lutionary movement, and wlum, as he sayN, " i' renciunen be-

m '

l*f*"" "r~"ri-iit

jiii

li :

iiii.

i.ii;

ill.l

WOKDSWORTII.

came oppressors in their turn, ch;uii,'('il a war of se]f-(lef(!nce to
one of ooiu[iiest, losing si_^ht of all wliicli tiiey liad struifgled
for," when the pressure of facts <lrove liiin into alienatio*. fi'om
Franco, he was naturally very much distressed. Foi' a time
h(! haughtily refused to aduiit ills disappointment, making an
attem[)t to justify the action of France. A period of scepticism
followed, in which he (h-agged

— All iirLi'ep: ^, jii(ly;ineiil3, maxims, crfods,

Like ciiljirits to tliebar ; calliiif; tlie mind,

Suspioioiisl\ , to ostablisli in jilaiii day

Ilcr litk's and lier liononrs; now Ijelievini,',

Now disl)elieviny- ; endlessly ].erplexe(l

Willi iiiipnlsL', motive, ri^lit and \vron<,^ tho <j;Tonnd

Of oblitfalion, wliat tiie rule and whence

Tiie sanction ; till, domandiiiij formal proof,

And seekinLT it in everytliinjj;, I lost

All feelin;j of con v lotion.

But the bent had been too thoroughly iixed, tlie habit of
In 1(1 ing strength ami inspiration in nature too w((ll established
for this mood of mind to be permanent.

SEKIiVITY.

He returned to England, and through his sister's intlucnco
came more and more to recognize his limitations, to set^ that
his path lay not in the great world, but in the more calm and
self-centred life of herdsmen and shepherds.

Above all
Were re-established now thosi; watchful thouy:hts
Which seeinjj little worthy or sublime
In wliat historian's jien so much delights
To blazon — power and cneri,'}' detached
From moral ptirposu— early tutored me
To look with fcclin);s of fraternal love
Upon tile unassumini;- i,iiinj;s lluit hold
A silent station in this beauteous world.

A great deal too much has been said of this '■ defection to the

•-defence bo
1 stru.^glcd
ijiti».'» tVoin
For a time
making an
E scepticisn)

1(1

le habit of
established

s intlueuoe
to see that
[•{) cahn and

CENKKAL I'.STIMATK.

ctiou to tlie ,44i

ciu.^e of Democracy." Sh<'lley mildly dcjilon's it in his sonnet
To Wordxivorl/i, while IJrownings Lost Leddrr is snpposed
to lie a sorrowful reference to the same thinLj. Tn trutli there
was no siieh defection. I fe was jnst as 1 rue a democrat with
just as IiIljIi a sense of the dignity of manhood after he heard
with gratitude Burke

The majesty i>roclaini
Of institutes ami l;iws, iiallowed liy time;
Declare the \'ital i)()\ver of social tics
Eiidtarcd liy (Mistoni ; ami with liij;li disdain,
K\|)li)din^' ujistart theory, insist
Upon the allegiance to Ahic'li men are horn,

as he ever was, only he had come to place less value on violent
and arl)itrary movements for reform. His development was
now complete. The friendship of Coleridge and the visit to
Germany ito tloubt had some modifying influence, but })erhaps
tlu! most im{)ortant influence after those enumerated in the
Pre! a le was (he li>ss of his brother at sea, an (ivent that made
him think of nature in a new and terrible light, and
strengthened his belief in compensation in another life.

11. — Dkviclofment of Stvlk.

The Prelude then is the record of the psy(;hological develop,
ment of the /Hiff/difi/ poet. It is the antobiogi-aphy, in
Professor INrinto's words, tw)t of the poet of nature, but of
her worshipper and priest. It tells of the i-hei-isUing and
streiiii-t1iem"ng of a native feeling for the forms, cohuirs,
harmonies and fiagrancies of nature until it iiecame the
dominant faetoi- in the ])oet's life, but little or nothing of his
amhitioti to express his feeling in verse. The potential poet
may be silent, but the actual poet must add the power of

WORDSWORTH.

I 'i

embodying his emotion in melodious words : in Wordsworth's
inspired language,

Many are the poets that are sewn

By nature, men endowed with hiy;hest gifts,

The vision and tVic faculty divine,

Yet wanting the aeeoniiilishment of verse.

The salient incidents in the struggle by which he acquired the
acc()rnpli.shinent of verse, the new power ot style in which to
embody his new sense of things, are to be gathered from
pr-ofaces, prose notes, familiar intercourse and by comparing
his earlier with his later productions.

While still a boy of fourteen his delight in the contemplation
of nature was mingled with the ambition to express his feeling,
and with the joy of having discovered a comparatively
unworked field. A school exercise in verse done while at
Hawkshead shows consideral)le familiarity with the form as
well as the themes of the poets of his own time and country, as
does also another production of about the same time, the
sonnet Written in verij Early Youth.

Cahn is all nature as a resting wheel ;
The kine are couched upo \ the dewy grass ;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is crojipiiig audihly his later nie.al ;
Dark is the groiuid ; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now in this blank of things, a harmony
Home felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses will sujjply
• Fresh food ; for onlv then when Memory

Is hushed, am I at rest. Afy Friends ! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain ;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.

Along with some of that morbid self-consciousness — Rous-
seauistic or Wertheristic — then prevalent but s'ngularly

OENKUAI. KSTIMATK.

isworth's

uired tho

which to

sred from

omparing

emplation
is feeling,
parativelj

while at
form as
ountry, as

time, the

-Rous-
Ingularly

ddicient in the laior Wt)rdswortli, some of tlio in\frsi(»iis so
dear to the poets of the preceding seliool : much of their t-oii-
Vftitioiial (li('ti<tn and love of false oniaiiicnt — kine, coucliod,
dt'W'v grass, later meal, busy cares, ailay, olliciuus touch, droop,
etc. ; and with a general woodennoss of rhythmical nioAcment
there may be detected even in these lioes a clear jx'oinise of
the patient eye and ear, the absolute conscientiousness and the
j)ure un(\goistic expi'cssion of the later time- the horses is
croj)[»iiig audibly, calm is all nature, u harmony home-felt and
home-creat(»d. The Evenimj Walk, written during his first
Cauibridijre vacation to show that he could do somethiuij
though he had not distinguished hims(;lf at the Uni\ci>ily,
scarcely justifies the poet's neglect of the ordinary studies of
the TJni\ersity. It is on the whoh; an echo of the style and
movement of the artificial school.

In thoughtlesa jjaiety I scoun-il the plain
And hope itself was all I knew of pain.

Yet even here there are several lines and passages such as

the ht'ided deer
Shook the still twinkling; tail,

which show a growing command of picturesque phrase and
e])ithet.

'Jlie /Jescriptive SJcetches^ founded on observations made
during a tour of tlie Continent in his last Cand)ri(lge \a(ati(tn,
and written therefore subsequently to his dedication <»t' his
piiwers, are strongly remiidscent of that ISth ceniui'v diction
and movement against which he was so soon to Icail the revolt :

Were there below ii sjiot of holy ;;roiind
Where from ilistrcss, a refujfe might he found
And solitude prei)are the soul for heaven,

II . ,'•

! , \

ii::'

2G , WOltUsWOUTH.

Suru nature's C,i>(\ that, siiot to man had tjivcn
U'h'.Ti'. falls thu ))iirpl(' niiiriiiii<; far and wide
In flakfs of liu'ht upon the inounlain side.

Yot not unrei'Mnipt'iiscd the niun shall roam

Who at the (!all of summer c(uits his home

And i)lods tlirou;ch somi^ wide realm o'er \ale and hev:;ht

Though s"ekin;j: onl\' h')liday drlJLfht,

At least not owniiiLf to himself an aim

To whifh the .s'lijfe would ;,'ive a jtroudcr name,

No j^ains too ''licaply earned his fancy cloy

Though every j)assim;- zejiliyi' whispers joy.

IList of his wi'lconie imi. the Moonlide liower,
To his sjiare meal he calls the passim,^ pool',
Me \ lews the sum u))litt his ;,'olden fire
Or sink with heart alive like Memnon's lyre.

O'er (Jallia's wastes of corn, my foo(sle|>s led.

I yrreet the Chartreuse while I mourn thy doom
Whither is fled that I'ower whose frown
Awed sol)i'r l!c.i<on till she crouched in fear.

ITerc ;ir(; all tlio i-c/o^uizod cliaivfteristios oi' tlio 18th century
style — -tilt! rhyniiii";' t'ou|)K'r, rccruhirly placed pauses and
act'iMits, poiupoiH diction, conventional doul)l(! epithets, rhe-
torical in\"(n'.sion.s. weak ])ei'sonirications and ihe constant habit
of forced and sn[)(M'licial moralizing. I>ut liiies prophetic of
the coinin<j; ■'■ityle, both its blunt realism and its penetrative
pou'er of ejiithet and phrase, ai'e not infrticpient — ]ii\es like

Ilaply that child in fearful doubt may i^a/.e,
I'assinj,'' his father's hones in future days,
Start at the relicpies of that very thii,'h
On whit;h su oft he ])ratlled when a boy.

And lines also like the following :

Torrents shooting' troin the clear blue sky

. the chalets flat and ba
Suspended mid the (piiet of the sky.

Tt was Woi'dsworth's convit'tion that in these rare Hues lav
the germs of a power of style adequate to his new power of

GENKKAL KSTI.MATK.

5th century
);iuses and
tliots, rhe-
stant habit
rophetio of
penetrative
es like

•e Hnes lay
V power of

iicri'cpt inn tliat pronij>t(!(l what his relations regarded as his
wayward and unproiiiisiny- axrrsion to work in any regular
line. Jle was begiuinng to sec that poetry was "his otlice
upon earth." Fn this dett'rniinai ion he was str(>ngtht'ncd liy
his sister l)orotliv who, witli rai'c dcvolion, consecrated her
life to h<'r l)roth(^r's service, w Idle a series of financial w iiid
falls relieve(l him of conc<'rn I'cgarding niatei'ial atlairs. |)iir-
iiig the two years with his sistc^' at liacedown, in horset. lie
wrot(^ 77/'^ /tor^/rrers, a tragedy, sevei-al satires in inutati(»n of
Jmtnal and a few Spenserian staDzas. 'I'hese half hearted and
\<'r\- imperfectly successful attempts levealed to him at least
his iiulii ness for satirical and dramatic composition, and were
thiH part of the means hy which, uiider his sist(M''s genial
intluence, he grope. 1 his wav out of tlie lahyrinth of iStli
centnr\' formalism towards a simpler and sincei'er st\le. What
he needed iKtw was the assurance of some friendly outside
voice : and Coleridge opportunely su})plied the needed stimu-
lus. Coleridge had seen original jxiet ic genius in T/ir /)isrrij)-
tive >'ki'(ches and paid a visit to Wordsworth at Kaceflowti.
So stimulating was the companionship that Wordsworth
remoyed to Alfoxden to be near (^>leridge, and for the next
t\vel\'e months the two original men W(U'e almost constant
companions. Wordsworth's style I'apidly matureil. In I'csponse
to Coleridge's (piick and generous a})ijrecia1 ion. idea'<. tlie con-
fused pnxluct of years of meditation, rang«j:d tliemsehes in
cleai-er and m()i'<' ap[)r(»priate forms. The Ljirh-al /Sidlads
\yere planned and {)ul)lishe(|. ( 'olei'idge taking the su|>ern.it ni-al
themes. Wordsworth endeavouring 1o gi\t' the interest of
romance to everyday topics. Coleridge's contributions were

I ; ■■■;

WORDSWORTH.

!■■ f

'1 '

!■'.'

1 1 ,

tlic Atielciit Afnr'nier and thrco otliiic pioccs. Woi-dsworth's
were iiioi'e numerous, including We (ire Seven, The Rei:i-
erie of Poor Susan, 2H)Uet'n Ahbeij, Simon Lee, The Thorn, TJie
Idiot Bot/, 2Vie Last of (he Flock, and Gooilij lUake ; and
rotlecling all the liigher qualities of Woi'dsworth's style.
Tlie Clitics, blinded by their admiration for what was then
called elevation of style, passed over such lines as

that bli'Msed mood

xnd 111

In which the ImrtlK'ti ana llie mjsleri',
In which Mie heavy and tlie weary weight
Of all this iiiiiiituUisible world
Is lijilKuiied.

I have learned
To look on nature not as in the hour

Of th<)\i;;htless youth, hut hearinj; often times
The si ill sad tuusie of luinianity.

and derisively seized on lines like

Poor Susan moans, jjoor Susau jirroans.
" As sure .as tlioru's a moon in heaven,"
Cries lietty, " he'll be back a;;ain,
They'll liolh be here— 'tis almost ten—
Both will he here before eleven."
Poor Susan moans, poor Susan jfroans,
The clock gives warninu; for eleven.

The public, however, seems to have been more appreciative,
for a second edition was called for in 1800. This \olume con-
tained several new poems — Rutlt, Three Years She (Wtw, A
Poet's EpitapJi, Michael, Lucy Gray, Hart- Lea]) Well, Tlie Tn:o
JirotJiers — and was accompanied by the famous Preface deHii-
ing the true theory of poetic diction which so infui'iated the
critics. 'Y\\v poet had at length acquired the courage of his
convictions and did not hesitate to characterize the style of

CENEHAL KSTIMATE.

•(Iswortli's
The A'ev-
'horn, Th<:
Uike ; and
;h's style,
was tluMi

)rcciative,
uiiie coii-
(irtw, A
The Two
ice (lefin-
iated tlie
re of his
style of

iViiic and liis followers as sliltcd ;iim1 ai-(incial a trli<ie;ind
i^litter of a pei-pedial yet broken and lieleroueneuiis iniaiiery.

In statin^' his own tlieory of jKX'tie dietion, he at lii'.vt, like
most reformers, took up an extreme ])osition, defining,' the
true poetic style as the lanj^uage of men in a \i\ id state of
sensation, ai\d adding that in the languaije of j)easants was to
be found the most spontaneous exj)ression of the feelinirs and
therefore the most suitable language for poetry. Fettling that
passages like

I liave felt
A presciioe that clistnrbs iii« with tlie joy
Of ele\at('(l tlidiiulits ; a sense suliliiiii'
Of soiiu'ihinj.'- far more deeiily iiiti rfiisfd,
\V)ioi-e (l\vi'llin;f is tlie h<.'tit of settiiifr suns
Anil the round ocean and the living- air
And the lilue sky and in the mind of man,

fiif tratisf'cnded the capacity of rustic speech, he rejected this
jiait of his definition, substituting therefor tin* statement that
the language of })oetry did not difler from that of good prose.
ANurdsworth's fumbling with the definition of poetic style was
early seized for criticism at the time and has provoked much
leai'ned discussion since. Its real significance was the dith-
culty of deiining the new style. Wordsworth's meaning was
IK'ifectly clear and perfectl}' true to any otu? whose eyes wei-e
not lilinded by prejudice. The language of poetry should l)o
sinijiler, he meant, and more sincere. And nobly did his own
j>iactice enforce this truth. Many of his early poems, it is
true, are marred by the influence of his clumsily stated theory
of poetic diction. The Last of tJie Flock, for exam])le, well
illustrates the garrulous diction and jxierile diction, the simple-
ness rather than simplicity of style into which lie was some-

'^0f^

W(»i{r>s\voiiTir.

I'l, ■':

I'.'l.

li'|(!^

times IxitniyiMl in tlu; jit-tiMiipt to wciU; down to I In; lovol of
rustic speech :

In distant coiiiilrius have 1 Ijuun
And yet I have not often seen

A tirallliv man, a man full trnnvii.
Weep in the imhlie wavs aloiif.
Hut such a r .t- on Kn^liHli ^tdmikI
And in the 1iiyi;ii1 hijiliway I mtl ;
Alon;; the l>ro;t(l hi;;li\vay he eanic,
His oheekN with tears wcro wet,
Slnrdy he seemed tlioiiLrh he was sad
And ill his arms a 1 anih he had.

liut Ilis most (thiimcteristic work is in ;i style of refiiuMl simpli-
city. As tlic ol)je(;t whicii lie pi'opo.sed to himself in his woik ;is
;i whole was "to give the charm of no\'elty to things of every
day.' So in his style his aim was to show the possihiliti(»s of
beauty in common vcn-sc! forms and coimuoii language, in his
hands the l)allad stan/a lost its rude jingle and gained sweet-
ness add delicacy without passing into a lofti(M' of more
majestic rhythm than was dcMnanded hy tlu^ thoughts. Com-
pare the monotony of stress, the lixed position of pause and
accent, the al)sence of pitch and (pumtity in

Then all the maids of Islintfron
Went forlli to siiort and play,
.\11 but the hayliflfe's daughter dear,
She secretly stole away :

with the varying stress and [)osiiion of accimt, the shifting of
paus(^s and tlu; Subtle employment of pitch and quantity in
Luci/ (J ran '

No mate, no comrade, Lncy knew
She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thini;' that ever '^^rew
Beside a hiuiian door.

His diction similarly is characterized hy 'he power of using

CiKNKKAL KSTIMATK.

t; l(!V(;l ot'

old ami lidiiiclv wnids iit such a wfiy as to (li\cloj) their
utmost latent sii^MuficJiiiccs. In the tliiid line in the .stiiii/.;i
from Lncjj Grnii alx.vc, for cxiiinplc, cvciy woi-d is in cvory-
(J;iv tisc, find vet liow hoautifullv suujift'st ivf is the n.-^c of

each ill this connection.

Irowinnij m

Aht \

lufirr makes

th(^

jierioiitv of music to the other arts li(^ in th(! subtle emiiloy-

ment of common 'bounds

n»>d sinipli-
his work as
r.s of every
sibilities of
f^o. In his
ined sweet-
r or more
hts. Corn-
pause and

Ishiftini? of
[uaiitity in

r ot usnm'

■f

I know not if save in this (niUMJc) such j,'ift l>i' iilloweil to nititi
Ttiat out of tlirt'i! sounds Ik- fr.init.- not ;i fourtli sound luit a star.

Consider it wel

uiic'li tone uf our sc;iU.' i-< nauj^lit.

It is everywhere in the world— loud, soft and all is said.
Cive it to nie to use I I nii.x it with two in in.v thouuht

.\tid there I Ye have heard and se,

■M, I'O

nsider and l)ow the head.

Toetrv has this power, too, and noMy has \\'<tr(ls\voitii's
poetrv displayed it in the Ciich

no :

Thou^di liahhlin,!,' only to the vale
Of sunshine and of (lowers,
Thoii hrinuest unto ine a tale
Of \ isionarv liours.

in the Solitary lied per :

.Mone she cuts and hinds the i;rain,
And sin<,^s a melancholy strain ;
Oh, listen for the vah; profound
Is o\ ertlowiuLf with the sound.

and in hunih'eds of otlier Hm^s and passai^os.

In anotlier (h^partment the interpretation of tlie higher
philosophic or religiou.s v-onsciousne.ss of which Wordsworth
was also a thorough master, refined sim])licity is etjually the
chai'act eristic of his style, if we wanted a line to expres.s
tiiosi! transitory gleams of spirit, wdiich \"isit us in oiu- higher
iiioincnts or to indicate or explain the tenii»er i)f mind, the kind
of intellectual insight constituting tru(^ culture, where could
we get them moi'e readily than in Wordswortli.

^2 WOEDSWOUTH.

Thiiiiyhts (liat, Vu- loo dccji for lc;irf

SuimtliiiiK far niorc derply iiituifiised

Till! liurvfst of a (luit't eye

Till' u'"'!-* aiiprovc
Tin; (l< |itli and not tin- I iiniull of tlx' soul

From low to liii/li ijotli dissolutinn cliiiih,

And sinks Ironi liii;)i to low, idony: a scult;

Of awfid nott'H whose i-oncord shall not fail :

A musical hut nielancholy chinic,

Which they ran hiar who nieddle not with cfiniu,

Nor avarice nor over-anxious care.

Truth fails not : hut her outward forms that hear

Till' lar<,'L'sl date do indt like frosty rime.

1 1 is true tliiil the hiillc of Wordswortir.s work does not oxliihit
s(» iii^'li a li'V«'l of stylo. After his ten most inspired years
(1800 ISIO) W'ordsW'Orth tell more atid more into prosiiujss.
Two causes ace assignal)l(> for this : (1) his almost comical in-
al)ili(y to distinguish - the i-esult of his scchnled life, — between
gcMuinc^ inspii'iit ion and roininon{)lace ; and (2) the gradual
<'onventionali/ing of his diction into a language \vliich he could
use concerning nalurr, wlicihcr or not he felt the divine flame.
I.iut in thos(! ten years his work had l)een don(> ; he recalled
men to the t I'lu* source of ])o\ver ^contact with tilings ; he showed
that languagi! sliould lie the garnuMit of the thought and that
force of expression came from contact w ith life, and he left us
a body of poetry that sets him high in the rank of those who
have widimed the consciousness of men.

III. — I{is View of Life.

To inquire after a poet's view of lif(> is in certain quarters
to ignore a fundamental distinction between poetiy on the one
hand and science and philosophy on the other. IJeauty it will

I I'

.3#

GKNERAr, KSTIMATli.

)of oxliil)it
ii'cd years
• prosiiioiss.
comical in-
between
10 giailual
li he could
■iue llame.
o rcicalled
he showed
and that
lie left us
hose who

quarters
In the one

Ity it will

he said is the ohjeot of poetry; truth, of philosophy and science;
and, to di'inand consistency of thought from the poet, is as
absurd as to expect the searcher after truth to hamper him-
self with the trammels of art. But wo have the authority of
one of the greatest poets for the view that beauty and truth
arc inseparable. Theie can he no beauty that is not based
upon truth and any truth vividly perceived may shape itself
into beautiful forms of art. The topics of poetry are the
same facts as those of science and philosophy, only, to the poet
these facts come home so as to touch him to the quick, to
pierce him with more than usual vividness, and to produce a
glow of emotion. In the rapt unreasoned utterances of the
poet there must therefoi-e lie a kernel of thought, and it
becomes necessary at a certain point in our study of his work
to formulate his views on nature, man and God.

Woi-dsworth is, first and foremost, inspired by the great
objective world about him, the unobtrusive aspects of nature
US well as the more sublime. He does not, like Scott, Shelley
or Byron, choose by pi-eference grandiose objects, a mountain,
a storm, a sweep of landscape, or the rolling ocean. His
tieatinent of nature differs in minuteness and delicacy, in
absitkite conscientiousness and in penetrative insight, from that
• >t ' her poets, prior or contemporary. Chaucer is keenly
sensitive to the common sights of earth and sky, and describes
them ith the freshness of a feeling heart and a clear eye.
His work will always, therefore, be of power to win men
back from artifici'd and conventional modes of life

And sniale fuwles inaken nielodie
That sli'pen all llu; iiiylit with open eye
So piiketh him nature in her corajje.

n. i^iii

III ; '« 1 T

woiiDswoirnr.

■\i'

Jiiit he gives us scarceiy a hint of the existence of "something
far more deeply inliu-fused " upon which all nature and human
life repose. Shaks|)('r(i's imagination irradiates things with
a beauty rarely found in any other writer.

I know a 1)a?ik wlioie (lie wild thyme Mows,
Wlicre o\li|)s and the noddiiif,' violet srrows,
Quite ov'jr-cano|)ied wiili hisli woodhiiie,
With swoot musk roses and with e,i,daiitine.

At white heat it carriers him fast and far, fusing images tlie
most dissimilai' into an haiinonious whole,

Like to the lark at litcak of day arisint,'
Sinjjs hysiiiis at lleaveii'.>^ gate.

r)ut his in(oi'|)i'('(at ion uf natiH'e at ilio highest is <»nly the old
Pythagorean notion of a harmony of the spheres :

Tlici'e's not tin; smallest orli of those thoti secwt

l!ut in Ills motion like an aniijel sintr

Si ill choirinL,'' to the yoiinjjf-ex cd cherubim.

Sidne}', JTcM-rick and the minor I'ilizabethan poets malce
nature a peg on which to hang tlieir relloctions on the short-
ntiss of lift^ or the vanity of human wishes, as in Ilerrick's
DajJoiJils.

Fair DafTodils we weep to see

Von lui; i > away so soon.

We have short tinie to stay as you,
We have as short a spring'.

Milton rarely lias his eye directly on nature, or if he fixes
one (^ye on the ol)jeet the other is scanning the pages of the
(»reek and Latin classics for mythological references and
allusions. The L^th ccntiuy' [)oets nevcsr looked at nature at

GENEKAI- ESTIMATE.

•inctliing
[1 human

,gs

with

acres the

ly the old

»ots make

It he short-

llcri'iek's

If he fixes

[os of the

IK OS and

uatui'e at

all, hilt wore porix'tually occupied with the glare and gHtter
of false ornament :

The moon, refulg'ent lamp of night.

Byron, waging a fierce warfare against the conventions and
social anomahos of his own day, treats nature^ niagnitieontly,
indci'il, l)Ut nov<>r without tincturing his description with his
own restless -iih^ and melancholy egoism, preferring ther(!-
foro. th<' fiorcor > d wildoi- asjjocts of nature. The very rhythm
of his wM?ll-known poem. The Oreoi, is instinct with tierce
rostli'ssness and a gloomy pride. Shelley's imagination, teem-
ing with vast and vague pantheistic conceptions, yields us fine
studirs of the j)rosonco of spirit in tli(^ groat movements of the
\ini\orse :

The ono remains, ttie many cliang'c anil pass,
IFeavon s lijiht fur ever sliincs, earth's shadows fly,
Life, hl<e a dcune of many-coloured ylass,
Stains the liri'^ht radiance of eternity
Until death trample it to fragments.

J hit he also is egoistic, too im})ationt of details to render
natur(> with absolute fidelity. Scott has a fine sense of form
and ciilour, of the sui'face glow and movement of nature :

The wandering eye could o'er it yo,

And mark the distant city glow

With gloomy splendour red ;

Far on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow,

That round her ;>alilo tmreis How,

The morning heanis were shed,

And tinged them with u lustre jiroud,

Ijike that which streaks a thunder-cloud.

Another good exami»le of Scott's powisr in this way is his
iles*'rijd ion in the La.'/i/ of' l!i>' Lnhr, of f^och i\a,t rine and its
surrounding mountains. The work is deiiiuto, objective, pic-

£. :

WOHDSWORTn.

1, I'

turoscjuo, full f)f rich colouring. ]Te does not distort nature
with his own su])jective states. He has evorywhcre a fine
Ileal thy joy in what Ua sees. But there is scarcely a line in
all his work to indicate a very profound sense of the deiiper
spiritual significance of things. At most he is impressed hy
the historic associations of what he observes. CoIeridg(;'s
observation of nature comes nearest to Wordsworth's, but
absorbed in his metaphy.sical speculations, his Kantian ami
Fichteaii idealisms, Coleridge inclines to make nature a mere
reflection of man ;

La<ly, we roooivc Imt what we give,

And in our life alone doth natmo live,

Ours is her wed(!ing garnunil, ours her shroud,

while Wordsworth looks to nature for the type and pattern
of what human life should be. Wordsworth alone; among poets
— Turner in landscape painting showing a similar })ower of
interpretation — has the gift of feeling deeply and rendering
accurately the beauty of the objective world in all its aspects.
He does not requii'c a grandiose subject like Byron, Scott or
Slielley, but is as happily inspired l)y a bed of daflbdils as by
"some tall clill' that is the eagle's birth-place."' And with
what absolute fidelity, how free from fretful egoisms, is his
rcndcn'in'f of what he sees. Hisfeelinix for skvand mountains
anil solitary places impresses us with its absolute rightness as
what we should all feel if we could lay aside our vanities, still
the nois}- tunudt of our souls, and tune our ear to the subtler
harmonies of things. fSo patientlj' had he tuned his ear to
this fnicr music, so thoroughly trained his eye to catch the
faintest gleam of spirit, in the ordinary things around him, so

GKNEItAL ESTIMATK.

naluio

!i fine

line in

' deeper

ssed by

icridge's

li's, but

ian and

a luci'e

1 pattern
oui'-poots
tower of
endering
aspects.
Scott or
s as by
,nd with

Js, is his

)untains

itness as

lies, still

3 subtler

s ear to

atch the

him, so

'3*

emptied himself of himself that nature might enter and make
him her oracle, that he has succeeded beyond any other poet,
ancient or modern, in the imaginative content of single lines
or sliort passages, in the power of condensing the spirit of a
place into few words. How finely, for example, <he calm,
impersonal, august presence of nature in the sky is given in
the line

The silence that is in the starry sky—
the silence of the solitary hills in

The sleep that is among the lonely hills —

or the solitude of the lonely mountain tarn in the following

short stanza :

There sometimes doth a Icapuij; fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer.
The crags roi)eat the raven's croak
In symphony austere.

The feeling that underlies and prompts this minute and deli-
cate, patient and unselfish and profoundly penetrative obser-
vation — the belief in a calm, august presence, a spirit in itself
invisible, but speaking through visible things to the mind and
sj>irit of man, stilling his fretful egv m, rousing him from
lassitude and weariness, and filling his mind with noble and
majestic thoughts, a spirit calm, rational and lender, "with a
deep and rev(,'rential care for the creatures whom he lo\es " —
is a form of that IDth century pantheism which has done so
imicli to remedy old religious conceptions.

It is everywhere implicit in his best descriptive work, and
comes explicitly to the sm-face in many lines and passages:

The beinir thai is in ihi,^ ulomN and air,
That is in the ^iren lra\i's ainungtiio groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care

WOUD.SWOKTJI.

For t.lic iinoirerKliri'' creatures wIkjiii he loves.

! \,

I have felt,
A presence that distiirhs lue with the joy
(Jf elevateil lho\i'^htH : a sense sithliiiie
Of Koinelliiri;,'' tar more deejily interfused,
VVhosi: (hvrlliiij^ is the light of settinj,' suns
And the round ocean and the li\in<^alr,
And the hhie sky and Iti the ini?id of man,
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thiiikiuL' thiuifs, all objcc^ts of all thousrht,
Ami rolls throu'^di all things.

In the intt!t"pi*et;iti<)ii of luunau life Wordsworth is less
successful, the object of poetry Ix^ing what Milton took it to
be — to justify the ways of (xod to man. Wordsworth has
heen praised for his studies of pfasaiit lif<> and his Shnoti Lue,
Michael, Le,ech-( hither er and /Jeiijimiiit, The Wai/oner, are
characterized by many coinpcttMit critics as touchingly real.
It is i/cne they have a vitality that is lacking in the coiiven-
ti<jnal Arcadian peasant of Pope's [)astorals and their dmnb,
inexpressi\(; lives, their patience and humility inbred by
generations of ho{)eless toil, are profoumlly pathetic. Indeed
Wordsworth's studies of peasant types are a most powerfid
arraignment of our present unjust social S3'stem, and therefore
th(^ most eiiective answer to those who chai'ge him with
"defection to democracy." But are they true? Is there
enough I'ompeiisation'? Millet's peasants are toil-woru, l)ut in
their defeatured faces may be traced industry, honesty and
comparative contentment. In Burns' Cottar's Satitrdaj/ Xiyht
the toil and hardship of the over-worked peasant is relieved by
the joys of dcjinestic affection and reh'gious hope ; in the
Jolly Be(/(j((rs, by t\w liveliness, the quick joyous })idse of life
and activity, and the mad humours of the characters. Words-

CJKNKI5AI- Ksri.MATK.

3!)

•('(

y real,
'.onveu-

luinb,
1 i)y

ndccd

ict'orc

with

there

)ut ill

y and

N'ujht

^ed by

11 tho

of Ht'e

\''ords-

wnilli, throu2rh defect of dramatic faculty, is unable to d<» this.
111 tlie II't(ihht)ul (Jirl thi>rc is a (XTtaiu [)astoral beauty of
youth and ouvircjiiiueut, whoso transitory nature, ho\ve\-er, we
are not suffered to forget. In /Seiijamiu, Tim IVagoner, the
liaid routine of toil is relieyed 1»y a careless jollity very rare
in Wordswcd'th's cliaracters. TIk^ austerity of Michael's ehar-
iicU'V is softened a little by a deep natural piety, deepened ami
refined by synij)atheti') int.ercourse with the sublinier se(Hves of
nature. Yet even with a mind and character originally of
no little strength, full and free development is impossible.
Michael's life is too austere, almost depressed by a long
incessant struggle with toil. The Wanderer in the KxcuTfiion
is, even more than Micliaiil, an exceptional type. His occupa-
tion carries him into varied intercourse with man and lu^
attains to some degree of harmonious development, taking a
joyous and intelligent interest in all he .sees and capabh^ of
sympathetic understanding of nature and human life. But he
is a mere ideal, and one comes away from Wordsworth's

pictures of peasant life impressed with the pathos, the sadness
and cruelty, with

tlie burthen and tlie mystery
Of all this unitilclligihle workl.

In another field — the interpretation of our higher meditative
moments — Wordsworth is once more unique. In thousands of
((uotable lines he has enriched humanity witli tlie product of
his many silent wrestlings of thouijht. Here we are embar-
rassed by riches. The ditliculty is to kimw nut what to (|Uote,
but what to omit. To conclude this section take

From low to high doth dissolution climb,
And sink from high lo low, along a scalo

WORDSWORTH.

' '.I
'Mi,

Of awftil notes whose conconl shall not fall :

A musical but melancholy chime,

WhiL;h they can hear wlio nicd'Ue not with crime,

Nor avarice nor ovcr-anxioiis care.

Truth fails not : but her outward forms that bear

The larjjest date do melt like frosty rime,

That in tlie morning wliitened hill and plain,

And is no more.

Little will require to be added conoerning Wordsworth's idea
of God. When the rationalism of the 18th century, its love of
clear thinking and its hatred of my.sticism had destroyed all
vital belief in the existence of God, Wordsworth recalled men
to deity immanent in the calm and orderly existence about
thorn. His conccsption of the tender relation in which the
divine spirit stood to the spirit of man was brought into
contact with his observation of the hardships of peasant life;
the belief in immortality emerged ; a life of toil so completely
unrelieved as those to which reference has been made finding
compensation hereafter". This, too, is his solution, as in the
Education of Nature, of all problems arising from nature's
apparent prodigality.

SELECTIONS FROM WOUDSWORTIl.

THE EDUCATION OF NATUIJE.

Three years slu^ grew in sun and sl::>\ver;
Then Nature said, *A lovelier llowcr
On eartl) was never sown :
This child I.lo niystjlf will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.

'Myself will to my darling be

Both law and inn)ulse : and with me

The gii'l, in roek and plain,

In earth and licaxcn, in ylade and bower,

Shall feel an oxerseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

'She shall bo sportive as tlie fawn
That wild w..th glee cicross the lawn
Or up the mountain springs ;
And her's shall be the breathing balm,
And her's the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

'The floating clouds llieir st.afc; shall l(>nd

To her; for her the willow bend ;

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the nnitions of the stoi-ni

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

[411

■Ii| ' !'!! ' j'

v. In''

ivp-i

'i I

12 SKLKCTFONS FF{O.M UOKDSWOHTH.

'The stais of iiiidiiiglit sli.ill 1)0 dear 25

To her; and nhc sliall loan ht r ejir

In many a secn*t {»Iace

Whf're rivuh;ts dance their wayward round,

And beauty Imrn of murmuring sound

Shall [)nss into luir face. 30

'And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height.

Tier virgin Ix-sorn swell;

Suc>i tlioughts to Luoy I will give

While she and 1 together live 3D

Here in this happy dell.'

Thus Natui-e spake — The work was done —

How si»on my Lucy's race was run !

She died, and left to me

This heatli, this calm and quiet scene ; 40

The niernorv of wh.Mt has been,

And never more will be.

A LESSON.

There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,
That .shrinks like many more from cold and rain.
And the first moment that the sun may shine,
ih'ight as the sun himself, 'tis out again !

When hailstonesj have been falling, swarm on swarm,
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest.
Oft have I seen it irniffled up from harm
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.

A LKSSON.

I)Ul liiti'ly, <»M0 I'oui^fji (lay, this llowor- I past,

And n'cngnized it, though ad alter'd foinii, 10

Niiv, standing forth an ollVsriiig to the hhist,

And !mlU't<'d at will by rain and stoi'in.

I stojip'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,

"Tt doth not lov(- the sliower, nor seek the 0(»ld ;

This in'itlioi' is its courage; nor its ch(»ice, 15

Ihit its jiccessity in l)eing old.

"TIm" sunshine may not chcor it, noi- the dew ;

!t cannot liclp itself in its decay;

StiJV in its niemlxn-s, wither'd, changed of hue."

/Vnd, in my spleen, I smilc^d that it was gray. li"

To he a prodigal's favourite - then, worse truth,
A miser's })ensiofUir — behold on- lot!
() Man ! that fi-om thy fair and shining youth
Age might but take the t'.iings Youth needed uot !

TO THE SKYLARK.

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrini of the sky !
Dost thou despise the earth wlici-e cares abound
Of, while the wings aspire, arc licart and eye
P)oth with thy uvA, u[ton the dewy ground .^
Tlij nest whicl. thou canst dro]) into at w ill,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still !

To the last p(<int of visitm, and beyond

i\Iount, daring warbler! that lovc-j)roniplcd strain

('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)

n:iRi

SELKCTI()N.S FI{()M WoKKHWOKTll.

k:i;r I

Tliiills not the loss tlir bosom of tlif jilain : 10

Yet inif^lit-'st thou seem, ])i'on(l j)i'ivil('i,'e ! to siii^'
All iii(l('|)('TKl<'iit of IIk' leafy Spring.

Leave to tlie niglitiiigalo her sluuly wood;

A privacy of glorious light is thine,

Whence thou dost pour upon Uie world a flood 15

Of harmony, with instinct More divine ;

Type of the wise, who soai-, hut never roam ;

True to the kindred points of Ileuven and Home.

in- 'I-'-

I II; '!'^ iJ;

TO THE DAISY.

With little here to do or see

Ot things that in the groat \Noi'ld be,

Sweet Dai.sy ! oft I talk to thee

For thou art worthy,
Thou unassuming common-place
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And vet with something of a grace

Which Love makes for thee !

Oft on the dappled tui-f at ease

I sit and f)lay with similes.

Loose types of things through all degrees,

Thoughts of thy raising ;
And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blame
As is the humour of the game,

While I am gazing.

To TIIK DAISY.

A nun (IcMuirc, of lowly poib ;

Or .s[)iiiflil ly niaiden, of Love's court,

III thy siniiilicity the sport

Of all t(Mnj)t.itif)ns ;
A queen in cnnvn of rubies dresfc j
A starveling in a scanty vest ;
Ar<^ all, as seems to suit thee best,

Thy appellations.

A little Cyc'lojis, w ith one eye

Staling to thivaten and d<'fy,

That thought conies next-- and instantly

The freak is oNcr,
TIk! s]ia[)c will vanish, and behold !
A silver shield with boss of gold
That spreads itself, some fairy bold

Jn tight to cover.

I .see thee glittering from afar —
And tiieii tliou art a joretty star,
Not quite ^o fail- as many are

In lieavcn al,( \e thee !
Yet like a star, with glittering ci-est,
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; —
May peace come never t(* his nest

Who shall reprove tlnje !

Sweet Flower ! for by tliat name at last

^^'llen all my reveries are past

I call thee, and to tliJit cleave; fast.,

Sweet silent Creature !
That bn^ath'st with me in sun and air,
l)o tlK)u, as tliou art wont, n^pair
IMy heart with gladness, and a share

Of thy meek nature I

1^:

relkc;tion8 phom wonnswouTii.

r ['.

■■ '(''

1' t;

TO A DISTANT FUIKND.

Why art thou sihuit ! Is thy love, a plant
Of such weak iWno tliat ilic trcaclicious air
Of ahsctu'f! witherN what was onco so fair?
Is thcrf ri(. (I('l)t to pay, n<> \>onn to gi*ant?

Yet havo my thou,:,'hts for thoo Ixh'm vi;,'ilant,
JJmiiid to thy scrvioo with uiiccai.iiii,' cair —
Th(! mind's least generous wish a nii'iidicaDt
For nought l)ut what thy hipi)int'ss <'muI(I spare.

S])eak ! - thoiigli this soft 'A'arm heart, iu\rr fi'fc to hold
A thousand tender [)leasuros, thine and niine,

V)(' h'ft mor(! desolat

(\ more di'ea

cold

Than a forsaken bird's-nost iill'd witli snow

'Mid its own hush of Icatlijss (Eglantine — ■

Speak, that my torturing doul^ts (heir end may k'tiow

LONDON, 1802.

O Friend ! I know not which way I must look

For comfort, being, as 1 am, (tpprest

To think that now our life is only drest

For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,

Or groom! — We must run glittering like a l)rt)ok
In the open sunshin(>, or we are unl)lest;
The wealthiest man among us is the best :
No grand(Hn' now in Natuic or in i)ook

Tin: sAMK.

|)rli;L;liis lis. K;ij»im', aviirico, oxpcnsc,
This is idolatr}' ; atul those wo luloro:
I'l.iin liviiitj iuid Iii^'h thinking iiro no inoio :

Tho lioinoly ])eauty of th«^ gofxl uld cause
Is gone; our poaoo, our fearful innoconoo,
Am\ pure religion bn^athing IiousoIk.M laws.

THE SAME.

Milton! thou shouldst. he living at this hour:
England hath nocd of theo : she is a fen
Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and howijr,

Have forfeited their anrient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish ni(;u :
Oh I raise us up, return to us again ;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Th}' soul was like a Star, and dwelt a])art :
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;

So didst thou travel on life's oonimon -vay
]n cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

I I

( I

SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWOUTH.

1 »

TO ^l.DEV.

A flock of slioop (liat leisurely pass by
(>n(! after o!ie ; i]\v. sound of rain, and bees
Alurniui-in^' ; tlic fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth lields, while sheets of watei', and pure s!:y ;

l'v(; thought of all by turns, and still I lie
Sleepless; and so(tu the small Idrds" melodies
Must hear, first uttei'M from my c»rchai'(l trees,
And the lirst, cuckoo's melancholv cry.

]*]ven thus last ni^ht, and two nights moi'e T lay,
And cDidd not w'ni thee. Sleej) ! by any stenlth :
So do not let me wear to-in'ght away :

\\'ithout 'J'hee what is nil the morning's wealth?

C'ome, blessed barrier between day and day.

Dear laotlxu' of fresh thoughts and joyous health !

WrriTTN KTXCrS college CTTAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd
(Albeit labouring for a scanty band
Of white-robed Scholai's only) this inunense

And glorious work of fine intelligence I 5

— (live all thou canst : high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more: —
So di'cm'd the man who fashion'd for the sense

I'u

WITHIN KING.S COLLKOK ( IIAPKL, CAMI'.KIDGE.

These lofty pillars, spread (hat hraiuhiug roof
Self-poisod, atid ocoop'd into ten thousand cells
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells

Lingering and wandering on as loth to die —
Like tlunights wIkjsc very swcdiit ss yicldeth proof
That they were borii fur immortality.

DGE.

• jjOC—

■

•1
1

i
1

NOTES ON AVOUDSWORTll.

THE EinJCATION OF NATTTRE.

This pocTii, writ ten in 17!)!>, and pul)]isli('(l in ] SOO in the
second edition of the Lyrlfal Bdllads, is t yjiically W'ords-
woithiiui. " \V' oever," says De Qninc(!y, " looks searchingly
into Wordsworth's characteristic genius will s<m! tliat he does
not willingly deal with a ]>assion in its dii'ect aspect or pre-
senting a . .■ ifr/'odified contdur, but in foriiis more complex and
iil)li(jne, it, •■ ^ nen passing under the sliadow of sonu^ secondarv
passion." In y/e" Fiiinttdn Matthew's joy that wells up froni
eonstitntional sources, and cannot, tlierefore, cease to sparkle,
is touched and overgloomed hy memories of sonow. In MV'
.!/•« Sevcv, the little cottag(! girl, in her fulness of life.
iiicn[)ao!(> of understanding the meaning of death, is brought
under the reilex shadows of the gra\i'. In The A'ducatioii oj
Xcf'irp. we have similarly the majoi- and the minor chor'ds
hai'moniou.sly l>lended, enthusiastic delight in a vision of
pcifect womanliness ripening under simjile natural conditions,
))assing into regret that the vision should ha\t' been so lleeting
and transient, and that again merging in the thought of the
\alue of memory as preserving for us shaptvs of beauty that
li;iv \anished from the world of a]i]>ear<incc, w Idle behind all
i^ the hope that the issues of this lifi; liuve their fullilment in
a life to come. With thi« .'ompiexily tliere is no obscurity, no
n\-er-retineinent of thought or feeling such as wc freipiently
lind in Teiuivson. Ajul the form and exolution of the jxiem
.u'e no less sincere and inevitable. In the iirst slan/a it is
>ui;y;ested tlial there is something more tJian euviromnent ill

o»

Lalj

NOTES ON WOKDSWOKTn.

i. 1

i! '

the growth of ca l)OMutit'ul character. Nature did not mfike
this soul ; slio only brought to flower a seed that had acquired
its possil)ilities of growth elsewliore. The thought adumbrated
in this stanzji is the same as that more directly expressed in
the great Ode :

The soul that rises with us, our life's star,
Hath had t'lbewhcre its setting,
And coiiic'th from afar.

The charactei-istics of p(M'f(3ct womanliness and the influences
by which it is developed are given in the next five stanzas.
In the concluding stan/a, the mijKjr chord, latent in all tlui
shorter cadences, for the first time distinctly emerges. This vision
of perfect loveliness has scarcel}' appeared before it vanishes
from our world of phenomena and we are left with only the
nunnory of what it was. The meti'ical unity of the poem is
no less remarkable. There is a deep rhythmical necessity in
the coml>ination of two iambic tetrameters and a trimeter,
[low well, for example, the comi)l('x emotional quality of the
poem is suggested by the cadence of the first three lines of the
opening stanza or by the last half of the concluding stanza !

It is interesting to compare this poem with Shelley's solution
of a somewhat similar ])ro])lem in the Sensitive Plant. In
Shelley's sweeping pantheistic conception little or no account
is tak(>n of individual sori'ow. If wc in(turn the loss of some
rtne g(;od and l)eautiful w(! are told that death is a mockery,
that our loved one has meri^h^ Ix'come one with nature, is a
presence still to be loved and known, spreading itself where'er
that power may move which has withdraw his being to its
own, that our human organs of perception only are at fault,
that 'tis we, 'tis ours are changed, not they that are gone.
AVordsworth's meaning is therefore siin2)ler, more sincere,
moi'c uni\('rsally intelligible. Of one truth he at least is
certain, th;)t the (lend and the distant, while we long for them

NOTES ON woKDswoirnr.

(lid not make

had acquired

t adumbrated

expressed in

the influences
t five stanzas,
snt in all tlin
es. This vision
L'e it vanishes
with only the
)f the poom is
il necessity in
id a trimeter,
quality of the
ee lines of the
in;;" stanza !

lley's solution

L'e Plant. In

or no account

loss of some

is a mockery,

1 nature, is a

self where'er

])eing to its

re at fault,

at are gone.

noro sincere,

le at least is

ong for them

and mourn fc^i' tlicm, ai'e as li'uly prf'sont as tlio f1i)or we stand
on, Nvhihi his suggested solution, of the o]>position hftwccn
divine pui'pose and human wishes in a life beyond the grave,
resting as it is m;ule to rest upon ;i. nccfssity of natuie, the
law one might say <jf the conservation of spiritual ciKM'gx', is
l<'ss militant and dogmatic than eitlier Shelley or Browning's
tr<>atment of the same problem.

This ]»ocin should !>e reail in coiijuiietion witii Ihifli, Lucif (Iraii, IIV
Are Si' veil. The Injlio'iicc of Xatiiral Ohjixis ami S/w l)(V>'lt Aihuikj the.
Vntruddcn )Vans.

I. Three years. Favourite ballad number.

3. Sown. <"ouipare " Here scattered like a laiidoin .st;t;d " in 7V»^
J/ll/hland (li:L

6. Lady, 't'rue culture is natural, not artilicial. i 'ouipare with
th« ])oet".s view.s of the moral and spiritual grandiur of nature's teaching
as expressed in llir Itijlnrix'c of Xaturnl O'ljii'ts.

8. Law and Impulse. A seuso of order as well asijuick and
eager visitings of thought and feelin^.

II. feel. Be ini})licitly lathcr than distinctly ccuiscious of an
augu.st prest iiec. Paiskin, in Minlirii I'iiiiif<'r.-\ says: "I thiidc we
cannot doubt of one main conclusion, tliat tliough the ab.svnce of a love
of nature is not an assured condemnation, its piesence is an invuriabie
sign of goodness."

12. To kindle and restrain. Compare "law ami impulse."

13. Nature's intluences add to the human eharaoter a cheerful,
buoyant liveliness. Compare Jtut/i :

And when ho ( lioso to sport and play,
No (loliihin (;-\it \v:u-i .so '^ay
Upon tho tropio >i.a,

16. breathing balm. " I'-uatliiniC'— .iii active participle usetl
l)assi»'ely. A sweet restorative inlluence shall go forth as an cmanatiitn
from her presence.

16, 18. In Wonlsworth's coucepUon of n itiirc's inlliicncc in nimdd-
ing the human spirit, im tlumgiit is so constantly active as that of the
calming and soothing power of lier great 'silences.'

]"■ 'I
fli I'

> 1

Mm,

11 \A-

i r;

54 NOTES ON WORDSWOIITH.

Conip<ai'c — froin tlio Soihj at Ihc Feasl of liroiiijham Castle:

Love had lie foiin<l in luits wliore jxnir men lie ;
HiiS daily ti'dclnTs )iad been wodds and rills,
The silfnce that is in tlic starry sky,
The sleep lliut is amon;,' tlic lonelv hills.

24. silent sympathy. Unconscious adjustment to lifi' environ-

llU'llt.

26. lean her ear. T<> catch the 8u])tle, ahnost inaudible toiK s
(»f natun.'. (Jiim])ait! " tlie harvest of a quiet eye."

27. secret place, ('ompare with "Tlie shop that is amonj.; tli.'
hinely hills,' iii ipuitatiou Ki, 18.

31. Woi'dswortli not only does not helievo in the jtliysical or moral
ctlicienoy of p;i:n, hut seems to deny the possibility ol its presence with
the normal child .•unid the glories of nature. Joy, 'genial joy,' is
the inherited ' coronal ' of youth :

Meadow, },'rove, and stream,
The earth and every common si;,dit

To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial liyht,
The ylory and the freshness of a dream.

37. The "work was done. Lucy's education was comph ted.
Hers was now

A countenance in whiih did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet.

41 42. Compare with I'rowninu's ^l//^ Vofili-r :

Never to be again ! But many more of the kiiul

As sfood, nay, belter pon^hanee ; is this your comfort to tneV

To me who nmst be 8n,ved because 1 clin;,'' with m.v mind
To the same, same self, same love, same God : ay, what was, sb.ilt be.

\*'ords\vorth frequently refers to the restorativt jjowerc'f the memory
when time and imaysinative processes have added an i(L'al halo to an
object or a scene. Compare with lines in 7'h(' ll'njlilaiid Girl, The Rev-
frit' of Poor Sumii, liutern. Ahhci/, Yarrow \"mU'd, The Cuckoo,
M( iiiori/, etc.

k ii-

NOIKS ON WOKD^WOKIII.

i)0

A LE8S0N, 1804.

Tlioro was no limit to the range and extent of Wordsworth'.s
sympatliics in nature. He is quite as much at home in
the picseiice of the simplest Howcr as amid the grandest
;ind most elemental forces of his own rocky Cund)er-
landshire. AH forms of nature's shaping are pervaded
hy the one eternal vspirit, and the true poet of nature,
seeing, as he must, into the very life of things, is just
so much a great poet in proportiiui as he succeeds in
catching and depicting the vaiious moods of that sj)irit.
Wordsworth looks upon the Celandine, and how noble and
liighly sci'ious is the spiritual truth revealed in the life of this
connnon-|.lac(! object! Tn its vigorous, buoyant youtli, ilie
Celandine has found within itself powers and energies sutH-
cient for self-protection ; in age, with tlu'se powers lost or
destroyed, it is *' bulT'eted at will " by all the fiercer forces of
the elements. Even so, man,-— in youth, the favourite of a
lavish mothei", Nature, - becomes in age, with early joys and
enthusiasms, pow(!i's and faculties dissipated or destroyed, the
pensioner upon uhom niggardly she bestows her blessings.

We catch in this poem what is rare in Wordsworth — a des-
pondent note : in its issues, life, with its development, brings
hopelessjiess. Man must lose, lose irre'.oeably a»id perhaps
through his own lavishness, what would cheer and sup[)ort him
in his last years. A diiVd'ent not(> pervades his stronger wro-k.
Much of the joy and delight of youth must fade; the i^l n-y
must pass away from the earth, but compensation there is in

That which stioiild ;iriiiiii|i.uiy old ;r^o,

Aa honour, love, obcdit'iici,', Iroops of friends,

and in the menioi'y of

tliosf .affections,
Those siiiidowy recollections,

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

I \ \

it ! i'

I 1

V. I

1 4 1 1

Which he they what they may,

Are yet tho foiiiit;iiii light of all our day,

Art; yet a ma-stor li),'ht of all our seeing ;

In tho primal synqiathy

Which having ln-en must ever be,

In tho soulhin^f lhniiL;lits that sjiring

Out of human siilTerin;;,

In the faith that looks throuyh death,

In years that briti;,' the jiliilosophic mind

Back of the poet's toachiiig in all his works is the belief tliat
the ideal life is such aa existence as will fit man for uiectiiig
the wasting of his powers with age and such an existence as
will train him to listen, to ponder and hold dear those

Echoes from lioyond the grave,
Recognized intelligemse 1

He, indeed, is truly wise who

Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what she leaves behind.

This poem, not so short and compact, has yet much of the
spirit of one of Wordsworth's sonnets. One cannot but note
the graver, more serious and more severe dignity of the verse
movements as compared with the Education of Ndture.

As showing tho range and warmth of Wordsworth's sym-
pathies in the plant and flower world, it would be well to read
the poems on the Daisi/, those on the OelaiuUiie, the Yew I'rees,
IVie Daffodils, The Primrose, etc., whilst, as tooching upon
the same problems of life, the Ode on the Intimations and
The Fountain might be examined.

1. Lesser celandine. A common British plant with yellow
fhnvers, blossoming early in spring. Known as a swallow-wort.

13. Why " iuly-mutterevr' ?

20. in my spleen. Account for this mood on the part of the
author.

23, 24. Compare with the verses quoted in the preceding remarks :

And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age, etu.

i i:

NOTKS O.N WOKDSWOIilll.

THE SKYLARK, 1825.

Sorao critics have ohjocted to what tlioy call tho (tm
obviously didactic purpose of this poem. The last two lines,
it is said, are artistically iuharmoin'ous ; their appearance con-
verts the poem into a moral homily, and sicklies oVr its
cheerful objectivit}' with the pale cast of subjective thouj,'ht;
instead of a disinterested study of nature we have the skylark
used as a peg upon which to hang a somewhat prosy moral.
To charge a poet with being didactic is, however, no real
objection. All poetry is didactic — that is, every poem has its
organizing idea, and the degree of emotion that idea has
aroused in the poet is the measure of the literary value of his
production. Catch that idea and his work is a magnificent
unity : miss it, or mistake some more limited conception for
the main thought, and more or less of the poem is certain (o
escape into contingency.

"N"ow Wordsworth never looks upon nature as a whole, or
any part of nature, as having an existence independent of
man's life. In all his later and best work, at any rate, he has

• learned

To look on nature not as in the liour
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes
The still sad music of humanity.

lie has felt the presence of one pervading spirit in the light of
which all dill'erences between man and the lower creation or
the objective world are merely accidental, lie peneti-ates
below this external husk of difference and sees the fuiid;i-
mental unity of all life and the laws upon which the highest
fruition depends.

The skylark in its way illustrates the same truth that in a
higher form Wordsworth sees exemplified in Milton's life :

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt ai)art :
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,

NOTKS ON WOKDHWO : lit

!1 I, i

l!:

If
fl

,1 ■(• ■.

I'liif as the naked heavens, iiiajtHlic, free,

iirid yet thy heart

The lowliest fluties on herself did lay.

'J'lio truth tliat nobility and <!lf'\jiti(»ii of lit'o is not to bo
Hou'jjlit in th<! I'cjnction of all iniindano intorcsts, Imt lliat lioce
and now wo may I'oalizo tlio liis^flKU' lif(! if wo will; that not, in
I'topian froodoni from conditions, l)ut l)y acting in harmony
with tlu' social and moral ordcT in which wo aro placed can
we liiid h;i|)|iiri('-;s. The lower creation aro instinctively in
haiiMnny with ilicir cnvironmont. MiUi, in virtue of his
higluu' consciousness and power of choice, is able to f(»rsake
the i):ith of his wt'lfai'e. I>ut the harmony which thought
disturbs, thought can restore. Wordsworth's moi-al is there-
fort^ diU'ercnt from that, of Shelle\' in his ode, To the Shi/hivk.
Shelley attributes our rcvlativcj unhappiness to our self-con-
sciousness:

We look before and after
And jiino for wluit is not.

AVordsworth sees in self-consciousness the possibility of a
higher, ])ecause conscious, harmony than the instinctive joy-
ousness of the skylark, though the f(M'nier when attained will,
like the latter, be the result of healthy spontaneous ac^tion.

This poem, written in 18"2o, might be ])rofitably com|)ared
with an earlier lyric upon the skylark, written in 1805 Years
ha\e deepened and intensified the poet's views of human life.
In both poems there is enthusiastic mention of the singing ai\d
soaring of the bird, but whilst in the earlier })oem Wordsworth
meets the p(;tty cares and miseries of the real world by charm
and ele\ation of fancy, in the later, to his ear, truer, and more
serious has become " the still sad nnisic of humanity."

As Tlie L('fiHO)i suggested an examination of other poems of
Wordsworth, so should the Sktjlark lead to a careful reading
of the C'ldioo poems, and of The (iveen Linnet. The different

NOTKS ON \\()l!l'S\Vol!TII.

i.i.Miitii'fs of Kcjils, Sliclluy and AV(»Ml.s\\(irtli iiiii;li( lie studicil
ill lluii- '' liird " jxK'ti'y.

1. Ethereal minstrel, ('(nuparc vitli siulUy's dcM iij.tinn of

till' '.uk'.s miiil;.

Pilgrim of the sky. CVmiiiaro Hliaks|uiro :

Liko ti) till' luik lit lui-ak nf diiy aiisiiiij

From sullfii uiirUi hiuhh 1i,\ inn* at lu!i\cii's {futc.

2. Despise.— (/''•'<7"'''''>, to look ddwn uicn. thf tiuiuativf forct; of
the word ln'inji lien; spicially apjiroin-iatf.

"Where cares abound. Tlic ignoliility ami anxiitv of life luiiii,'
luoductivo ill ix'itain minds of oyiiicit<m and iiidili'ertiu'i!.

3. aspire. <\imiiart; "despise."

6. l>eV(dop tlie contrast implied in " (piivi ring " and •* eftmposrd,"
also that in ''that musie," "still."

Note the relation in thought of tlie last twn lines in eaeli stan/a to
tlu' other lines of the same stanza.

7. last point of vision. What is meant v

8. Daring warbler. What is the iniiposo of the antitlKsis
" dariiii,' \varl)ler '' '.'

13. Keats ia his (h/c to (he yii/hliiiija/c l!iiis deserihes the hiiil's
appearance and hahits :

Tliini lif;ht-\viiijriii l>iya(l ef the trees,

111 sdiiie mcliiilious )ilnt
Of lireolKMi <,Tit'n and sIkuIciw s imiiilifile.sa,

SiiigL'st of t^iiiiiiufr ill fulltluoatuil case.

and iu bidding it adieu :

Tliy )ilainti\(' aTilliein fmles
Past tlio near iin'ailow >, oxir tlic still stream,
Uji tlie liill-.siilf ; anil nou 'lis hiuifd (kep
III tlio next vallev ijiades.

Milton, in the // Pi )isi roao

Sw.'fi liird. that shuiinst tlie noise rif folly.
Most iinisicai, most iinlancholv.

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NOTES ON WORDSWORTH.

What 18 the characteristic note of the nightingale ? What sort of
poetry <ln a the nightingale'v song represent ? The si^ylark'a ? Com-
pare the suggested thought of thig line (13) with Schiller's saying that
the object of all great art is dedicated to joy.

14. Personal isolation from the baser tendencies of man's thought
and life is a natural, almost necessary condition of personal sublimity of
soul anil being. The human soul reaches its highest expression of joy
and worship only when away from the world's tiercer tumults and in
the glorious eye of heaven, but this isolation should imply no lack of
sympathy with tho "common way" of life and with its "lowliest
duties."

TO THE DAISY, 1805.

Of this poem Raskin says in Xfodern Painters that the first
few stanzas are dolicious examples of fancy regardant, and the
final stanza one of heavenly imagination. " Observe,' he
goes on, "how spiritual, yet how wandering and playful the
fancy is, and how far she flies from the matter in hand, never
stopping to brood on the character of any of the images she
summons, and yet for a moment truly seeing and believing in
thorn all ; while in the last stanza the imagination returns
with its deep feeling to the heart of the flower and cleaves fast
to that." The main thought of the poem in other words is in
the last stanza, and that is the same simple yet profound truth
as we have in the Daffudils.

Compare Wordsworth in his treatment of this subject, whether iu
this or in his other poems on the daisy, with Burns and Chaucer.

6. commonplace. On accouut of its prevalence.

9. dappled turf. With light and shade or with daisies ?

Compare with a stanza from another of Wordsworth's poeuis to tho
daisy :

A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
Have 1 derived trout thy tiweet power

NOTES ON WORDSWORTH. tl

Some apprehension ;
Some sU'wIy love ; sonic brie( delight ;
Some memory that had taken flight ;
Some chime of fancy, wrong or right ;

Or stray invention.

11. Loose types. Wordsworth is aware of the fancifulness of
his comparisons, — and yet, however "fond and idle" those fancies may
he, something in the daisy's appearance must suggest them. What ?

25. Cyclops. A fabled giant mentioned by Homer, with one

circular eye in the middle of the forehead.

31. faery. Another form of "fairy."

33-40. Wherein does this stanza exemplify a marked feature in
Wordsworth's poetry — an inequality of thought or manner ?

45. That breathest with me in sun and air. The key-
note of Wordsworth's philosophy of nature -the community among all
parts of nature and their obedience in one form or another to the same
law, — hence the restorative influence upon the human spirit.

V I

THE SONNET.

Sonnet, from the Italian soneMo, lit i-ally a little sound,
l)ecause originally recited to the accompaniment of a musical
ijistrument, is a brief poetic form of fourteen rhymed verses
arranged in a certain regular order. There are four principal
forms :

(1). Shaksperean or Elizabethan, containing three quat-
rains rhyming alternately and a final couplet. To the main
body of the poem this couplet was attached as i\n\ climax of
the developed thought, or as an aj)plication of the central
idea of the quatrains, '-md in it was found the most einphatic
rhyme accent. Sidney, Daniel, Spenser, Shakspcre and Drum-
moud accepted this form.

t II

ili

i it

NOTES ON WORDSWOHTH.

(2). INIiltonic, containing an octavo nhhaahha and a sextet
cdcdcd (gonorally). The (tctavo pi'escnted distinctl}' and com-
pletely a basal tiiouglit or fact ftoin which — although Milton
does not always show ;i well-worked break between the two
sections — the sextet [)rocpeded as a corollary in the form of a
sentiment, rctlection, or conclusion, or, as has been happily
said, .as a crown or gai-land adorning the octave. The rhyme
scheme of the first sectioji was compact and unvarying, whilst,
in the sextet, so W(;ll-distributed and soliglitly-woi'ked was the
rhyme emphasis that no impediment was felt to the gradual
.nibsidence of the thought towards th(> end of the poiMU.
Milton gave also a simple, manly, direct tone to the sonnet ;
rejected all ingenuity and discursiveness of thought, and
added a unity and severity of sentiment natural to his Puritnn
temper. Finall}' he widened the application of the form, as
his sonnets do not dwell upon the common subject of the
Elizabethan poets— human love.

(3), Recent sonnets in the Petrarchan or Italian model, in
which the metrical and intellectual ebb and flow is strictly
observed nnd in which, while the octave is fixed, the sextet is
variable. An effort is sometimes made to sub-divide, with
distinct shades of thought and feeling, the octave into quat-
rains and the sextet into tercets.

(4). Sonnets of miscellaneous structure.

In all the object is the same^ the embodiment, in a single
metrical flow and return, of a single wave of emotion which is
too deeply charged with thought or too much adulterated with
fancy to pass spontaneously into the pure lyric. Thei-e is a
de(ip-seated instinct in human nature to choose for the rend(>r-
ing of single phases of thought or feeling a certain recognized
form. Hence the tendency to eliminate all sonnet forms who.se
irregulai'ity mars the sense of prescription and to fix upon the
Shaksperean and the Petrarchan as the standard forms.

NOTKS ON wonnswouTii.

Models of these sonnet-forms care appended for examination;
(1). yiiaksperean or Elizabethan:

SHAKSI'EUKS TIIIRTIKTII SONNET.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I Bumnion up remembrance of thinj^H past,
I sigh the lack of many a tiling I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste :
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
. For precious friends hid in death's dateless night
And weep afresh love's long-since eanccllcd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances fore-gone,
And heavily from woe to woe (ell o'er
The sad ac(;ount of fore-hemoaned moan,
Which I new i>ay as if not paid before.

But if the while I think oti thee, dear friend,

All losses are restor'd, and sirrows end.

(2). Miltonic:

WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.

Captain or colonel, or knight in arms,

Whose chance on these defenceless doora may seize

If deed of honour did thee ever please,

Guard them and him within protect from hanns.

He can rcipiite thee for he knows the charms

That call fame on such gentle acts as these.

And he can sjjread thy name o'er lands and seas,

Whatever clime the sun's hright circle warms.

Lift not thy sjiear against the nnisc's bower

The great Emathian c<)U(|Ucror did spare

The house of I'indarus, when temple and tower

Went to the ground: and the re|)eated air

Of sad Electra's poet had the jmwer

To save the '\fhenian walls from ruin hare,

^3). Recent — after Italian model :

The sonnets by Wordsworth in these selections,

(4). Miscellaneous :

SHELLEY'S OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT.

I met a traveller froi.i an antique land

Who sai<l : Two vast and tninkless legs of stone

Stand in the <lesert. Neir them on the sand,

III

64 NOTRS ON WOKDSWOUTII.

Half sunk, a shattcr'd vUat^o lies, whose frown
And wrinkleil lip and sneer of oold command
Tell that ita suulptor well those passions rea<i
Which yot Burvive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that niooked them and the heart that fed ;
And on the pedestal these words appear :
"My r. line is Ozymandias, kinjf of kings :
Look on my works, ye Mijfhty, and despair !"
Nothing hesido remains. Hound the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and hare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Woi'dswortli, as was natural cousidoring the profoundly reflec-
tive character of his thought, found the sonnet form a pecu-
liarly suitahh^ vehicle, its n.arrowness imposing upon him the
restraint which he did not know how to apply himself :

to me

In sundry moods, 'twas jjastimc to he bound
Within the sonnet's scanty jilot of yjround :
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weij;iit of too nuich liberty,
Should find britf solace there, as I have found.

Whilst in. his sonnets he may not attain to the greater moral
elevation of Milton, and whilst from his sonnets maybe absent
a joyful, loving, delicate interpretation of nature, we cannot
but note in them a closely-packed and concentrated body of
spiritual thought, and a depth and sincerity of sympathy with
the " still sad music of humanity."

Over the form of the sonnet he possessed a complete mastery.
Not that he was strictly accurate in his acceptance and use of
the Italian or any model : his octaves often run over into his
sextets ; the rhyjnes of his sextets are varied ; he rarely sub-
divides his thought into quatrains and tercets ; and refuses to
follow the alternate rhymes of Shakspere. But in all his sonnets
there is a complete anil rounded unity of purpose and thought.
So marked was his control over this unity of conception and
development, that, though the most voluminous of our
sonneteers, he has loft us among his three or four hundred
sonnets scarcely one that falls below the level.

Notes on Wordsworth.

TO A DISTANT FRIEND.

It would be interesting to compare tliis sonnet with some
of Sluikspere's upon his friondship, or with those of Druni-
mond of ILawthornch'ti. In his friendships as in all the func-
tions of life, Wordsworth, whilst sincere, was dignified and
self-controlled.

7. 8. The mind's least generous wish, etc. Without a

sellish wish where liis friend was coiioerned.
12, 13. Develop the force of the coniparisou.

'i
$

j 1

LONDON, 1802.

The main body of thought in this poem appears frequently
in the sonnets of Wordsworth. This tone of despair grows
deeper and more tragic in the philosophy of Carlyle, whilst in
the moral grandeur of the lament we are reminded of the
great Puritan poet. Throughout the fourteen lines there is
absent the fearful fon.-e of Byron. What shall remove the
materialistic and utilitarian tendencies of our age? Not state
control of man's virtues and vices but harmony with the guid-
ing influences of nature ! In the truth and calm of nature'.s
laws, in the sweeter domestic virtues, '* in pure religion," and
in " fearful innocence " is found the blessing of cheerful happi-
ness.

1. O friend ! Coleridge (?).

3. Our life is only drest for show. The machinery of life,
ag Arnold would say, the comforts and conveniences that sliould enable
us to do our real work better, are valued as ends in tliemsielTes while
our work, the production of noble growths of mind and character, is
forgotten

4. mean handywork, etc. Our life is a mean handywork,
etc., men having ce;ised to regard or value character and come to estim-
ate man not by what he is but by what he has.

r^'

NOTES ON WOKDSWOHTH.

6. Is the simile a happy one ? Devolup it.

7. The wealthiest man among' us is the best. A ref-
erence to the growing plutocracy of Hritftin, to the (liHapiiearance of au
aristocracy of birth or talent before the aristocracy of wealth.

9. Rapine. Modem competitive iadustrialism sccining to NVords-
worth in many of its aspects little ])etter than legalizeil robbery.

10. This. Ilapinc, etc.

11. Plain living and high thinking. Tin; antithesis of

hiyh thinking is a low materialistic hal)it of mind. Nothing is more
favourable to the development of this than over-attention to the gratifi-
cation of appetite. Hence the kernel of truth in asoetici.sm.

11-14. Peculiarly characteristic of the thuiight and manner of
Wordsworth. In these four lines we find suggested both tlie creed and
practice of his Hfc. Compare with Cowper's Ta.sk or Goldsmith's
Deserted Village for expressions of the same convictioug.

THE SAME, 1802.

In his es.say on Milton, Matthew Arnold says : " And in
calling up Milton's memory we call uf , let nie say, a memory
upon which in prospect of the Anglo-Saxon contagion and of
its datigers, supposed and real, it may be well to lay stress
even more than upon Shakspere's. If to our English race an
inade(|uate sense for perfection of work is a real danger, if tlu;
discipline of respect for a high and flawless excellence is
peculiarly needed by us, Milton is of all our gifted men the
best lesson, the most salutaiy influence. In the sure and
flawless j)erfection of his rhythm and diction he is as admir-
able as Vii'gil or Dante, and in this respect he is unique
amongst us." The student will liiid it an interesting exercise
to compare this sonnet with Keats' On First Looking into
Chapman's Homer, or with Matthe\/ xVrnold's Shakspere.

It would be well also to compare this sonnet carefully in form
with the preceding. Here the octave is closely-packed though

ii-

NOTES ON WOKDSWORTn.

feiHloi'od nervous by the Itrokcn lines and jiUriij)! patisoa. The
sextet justifies tiie invoealion to IVIilton by a niagiiilicent
portrayal of his work and character. The first tercet of the
sextet rings out with trunipcl-like tones, whilst the i.ist thr«>e
lines present a mild subsidence of the passion of the jjoeni.

4 6. An ideal natiunal existence that poets fondly ascribe to the
past.

Ancient English dower. Compare Burke's "The ancient and
inbrcid integrity and piety, good nature and good humour of tlie Kngli.sli
jieople."

6. We are selfish men. Sellishness is the great evil ; self-
sacrilice must aicne be the ileal of duty, and througli the .self-saerifice
of the individual may the nation be saved. Compare witli Carlyle's
conception of the duties of a great man.

7, 8. Is this Wordsworth's conception of a poet's sphere of work ?
Compare with A Poet's Ejnfaph.

9 11. As a sericmsly meditative poet himself, Wordsworth sur-
rounds his greatest human figures witli a sense of spiritual loneliness
and isolation. Compare

Newton with his prism and silent face,

The niarhle iiKk-x of a mind forever

Voyaging thro'.ijth strange seas of thoiighf. alone

Yea, our blind i>oet, wlio in his later day,
Stood almost single, uttering obvious truth, —
Darkness beiore, and danger voiee behind.
Soul awful.

Thou hadst a voice, etc. Compare with Keata on Chapman h
I/oiiicr. Tennyson says :

O niighty-niouthe<l inventor of hannonies,
O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity,
God-gifted organ-voice of T-jigland,
Milton, a name to resound for ages

12-14. Wordsworth's conception of true living. Compare with the
preceding sonnet and with the 0(/j to Duty.

I m

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Aft

NOTKS ON WOKDSWOKTII.

TO ST.KKR

1-5. WonlBworth has oftoii felt -ami knows— the soothing influ-
ences of nature, whether her ■♦oeiies he aotnally present to the senaos or
Huniinoned from the recesses of memory.

8. The poet's ear was exceetlingly sensitive to nature's melodies —
particularly to single sounds. A whole scene is often vividly portrayed
to the reader by a striking reference to a solitary note. Compare :

and that siiij^le wren
Which one day sanjf so sweetly in the nave
Of the old church

that there I could have made
My dweHinjjr-jiliicc and lived forever there
To hear such nmsic.

There sometimes doth a leapin;; flsh
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer.

<»r the Cuckoo poems.

11-14. Compare this sonnet in thought and form with Sidney's :

Come sleep I O sleej), llie certain knot of peace,
The baitinff-iilace of wit, the balm of woe,
The ])oor man's wi'alth, the prisoner's release,
Til' iiiditTe.'enl juilife helween the hij^h and low ;
With shield of proof shield me from out the press
Of those tierce darts Despair at me doth throw :

make in me those oivil wars to cease ;

1 will >foo<l tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth jjil'.ows, sweetest bed,

A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,

A rosy (garland and a weary heiul :

And if these thiTijrs, as bein;; thine in right

Move not thy lieav,\ grace, thou shalt in me,

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. •

Compare also with The Ancient Mnrbivr, 11. 2T1-296 ; Wordsworth's
other sonnets, To Sleep ; Macbeth, ii., 2; //. Henry IV., ill., 1.

WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

Wordsworth wrote, in ailditioii to a great many miscellaneous
sonnets a series dedicated to Liberty, another to the River

NOTKS ON WOKDSWORTII.

Diuldoti, and, in a thiid st-'rics known as his Kid('Hiasti(;al
Sonnets, 1822, sroks :

Upon the hfiRhts of Time, thu source

Of li Hdly River, on whose tiaiiks ure founil

Swoet pastoral (lowurs, and laiir«ls tlial, liave crowned

Full oft the unworthy brow of lawletw force ;

Ard for deiii^ht of hlni who tracks its oourM,

immortal amaranth and pahns ahound.

Such a 8u))jec't as the growtli of the ecclesiastical forms and
principles oi a nation, so traditional and liistoriiial as it must
be in character, could not be expected to pn»sent su^^'gestive
and inspiring ideas to the poet in whom alnvuly was fading the
"shaping spirit of imagination." Perhaps but two of the
series, that found in these selections and that on Mutabiliti/,
are worthy of rank among his better sonnets.

King's College with its chapel was founded by Henry VI — the saintcil
Henry— in 1441, out of the funds of the dissolved alien priories. The
chapel, with its lofty pinnacles, frotted ronf of atone, and large windows
of stained glass, is the ])ride of Cambridge.

3, 4. white-robed scholars, students in academic dress.

6. Heaven regards tlie spirit of tiie giver, not the gift, its usefulness
or its extent. Note the uncommon and strained use of *' lore."

9-11. Ill these lines, Wordsworth has left us a line impression of
the stately pillars and of the (jrothic roof which, with its sweeping
arches, seemed hovering aloft.

13, 14. This Wordsworthian thought, highly serious and suggestive
though it may be, comes upon the reader quite unexpectedly. The poet
dearly loves a "tacked-ou" moral truth, whose connection with the
main thought of the poem is more (*r less loose and discursive.

Compare this sonnet in form with the preceding.

r
I

\W'^

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

[.Saniufl Taylor Coleridge was bom in J772 in the vioamgo at
Ottory Saint Mary, in Dovonsliire. After the death of his father,
an amiable, HiuipU'-ininded and somewhat eccfMitric Hi-holar, Cole-
ridge was entered in 17H2 as a student i'l Chrisi '''S|iital School,
fiondon, then under the headmastership of the llev. o. .uea I'oycr, an
unusually stern but successful schoolmaster. A coiiiplete severinico
of home ties marked his school life at Chrif . II(»8pital, r.82-91,
and his subsi'quent Cambridge career, 17{U-;)4. At t' o iji>spital ho
liad befnenUod Lamb, and in his hist Canjliridgf vnuition ho be-
en iim acquainted with Southey. In 17H9, he reui with strange
enthusiasm the sonnets of Bowles, and in 17^3, he recognized in
the Descyiptire Skefclies (»f Wordsworth the work of a [)oetic genms
of the highest rank. Some achievements in Cireek veise, an unsuc-
cessful, almost ludicrous attempt at soldiering and a withdrawal
without a degree marked his college history, a hi.story wherein wore
strangely mingled poetry and metaphysics; radii alism and atheism ;
love, politics and debts. In 1790, with Southey, in Bristol, ho
wrote, lectured and discussed quixotic social reforms ; in 179G, he
took U}) his resitlence at Nether Stowey, in S(;niersetshire, near the
Wordsworths, with wliom in 1798, he proceeded to Germany to study
philosophy and literature. After his return to England in 1800, his
life though somewhat unsteady was a very quiet one: writing politi-
cal articles for the press, and lecturing upon literary subjects in Lon-
don ; journeying to Malta and Italy in search of health ; publishing
in the north a literary and ithilosophical journal, The Friend; living
(juictly with the Morgans at Hammersmith and Calne; and spending
peacefully the last eighteen years of his life under the treatment of
Dr. Gillman, at Highgate. His literary work covers many Gelds of
intellectual labour. Before 1800, his best poems, the Ancient
Mariner, Christabel and the Odes were written. He devoted him-
self from 1800-1817, to journalism, to literary criticism and to

[71]

LIFE OF SAMUEL TAYLOK COLEKIDGE.

iiliilosupliy, coiitributiiit,' to the Morning 'Post, lecturing on Shaks-
pure, writing tlie BiogrKjJiia Llfcraria^nnd studying tliv philosophic
systoniy of Kant and Scludling. From 1817 until his death in 1834,
hy printed book and familiar talk, he stnn'e to inij)art to the
English world his views in theology and philosophy. His dramas
K morse and Zapolya wore, perhaps, more successful than Words-
worth's Borderers.^

Chronological List of Coleridge's Works with Dates of

Publication.

(In tlie case of longer works this order may bo only api)roxiniately correct. Different
editions often reiieiit i-ertaiii poems.]

Fall of Robespierre (in part) 1794

Poems— 1 3t Edition 1796

Ode on the Departing Year 17%

Poems — 2nd Edition (some liy Lamb and Lloyd) 1797

Osorio (Remorse) — a Tragedy 1818

Kubla Khan 1810

Ancient Mariner ( [^yrieal Ballads) 1798

Christabel 1816

France, an Ode ; Frost at Midnight ; Fears in Solitude. . 1798

Wallenstein (Translation) 1800

Poems 1803

Pains of Sleep 1816

Lay Sermons, Biographia Literaria 1817

Sibylline Leaves (Collected Poems) 1817

Zapolya — a Drama 1817

Aids to IJetlection 1825

Editions of Works in 1828, 1829, 1831.

li ii

GENERAL ESTIMATE.

II >

Coleridge is a peculiar literary plienoinonoii whose real
sii^iiificaiice is not very easily estimated. As willj all plie-
nonieiia that liave risen and disappeared prior to our time,
our first impi'cssions of the man and of his works are wliat
Matthew Arnold calls the traditional or histoi-it-al estimate,
faint echoes of what his contemporaries thought of him, rever-
berations of tlie mighty volume of eulogy enthusiastically
p()ured forth by Hazlitt, Landoi-, De Quincey, 8cott and
Woi'dsworth. "The only wonderftd man T ever knew was
Coleridge," says Wordsworth, "lie was the only man 1 ever
knew who answe:wl to the idea of a man of getiius," said
Hazlitt, " he is the only pei-scm of whom I ever learnt any-
thing. His genius had angelic wings and fed on manna. He
talked on forever and you wished him to talk on f<ire\('r."
"He is," said De Quincy, "the largest and most spacious
intellect, the subtlest and most comprehensive that has yet
existed among men." " Imp'ety to 8hakspere ! " cried Landor,
" treason to Milton ! I give up all the rest, even I'acon. Cer-
tainly since their day we have Tiothing at all cc^mparable with
him. Byron and Hcott were l)ut gunllints to a gi-anite moun-
tciiu. Wordsworth has one angle of I'esemblance." Even
Blackwood's, whose references to Colei-idge's work during his
lifetime were marked by a severity amounting almost to ])er-

sonal rancor, said after his tieath that he .done p('rha])s of ali

[73]

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COLEKIDGE.

men that ever lived was always a poet — in nil his moods, and
they were many — inspired. Now, what strikes most students
when they turn to Coleridge's works for a real as distinguished
from the historic estimate, is the discrepancy between the
historic estimate and their first impressions of hun. Passages
there are in abumlance, no doubt, of divine rhythm and
melody, of exquisite diction, of delicate observation of nature,
of subtle psychology, of penetrative insight into the obscurer
significance of phenomena, of sensitive feeling for the rarer and
more elusive visitations of spirit, those intimations of our higher
moments which Wordsworth speaks of as "gleams like the
tlashing of a shield," of sweeping comprehension and of pro-
found and solemn musings " on man, on nature and on liumaii
life." But these imperishable lines and passages are embedded
even more than in Wordsworth's case in a mass of inferior
work, or else the poem in which they occur has been left
unfinished. In the former case our approach to them is
clogged and obstructed and the high wrought mood chilled, in
which we leave them ; ia che latter case we are raised to the
loftiest sphere of contemplation, "pinnacled dim in the intense
inane," and left to reach the terra fir ma of ordinary emotion
as best we may. In other words, Coleridge's poetry contains
many noble passages, but is fragmentary, incomplete, lacking
in architectonics.

Turning to his prose works we meet with a somewhat sim-
ilar set of phenomena ; neat and happy turns of thought and
expression, deep insight into life, mingled with j)assages of the
purest boml)ast or the merest pettifoggalizing, numberless
tligi'essions which, thougli often excelleut in themselves, have

iSSS

GENERAL ESTIMATE.

no direct becarin^ iij)<)n the matter in liand, in short, an almost
utter absence of organization, of sulwrdination of parts to a
whole. If we ask why a man capable of producing such mag-
nificent fragments both in prose and in verse did not leave us
more finished work, his contemporaries again are ready with
the explanation. " I am grieved," said Southey, " that you
never met Coleridge. All other men T have ever known were
mere children to him, and yet all is palsied by a total want of
moral strength." " Jfe is like a lump of coal rich in gas," said
Scott, " which lies expending itself in pull's and gleams uidess
some shrewd body will clap it into an iron box and compel the
compresst^d element to do itself justice." Here then, surely, is
a psychological phenomenon whose development may profitably
be followed.

Coleridge's Psychological Development.

" What shapes itself for criticism," says Walter Pater, of
Coleridge, in Ward's Se/ectio)is, " is not, as with most poets, the
gradual development of a poetic gift, determined, enriched,
retarded by the circumstances of the [)()et's life, but the sudden
blossoming through one short se" .on of such a gift already
perfect in its kind, which thereafter deteriorates as suddenly
with something like premature old age." Not exactly. This
is drawing too hard and fast a line of separation between the
poetic faculty and the ordinary reason. What shapes itself
for criticism is rather the growth of a mind, determined,
eni'iehed and retarded by the poet's life, stimulated by sp^^ci-
ally favourable circumstances into poetit; activity, and on the
witlulrawing of the stimulus, sinking into analytic and critical

•m

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COLEIUDGK.

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11,

work, but exhibiting even there its native delicacy and fineness.
Coleridge's life may therefore be divided into three periods :
(1) tlie period of growth ; (2) the creative period ; and (3) the
critical or analytical period.

1. — ACQUISITION.

Coleridge, the youngest of a family of thirteen children,
was born on the 21st of October, 1772, at his father's vicarage
in Devonshire. From his father, a gentle, abstracted and
unpractical clergyman of the ParsQn Adams type, Coleridge
seems to have inherited that Celtic organization which
is so marked a characteristic of the western counties,
where the Teutonic current of our blood is n:'no;led with larije
if not preponderant Celtic strain. As a child he was sociable,
alternately gay and solf-absorbed, a good talker, quick to per-
ceive, and even morbidly imaginative. There is a story that
in his fifth or sixth year, having quarrelled with a brother,
and being in dread of a whipping, he spent the whole of an
October night of rain and wind on the banks of the Otter,
where he was found at daybreak perished with cold and with-
out the power of using his limbs.

His first school was the free Crammar School of his native
place, of which his father was master. Here he showed great
precocity, but being the youngest and most favoured child he
was allowed to direct his own reading. He became an
omnivorous reader in out-of-the-way books of out-of-the-way
authors, and soon ac([uired the habit of taking refuge against
all boyish miseries in a weird, imaginary and supernatural
world of his own peopling. The world of sense became unvital

GENERAL ESTIMATE.

to him. He lived not in the world of motion Imt in that
of ideas. ** I heard him," he says of his father's effort to
interest him in astronomy, "with profound delight and admir-
ation, but without the least mixture of wonder or incredulity.
For from my early reading of fairy tales and about genii and
the like, ray mind had been habituated to the Vast, and I
never regarded my senses in any way as the criteria of my
belief. I regulated all my creeds by ray conceptions, not by
my sight, even at that age." His father died when he was
nine years of age, and in the following year he was sent to
Christ's Hospital, London, where, severed thus early from
home and rural associations, he passed the next seven years

reared

In the great city, pent ! mid oloisters dim,
And saw nouffht lovely but the sky and stars.

At school he had the advantage of a very sensible though at
the same time a very severe master, the Rev. Jamos Boyer,
whose teaching had an important influence in giving his mind
its peculiar bent for criticism and speculation. He was
taught to "prefer Demosthenes to Cicero, Honif^i- to Virgil, and
Shakspere and Milton to Dryden and Pope, on the grounds
of plain sense and universal logic, to see that poetry, even that
of the loftiest and seemingly the wildest odes, had a logic of
its own as severe as that of science and more difficult, liecause
more complex and dependent on more, and more fugitive
causes, and that in truly great poetry there was a reason
assignable not only for every word, fjut for the position of
every word. At the same time he was taught to show no
mercy in his compositions to metaphor or image unsupported

'"A

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COLERlbott.

by sound sense." His craving for affection drew him into close
friendship with Lamb and Middleton. Lamb pictures him as,
at this time, a shy, shrinking Ijoy, fonder of books than of
play, though sociable and affectionate — a boy whom other
boys would like. It was his constant habit to be on the roof
of the school and dream of the vales and streams and woods of
liis native place. This and the critical nature of his studies
tended to throw his mind in upon itself, to make him moi-e
self-absorbed. One day in the street, wholly pre-occupied,
alone among crowds, deaf to the turmoil about him, he fancied
himself Leander Hwimming the Hellespont, and thrust out his
arms while l)uffeting the waves. In doing so he tugged at the
coat tails of a gentleman who at first took him for a clui> >y
young thief, but on hearing his explanation paid his subscrip-
tion to a circulating library. This was a high privilege to the
lonely, imaginative bo}' ; he read at the rate of two volumes a
day, and Lamb tells of the admii'ation of casual passers
through the cloisters to hear Coleridge unfold in his deep and
sweet intonations the mysteries of Plato and Plotinus. This
omnivorous reading had led him by his fifteenth year into
metaphysical and theological controversy. Nothing else
pleased him. History and particular facts lost all interest for
him, poetry, novels and romances became insipid to him. In
his friendless wanderings he tells us he was highly delighted if
any passenger, especially if he were dressed in black, would
enter into conversation with him. He soon found the means
of directing it to his favourite subjects

Of provirlencc, foreknowledge, will and fate,
Fixed fiitc, free will, forekiiowledyfe iihsolute,
And found no end, in waudorin); mazes lost.

GENERAL ESTIMATE.

He read Voltaire and bloKson.ed into an infidel, and venturing
one day to offer that as a reason for declining to become a
clergyman, he received from the master a most severe flogging.
"So, sirrah! you are an infidel, are you," said he, ''then I'll flog
your infidelity out of you," and proceeded to exterminate Vol-
taire by the agency of the bii'ch. Wliatever may haye been the
efficacy of the flogging, two other influences were soon to with-
draw Coleridge from this premature absorption in abstract
thought — the shock of young love-liking and the sonnets of
Bowles, one of the precursors of Wordsworth. Some composi-
tions in English poetry belonging to this time, and not without
a touch of genius, were the fruits of these new influences. Of
these Genevieve was the chief :

' I

Maid of my love ! sweet Genevieve 1
In beauty's light jou iflide along ;
Your eye is like the star of eve,
And sweet your voice as seraph's song.
Yet not your heavenly beaucy givis
This heart with passion soft to >,'low ;
Within your soul a voice there lives 1
It bids you hear the tale of woe.
When sinkinjf low the sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretched to save,
Fair as the bosom of the swan
That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breas*; with pity heave,
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve.

But the main tendency of the school was to turn his imagina-
tion into speculation and criticism rather than poetical pro-
duction. Even the sonnets of Bowles, for the a])i)iecifition of
which his previous reading of Milton and Shakspere had pre-
pared him, did more (indirectly) for his critical than for his
creative faculty, for among those who were attracted by his
amiable nature and remarkably entertaining conversation

III

COLKRUXJK.

were of course*, many adiiiirei'.s of the old school ; discussions
arose regnvd'uv^ the relative merits of Dryden and Pope and
Bowles ; Coleridge? was obliged to defend liis favourite, to find
reasons for his preference, and he carhe to see that the excel-
lence of the so-called classical poetry of the 18th century con-
sisted in just and acute observations on men and manners in
an artificial state of society as its matter and substance, and
in the logic of wit convej'ed in smooth epigrammatic couplets
as its form, that it consisted not so much of poetic thoughts as
of thoughts translated into the language of poetry.

Tn February, 1791, Coleridge went up to Jesus College,
Cambridge, an excellent Greek and Latin scholar, a tolerable
Hebraist, an acute and ci'itical student of Chaucer, Shaks-
pere and Milton, and one of the most widely read and keenly
speculative minds of the time. A school -fellow, who followed
him to the university, has described in glowing terms the
evenings in Coleridge's rooms, when "^schylus, Plato and
Thucydides were pushed aside, with a pile of lexicons and the
like, to discuss the pa.nphlets of the day. Ever and anon a
pamphlet issued from the pen of Burke. There was no need
of having the book before us : Coleridge had read it in the
morning and could repeat whole pages verbatim." He read
Burke to refute him, for at this time he was a radical of the
radicals, and with impassioned zeal strained every faculty in
defence of the Revolutionary movement. This effort gave
him great insight into the nature of the individual man, and
comprehensive views of his social relations, of the uses of trade
and commerce, and of the extent to which the relative wealth
and power of nations promote or impede their welfare and in-

GENERAL ESTIMATE.

li(3rited strength. He began to regard the affairs of man as a
process moving forward, without hurry and without rest, to a
pieappointed end — a maturity of mind relatively greater than
that of most men of his age, and destined to make his olwingo
of attitude towards the Revolution less abrupt and reaction-
ary. At tlio same time he kept up the habit of omnivorous
reading and wide critical and comparative study of English
and classical literature, begun at Christ's Hospital. A lucky
()l)servation threw great light on the causes of the formality of
18th century writing. Casting his eye on a university prize
poem he met this line :

Lactea purpureos interstrepit unda lapillos.

In the XatricAa of Politian, he remera})erGd this line :
Pura coloratos interstrepit unda lapillos.

Following the clue thus discovered, he found that the Latin
prize versifier first prepared his thoughts and then picked out
from Virgil or Horace the halves or quarters of lines in which
to express them. When young men trained in this wa}-^ came
to write their own language the result must be formality. He
was continually adducing in support of his criticism of ISth
century artificiality the metre and diction of the Greek poets
from Homer to Tlieocritus inclusive, and still more of our elder
English poets from Chaucer to Milton. Nor was this all. As
it was his constant reply to authorities brought against him from
later poets of great name, that no authority could avail in oppo-
sition to truth, logic and the laws of universal grammar, actuat-
ed, too, by his former passion for metaphysical investigation,
he laboured at a solid foundation on which to ground his

i i*> !

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COLRRIDOE.

Opinions, in the component faculties of tlie human mind and
tlieir comparative dignity and importance. According to the
faculty or source from which the pleasure given hy any poem
or passage was derived, he estimated the merit of such poem
or passage. As the result of all his reading and reflection h(5
abstracted two critical aphorisms which he then deemed to
comprise the conditions and criteria of poetic style : (1) that
not the poem which we have re-.^d, but the poem to which we
return with pleasure — the pleasure being a worthy one —
possesses the genuine power and claims the name of essc^ntial
poetry; (2) that whatever lines can be translated into other
words in the same language without diminution of their sig-
nificance, either in sense or in association, or in an}' othei'
worthy feeling, are so far vicious in their diction. He was
wont boldly to allirm that it would be scarcely more diflicult
to push a stone out of the pyramids with the bai'e hand than
to alter a word or the position of a word in ISIilton or Shaks-
pere without making the author say something else or some-
thing worse th.'in he does say. One great distinction he at
this time appeared to see between the characteristic faults of
the elder poets and the false beauties of the moderns. In the
former, from Donne to Cowley, there were the most fantastic
out-of-the-way thoughts in the most pure and genuine mother
English ; in the latter, thoughts the most obvious, in language
the most fantastic and arbitrary. Pope's

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,

Around her throne the vivid planets roll
And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole

were good examples, he thought, of poetry, with its eye not

OENERAL ESTIMATE.

upon llio ol»joct but on its brokon and hetorogonoous iiiiugciy.
Of the latter, as a translation of Ilomor's,

aaTpn (pcnivr'/u a/t(j)i at'ktjVTjx' ipnivtT' (ifnrrpF\en
(the stars round about the full moon shine preeniinentlj l)rijcht,)

it, was (litlirult, he thought, to say whotlicr the sense or the
diction were the more absurd, .^liiother example was Pope's
translation of Homer's simile of the dogstar, introduced h>
illustrate the ef!ect on Priam or the sight of Achilles' shield,

Terrific (^lory ! for his burninj; breath

Taints the red air with fevers, playues and death, *

in which, says Coleridge, " not to mention the tremendous
bombast, the dogstar is turned into a real dog, a vtjry odd
dog, a fire, fever, plague and death-breathing, red-air-tainting
(h)g, and the whole visual likeness is lost while the likeness
in the effects is rendered a))sard by the exaggeration."

During his last year of residence, Coleridge read Words-
worth's first publication, The Descriptive SketcJirs. Seldom, if
ever, he thought, was the emergence of an original poetic
genius above the literary horizon more e\idently announced.
*' In the form, style and manner of the whole poem, and in
the structure of the particular lines and periods, there was a
harshness and acerbity connected and combined with images
all aglow which might recall those products of the vegetable
world whose gorgeous blossoms rose out of the hard and
thorny rind and shell within which the rich fruit was elabor-
ating. The language was not only peculiar and strong, but at
times knotty and contorted by its own impatient strength,
while the novelty and struggling crowd of iujages, acting in

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conjunction with the dillicultios of the stylo, doinanded greater
closeness of attcintion than descriptive poetry has a right to
claim." In the following extract Coleridge fancied he saw an
emblem of the poom itsnlf and of the author's genius as it was
then displiiyed :

'Tia storm ! and hid in iniat from liour to hour,

All (lay the floo<la n, deeper niiinnur pour ;

The sky in veiled, and every ohcerful sijfht :

Dark is the re^'ion lis with coniitu; ni^ht ;

And yet whiit ffcpient hursts of overpourin^f light t

Triuiiiphunt on the hosoni of the storm

(JliiMies the flre-clad eiigle's wheelinj; form

Eastward, in lon^f persjiective jflitteriny, shine

The wood-crowned cliffs tliat o'er the lake re(!line ;

Wi<lc o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfoUl

At once to pillars turned tluit Hame with gold ;

Uuhind the sail the peasant strives to shun

The west, that hums like one dilate<l sun,

Where in a mi),'hty crucihle expire

The uiountans, glowing hot, like coals of fire.

From the contact with Wordsworth thore followed no doubt
some quickening of his long -dormant feeling for nature, but
the main influoiice was critical — he no sooner felt the excel-
lence of the new poetry than he sought t«> understand it.

In 1794 Coleridge left Cambridge without taking his degree
or deciding on his course in life. Fi'om Cambridge he went
to Oxford. At Oxford he met Sou they, whom he accompanied
to Bristol, then the rallying point of quite a circle of literary
people, including Hannah More and Robert Hall, the Baptist
minister. The young poets found themselves in sympathy
with many people, especially a family of young ladies, the
daughters of a Stephen Fricker, to one of whom Southey was
engaged, and with another of whom Coleridge promptly fell in
love. At Bristol they talked and planned Pantisocracy — a

OKNRRAI, ESTIMATE.

coltiny to be estHl)lisli(Kl on tlie banks of (ho Su.s(|u»'lijiiin.i and
ba.s«'(l )n the principh's of Uberty, fraternity and «'(jiiality.
The soheine fell through for want of funds, much to Coleridge's
chagrin, to wliom tlie financial necessity seems scarcely to
havf occurred. From Bristol ho. went to London to renew
his fricn<lshij) with Lamb. He loiteied many months in the
metropolis, receiving, it is said, free (juarters from mine host
of the "Salutation and the Cat," and exj>ressing himsc^lf
vehemently in opposition to Pitt's policy and the war with
France, pn Mating and praying for the humiliation of IJritain
and the allie ., who, like *' fiends em})attled by a wizard's wand,"
were marching to *' whelm a disenchanted nation," for he was
still an ardent republican, regarding the Reign of Terror then
at its height as the accidental accompaniment of a movement
in itself beneficial. Southey, at length, impatient of his
neglect of Miss Fricker, came up to London and brought him
back to Bristol. In 179-5, with no more visible means of
support than when he left Cambridge, he and Miss Fricker
were married. It was at this time that ho gave the course of
lectures at Bristol on religion and pliilosophy, only moderately
successful, which were afterwards published under the title
Condones ad Populum. From Bristol he moved to Clevedtm,
depending for subsistence on desultory journalism and the
proceeds of a forthcoming volume of poetry. He projected a
weekly publication, The Watchman. A thousand naufcs were
secured, but the paper livi'd only two months, the jacobin and
democratic patrons having been offended by Coleridge's luke-
warmness, his attacks on their infidelity and ad.^ption of
French morals, his defence of the government's gagging bills

COLERIDGE.

ill:

as likely to produce! an elT(!ct dchircd by all tiMie friends of
liberty, in d(!terriiig ii^iioiaiit niou tV(jin dcclaiiiiin^ on subjects
of wbicli they know notliini,', and his plcadini^' foi- national
education aceonipanied by the sj)i'e;id of the (losj)!'!. Con-
scientiously an oppoiu'nt of the war then goin<f on, yet with
eyes thoroughly opened to the true character of the favourers
of revolutionary principles in Kn^dan(l, a vehement anti-
ministerialist, but after the French invasion of Switzerland, a
still more vehement anti-Cxallican, he retired to a cottage at
Nether Stowey, and, pro\ iding for his scanty maintenance by
writing verses foi' a l.(.i. l(»n moi'ning paper, de\(»ted himself
to poetiy, ethics and psychology. The ti'ulh is, that in j)art
from constituti(mal indolence or dicuniness, antl in part from
the habits and influences of a classical education which in the
very hey-day of hope hiid, as we saw, r;i,.(»iialized and regu-
lated his enthusiasm, his mind said\ int»j tles[)ondency witli
regard to both political and i-eligious controversies and the
parties disputant. With more than poetic feeling he ex-
claimed, " the sensual and the dark rebel in vain — slaves by
tlieir own conipulsion." He devoted his thoughts and studies
to the foundations of religion and moi-al Here he found
himself all afloat. Doubts rushed in, brok<^ upon him from
the fountains of the great deep. The ft)ntal truths of natural
religion and the hooks of revelation alike contributed to the
flood, and it looked as if his ark would never touch an Ararat.

2. — ANNUS MIRAIULIS — CREATIVE INTERVAL.

About this time he met Wordsworth, who thereupon moved
to Alfoxden to be within reach of him, and thus began a

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nu'inorable personal and literary friendship, resultini,' in a
poetic movement of tlu^ higiiest iinportan.ce. lOacli of tlicse
vigorous and original minds inlluenred the other. Coleridge's
intelligent appreciation restored tint foith in his own powers
which Wordsworth seemed to have lost, and -vvitluiut which
production would have been impossible. The first efl[ect of
this new companionship on Coleridge was to withdraw him for
the moment from philosophy and theology, and to foioo his
dormant l)uds of poetry into l)lossf)n). Speculation and critical
writing, could Coleridge like Ai'nold have fraidcl}' accepted
his limitations, was undoulttedly his main bent, yet on two
occasions he A\'as with great advantage temporarily withdrawn
from abstract thought. The first was whei' ]>owles' Sonnets
.saved him at the age of fifteen from premature absorj)tion in
theology, and the second, his meeting with Wordsworth in
179G. hi both cases he returned to the speculative sphere
with restored elasticity, obtained, Antieusdike, by fresh con-
tact with concrete fact.

The period of his residence at Nether Stowey in the society
of Wordsworth, 1707-98, was his annus luirahlHs, or period of
greatest poetical productivity. With peace and happiness at
home, and stimulated by the friendship of Wordsworth and
the hitter's finely gifted sister, he poured forth in poetical
form the results of his widely assimilative mental elForts, com-
posing or planning at that time nearly all tlie poems on which
his reputation as a poet de]»ends. A Jnint solume, the Lijrical
Ballads, was planned, in wiiich the homely themes were
assigned to Wordsworth whih' CnhMiiliic unrlcitook the hand-
ling of the suptM-natural. And ne\((r has the sup<;rnatural

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been used with such delicate art or made to express so well
the thought of a reflective age. The Ancient Mariner was
written, and the Dark Ladie and (.'hristabel begun in obedi-
ence to this compact. The Ancient Mariner and Cliridabel
are both exquisite treatments of the supernatural. The
Ancient Mariner is a perfectly rounded unity, and leaves an
impression of completeness on tlie mind of the reader. It is
" Coleridge's one really finished work in a life that promised
and planned many things." It is an exquisite treatment of
the supernatural from the point of view of modern scepticism
regarding objective visions. The mediaeval mind believed in
the objective reality of ghosts, phantoms and s})irits. The
modern mind, rational, analytic, self-scrutinizing, rejects this
as absurd and impossible and explains all sueii appearances as
subjective phenomena, states of the individual mind or uses
these crude old conceptions to convey a more delicately spir-
itual meaning. This is what Coleridge has done in the Ancient
Mariner. Coleridge in short originated that finely symbolical
use of the supernatural which Tennyson has used so effectively
in the Idylls of the King. Both poets found in popular story
a wealth of romance matei'ial capable of being made to convey
a finer meaning to modern men.

3. — CRITICAL PERIOD.

It soon became manifest that Wordsworth's influence would
be to strengthen his critical and speculative bent rather than
his poetical faculty. Coleridge set himself to understand
rather than to emulate Wordsworth. At first he wished to
emulate, but soon the master inclination prevailed, his poetical

GENERAL ESTIMATE.

activity flagged, and lie set himself to discover the secret of
his friend's power. Repeated meditations upon the excellence
of Wordsw(3rth's poetry led him to suspect that fancy and
imagination were two distinct faculties. The establishiiicnt of
this distinction would have, he thought, incalculable results,
for in energetic minds truth soon changed, he said, by domesti-
cation into power, and from directing in tbs discrimination
and appraisal of the product becomes influencive in the pro-
duction. To admire on principle was therefore the only way
to imitate without loss of liberty. To establish this poetic
creed now became his main interest. lie returned to his
philosophy. The foundations of religion and morals from
which his temporary devotion to poetry had withdrawn him,
re-engaged his attention. Through repeated conversations
with Wordsworth, who makes a similar distinction in his pre-
faces, Coleridge esta))lished to his own and his friend's satisfac-
tion, the existence of distinct faculties in the human mind,
fancy and imagination, the former related to the understanding,
the latter, the organ of real poetry. With the problems of
religion and morals he had a severer struggle. He read, he
tells us, deeply in Locke, Leilmitz, Berkeley and Hartley, but
without finding an abiding place for his reason. All j)hiloso-
phies might be classed, he found, under the following heads :
Idealism, Realism, Dualism. The idealist denies the objective
existence of matter, and explains all phenomena by reference
to mind ; the realist tries to make all mental and spiritual
phenomena mere functions of matter ; the dualist recognizes
both mind and matter, but is unable to show their relation.
He began to ask himself whether a system of philosophy as

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distiiif^uishefl from mere history and liistoric classification wore
possible, and for a whiki felt disposed to answer no, and to
aflniit that the sole practical employment of the human mind
was to observe, to collect and to classify. Ffuman nature
rebelled, however, against this wilful resignation of intellect.
The (lerman mystics, especially the theosophist Jacob Behmen,
flattered his faith in the nobility of the human soul and in the
existence of God, though incapable of furnishing him with any
logical ground. He was pleased with Dos Cartes' opinion that
the idea of God was distinguished from all other ideas by in-
volving its own reality or in being self-evident, but he was not
wholly satisfied. lie began then to ask himself what proof we
liad of the outward existence of anything, of this sheet of
pap(5r for examjjle, as a thing in itself apart from the pheno-
menon or image in our perception. He saw that in the nature
of things such pi'oof was impossible, and that of all modes of
being that are not objects of sense, the existence is assumed
by a logical necessity arising from the constitution of the mind
itself, that the existence of God was proved by the absence of
any motive to doubt it. Still the belief in the existence of a
Being, the ground of all existence, was not yet the belief in
the existence of a moral Creator or governor such as was
required to inspire religion and morality. The belief in the
fatherhood of God was obtained from the moral consciousness,
as the belief in his existence had already been reached by con-
sidt;ring man's intellectual nature. Thus in a clumsy and
impei'fect way, i:nperfect as laying too nuich stress on the
interitive rather than the rational side of faith, on the impos-
sibility of deuKKistrating our intimations of the ideal and

. a.

GENERAL ESTIMATE.

(liviiio, Coleridge liad discovered, as we lia\e all to discover or
retrograde, that the oidy certain I'ock of truth, the only })er-
maiient basis of human faith and ho])e, the everlasting granite
on which all human beliefs and institutions are built, is the
intellect and conscience of man.

The will is free,
Stronj^ is the soul and wise and beautiful,
The seeds of God-like power are in us still,
Gods are we, banb, saints, heroes if we will.

A visit to Germany and the consequent greatei- familiarity
with the Kantian philosophy and its distinction of phenome-
nal and noumenal understanding and reason, objects of sense
and things in themselves so akin to his own indejjendeht
thinking, settled his philosophical and religious oj)inions in
their permanent mould. He came undei- the influence of tlu;
great German critic I.essing, and was enabled to see the
weakness of English criticism, its dependence on factitious or
accidental canons, its submission to individual or racial dic-
tates or laws, its lack of method, its narrow and sensual con-
ception of art. He also acquired . such a master}'^ of the
laiiixuasje as enabhid him to complete the translation of Schil-
ler's Wal/exstein in six we(>ks. This, the finest piece of vcnvse
translatioiv in English, w^as highly appreciated by Scott and
other students of German, and it is to be regretted that
Coleridge never acceded to repeated requests that he should
undertake the trtinslation of Fanst. In many places Coleridge
expanded and added to the original, some of which additicms
Schiller himself incorporated in subsequent editions. During
the first two years of the century Colei-idge wrote many papers
for the Moniiny Fost. At first he opposed Pitt's policy, but

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later he separated from Fox on tlie question of a renewal of
the war witli Napoleon. Indeed he was charged by Scott
with having been mainly instrumental in bringing about a
renewal of hostilities, and is said to have incurred the resent-
ment of Napoleon, His own account of his change of view is
that, like Lord Minto, Mr. Windham and many other Whigs,
he felt that all questi(jns of domestic policy must, at a time of
European peril, be postponed. From this time forward, how-
ever, he came more and more under the influence of Burke's
writings, and showed increased respect for the ordered liberty
of constitutional govei'nment. But he never became a reac-
tionary, that very speculation which lie sometimes regretted
giving him at all times a power of living more in the abiding
realities and less in the ebb and ilow of things than most men
much older. Wordsworth, for example, thus describes his
feelings at the outbreak of the Revolution :

Bliss was it in that dawn to he alive,
But to he young was very heaven.

In his inexperience he even thought tliat possibly through him-
self, an insigniticant stranger, yet strong in hope and noble
aspiration, with a spirit thoroughly faithful to itself, the
needful direction and moving power for distracted France
might be found. When by pressure of facts he was driven
into alienation, his distress was great and prolonged, and the
i^uve a lieavy sacrifice. In Matthew Arnold's words, he went
: ''» a monastery, that is, he abandoned all interest in the
'•:'." e, dramatic and historic life of man, concentrating himself
v.ilu eminent success, it is true, on the study of Nature.
Coleridge, on the other hand, as he had read more widely, had

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GENERAL ESTIMATE.

more solier speculations, and was loss keenly disappointed at
the failure of the Revolution. His feelings he tells us in the
Ode to France were at the outset those of mingled hope and
fear, and as early as 1793 he saw, he says, and often enough
stated in public, the horrid delusion, the vile mockery of the
whole affair. When the end came, he neither [)articipated in
the moral exhaustion, the loss of enthusiasm which most of
the revolutionar}^ enthusiasts ex])erienced, nor withdrew him-
self from politics and history into a sphere more vital. Could
Coleridge have frankly acQ^ptod his limitations, have recog-
nized that his special gift was a gift not so much of creation
and synthesis as of analysis and interpretation, his own life
might have been happier, and the world very much richer for
his life. Matthew Arnold, for e'xample, discovering, by the
test of fifteen years experimenting, that he fell shoi-t of
supreme poetical performance, turned to criticism and inter-
pretation and achieved a distinguished success. Coleridge
longed to lie a poet and could not recognize his repeated falling
into criticism and speculation as indications of the line along
which he might hope to succeed, could not see that in giving
a superior dignity, gravity, logical arrangement and philo-
sophic method to British journalism not yet extinct, he was
doing a magnificent work. Throwing up a tempting offer of
a part proprietorship in the Moryiinr/ Post, he left London for
the Lakes to devote himself to literature, and in the hope,
it is said, of stimulating his flagging muse, h(^ resorted more
freely than ever to opium. The haljit, rapidly dtivcloping,
was pursued, and for fifteen years the record of (\»leridg(''s
life is a miserable history of estrangement from friends, self

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roj)i'()Ju;li, aii'l u(t(M' prostratidti of spirit. Tlic biltcriicss of
the poet's dcgnidatiou t'lnda expression in Yonlh and Age and
the Ode to Dejection.

At last, in 181G, he entered the family of ^Ii*. Oilman, under
whose kind and judicious treatnxuit the hour of mastery at
length arrived. Nature, wiiich so Ixmeticently turns loss into
gain, making his opium experience a means of understanding
the psychology of dre;im. Coleridge hardly ever went al^road
again, hut llighgate became the jNTecca of eveiy young and
generous sj)irit, whose interest in tlm ideal and di\ ine was
.sure to be stiniuhited by the magic of Coleridge's conversation.
To summarize our view of his psychological development, the
main phenomenon ot Coleridge's life is not the gradual growth
of a po(>tic gift determined, enriched and retarded l)y the cir-
cumstances of the poet's life, . but the spectacle of a richly
endowed nature deficient, however, in practical insight, eai'ly
getting a strt)ng oent towards speculation and criticism,
blossoming suddenly through one short season into |)oetry
perfect of its kind, then returning to its own proper line,
falling under the power of opium, at length gaining the
mastery over self, and finding in conversation its own true form
and the vehicle through which to exert an immense and
stimulating effect on literature and criticism ; a mind in which
ideas were so vivid, so numerous, and appearing in such
endless combinations and modifications, a mind in which the
feelings and affections were more closely attached to those
ideal creations than to the objects of the senses, a mind so
occupied with ideals as to preclude or arrest the impulse to
realize them ; a mind in short so sicklied o'er with the pale

r.ENKRAL ESTIMATE.

or.

cast of thouglit lliat onlrrprisoK of groat pith and moment
turned awry and lost the name of action. In other woids,
Coleridge's was a temperament too Celtic to fall into Teutonic
prose and vnhfaHtv, but too insufficieiiilv enduVved with
Teutonic sanity to give to his life consisteney or to his sublime
conceptions ;i local ha])itation and a name, and yet acln'eving
Ihrough his very Celtic delicacy and love for ideas a magnifi-

cent success.

Development of Style.

In his earliest work, Genevieve^ done at Christ's Hospital in
178G, we catch amid much monotony of figure and epithet,
much allectation and insincerity of feeling the faint jireluding
of that delicacy and aerialness of verse music which is so
marked a characteristic of Christahel, Kiibla Khan and the
Ancient Mariner.

Maid of my love, sweet Genevieve !

In beauty's liijht joii glide along:
Your eye is like the star of eve,

And sweet your voice as seraph's sonp.
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives

This heart with passion soft to glow:
Within your soul a Voice there lives 1

It bids you hear the tale of woe.
When sinking low the sufferer wan

B>>holds no hand outstretched to save,
Fair as tlie bosom of the swan

That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breast with pity heave.
And, therefore, love I you, sweet Genevieve I

In the evolution of Coleridge's peculiar manner there are
three main stages : (1) the imitative period culminating in the
ode, the style of which h marked by obscurity, a general tur-
gidness of diction and a profusion of new-coined doublu-

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opithots; (2) clarificilion or blank verse period, in which tho
poet attemptftfl to taino the swell and glitter of both thought
and diction ; and (3) the return to the ode whose freedom of
tnoveuient and lofty, impetuous and sonorous style make it tho
most suitable; vehicle for Cohn-idge's thought and feeling.

At Christ's Hospital Coleridge had almost incessant practice
in Latin and in lOnglish versification. In those scImjoI exercises
and juvenile pieces may be detected the echoes of various
tunes, ancient and mod<>rn. Milton is his model in the
Autninnnl Moon :

Mild si)lendour of the various-vested ni^'ht,

Motlier of wildly-working visions'. Hiiil I
I watuh tliy gliflint,', while with vested liyht

Thy weak eye glimniers through a fleecy veil ;

Gray in :

Whore f,'r.i('ed with many a classic spire
Cum rolls his reverend stream ulorii,' ;

Burns with his strung erotic colouring in:

As late each flower that sweetest hlows
I iilucked, the ^jarden's pride I

Within the petals of a rose
A sleejiing Love I spied.

There is an Ossianic ring about :

The stream with lanj^uid murmurs creeps

In TiUmiu's flowery vale ;
Beneath the dew the lily weeps

Slow-wavinj^r to the gale — ,

IIow long will yc round me be swelling
ye blue tumbling waves of the sea?

Not always in caves was my dwelling
Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree.

Now he is experimenting with the ballad jingle :

But soon came a woodman in leathern guise,

His brow like a i>enthouse hung over his eyes,

But w ith many a hem ! and a sturdy stroke,

At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak.

OENEKAL R8TIMATE.

And now in the sweetness anrl joyousncss of a Greek me.isuie:

As late in wreaths ;;;iv flowers I bound,
Beneath some roses, love I fotuul,
And by his little frolin jiiiiion
As quick as thoui;ht 1 seizwl the niitiioii,
Then in my cup the jjrisoner threw
And drank hiui in its s))arkling dow :
And 8uri! I feel my anj,'ry yuest
Fluttering his wiiiffs within my lireasti

Even the capabilities of the rhyming' coui)let and the balanced
antithetical style of the 18th century are tested :

No, thou Shalt drink, and thou shalt know
Her transient bliss, her lastinj,' woo,
Her maniac joys, that know no measure,
And not rude atid painted pleasure;
Till (sad reverse I) the Enchantress vile
To frown converts her matrio smile.

And 3'et in all these imitative ellbrts there may easily be
traced a copiousness of diction, a picturesquentiss of epitliet
and phrase peculiarly Coleri<lge's own. While thus imitating
other poets in thought and manner, Coleridge was rapidly
developing his own individual powers. As a youth he was
given to habits of persistent introspection, of his own mental
states he was a close observer, and for the result of this subjec-
tive analysis he found adequate expression in the ode alone.
In the ode on the Destrucl'ion of ihn Bastille (1789), moulded,
it is probable, on Gray's Ode to Pocsif, Coleridge begins to
show a growing aptness in the choice of words, a concreteness
of expression, and a rhythmical \igour and energy. It was
natural enough, considering the richness and many-sidfedness of
his mind, that his work at this time should show .some
obscurity, some turgidness of diction, a profusion of new-
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coined double-epithets, some swell uiid flitter, both of thought
and diction, and against tliese tlio critics set up a howl.

The second stage in the evolution of his style was entered
upon when in deference to the criticisms passed upon the
swell and glitt(;r of his thought and diction Ik; began j)ractising
blank verse. There is in the work of this perio<l a marked
deer<!ase of insinc(!rity, artificiality, turgidness, swell and
glitter, and stitF classicaiity, and a marked increase in sincerity,
sonorousness and variety. The melody of the following is
inimitable :

And now its strings
lioldller swept, thu lonp^ Hcquaoioiis notes
Over delicious surges sink an<l rise,
Snch a soft Hoatintr witchery of sound
As twilijrht elfins niulte.

But on the whole his blank verse is imitative, at its best
Miltonic or Wordsworthian — Miltonic in the following passage:

In the primeval ajje, a dateless while,

The vac^ant shepherd wandered with his flock,

Pitching his tent where'er the green grass waved.

Wordsworth ian in

And what if all of aminated Nature

Be but orjfanio harps diversely framed,

That tremble into thouj^ht, as '.V- them sweeps

Plastic and vast, one intullectu.il hr ^eze,

At once the soul of each and God of nil ?

His experiments in blank verse did much to help him to a
simpler and sincerer style, but blank verse is the appropriate
vehicle for a dramatic or meditative synthesis, and cannot be
continuously handled with success by a poet whose utterances
remained so subjective as Coleridge's. Indeed the ability to
manage blank verse is to some extent the measura of one's

■X.

GENKHAT, KSTIMATF.

l)9

poetical power, and to 1)0 conipcllofl to roIin<|iiisli it ni;( look
for a more .suitHl)le style ou^'lit to liavo com imod Co t»ri(lgo
of his Huhordiiiatc poetical position aiid rcooiicilod him to
speculative and critit;al work.

In 171)^'), in hia Otie on the Departing Vfuw, he entered ujxtn
th(! third distinct staj^e in the evohitioti ot" his poetic foi'ni.
In th(! ode he foujid the metrical form most free and untr-am-
melled, lofty and impetuous in styU^ and capahle of l»ein<;
metrically vari<'d in harmony with tlie shifting' emotions of
the verse. One cannot but note the snl)limity of verse cadence

Departinsj year ! 'twas on no earthly shore

My soul beheld lliy vision I wlieru alone,

Voiuelcss and stL-rn, before the i!lond.\ throne,

Aye memory sils : thy rohe iii><('iitu(l with j,'ore,

W ith many an nnima;cinalile ;,'roan

Thoii storiecrst thy oad hours ! Silence ensuwl

Deej) silencx" o'er the ethereal mullilude,

Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with ;;lories shone.

The difTerence between his earlier style and his later and jnore
charticteristic manner is not a greater severity of (h'ction, u les.s
iil)und<uit miai^ery, or a less sonorous rhythm. The diet inn is
as copious and picturesque, the im.iLjery as gor<,'eous uiid the
verse as sonorous, but these elements are even mort; completely
under the control of the poet.

After 1802 there is a regular and rapid deterif (ration in
CohM'idge's poetical powers. Ci-eative impulses fiule ; his
mind busies itself with antdytic, discursive and metaphysical
thought; at rare intervals he made excursions into the realms
of poetry, as in Youth and Aye, catching but faint after-glows
of his early spirit.

'ii-

!:!i;

100

COLEllIlDQE.

The Value of His Work.

Coleridge's poetry of nature comes nearest Wordsworth's,
and yet there, is a clear and well-defined distinction between
the two men. Coleridge has Wordsworth's sense of an
immanent spirit, manifesting itself in nature and in the life of
man:

And what if all of animated nature

Be but or!j;ariio harps diversely framed,

That trenil)le into thou,i,f|it, as o'er theia sweeps

Plastic and vtvst, one iiiiellectual breeze,

At once the soul of each and God of all ?

ii':

His eye for form and colour is quite as sensitive as Words-
worth's :

The thin grey cloud is spread on high,
It covers, but not hides the sky ;
The moon is behind and at the full.
And yet she looks both small and dull,

his feeling for the calm oblivious tendencies of things, the
silent ministries of dew and frost quite as strong :

A babny night 1 and though the stars be dim
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green t.trth and we shall feel
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

He goes l)eyond Wordsworth in his perception of the weird
and m* _'cal element in nature :

A green and silent spot, amid the hills,

A small and silent dell ! o'er stiller place

The singing skylark never poised himself.

The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,

Whii'li hath a gay aid gorgeous covering on,

AJl golden with the never bloomlfiss furze,

Which now blooms most profusely ; but the dell.

Bathed i)y the mist, is fresh and delicate

As vernal cornfield, or the unripe flax,

When, through its half-transparonl stalks, at eve,

GENERAL ESTIMATE. 101

Tho level sunshine glimmers with green light.

The gust that roared and died away

In the distant tree ;

heard and only heard

In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass.

But the very passages in which lie surpasses Wordsworth
prove his inferiority. Beautiful as Coleridge's aerial and
magical treatment of nature often undoubtedly is, we feel
that he is distorting nature by his own sul)jectivity, that the
aeiialness and magic as described exist not in nature but in
the feeling of the poet, that in short he does not interpret but
forces or rea'ts a meaning into nature. Wordsworth's read-
ings are so unegoistic as to be ti'anscripts rather tlian studit.s,
what we should all hear were we to discipline our spirit as
Wordsworth did, and lean our ear as patiently as he has done
to catch the significance of things. Coleridge, full of his
Kantian and Fichtean idealisms, made nature merely the
immense sliadow of man :

I !

'It

O Lady ! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone doth nature live ;
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud !

To Wordsworth she had an independent and objective exist-
ence, furnishing, in the s[iectacle of her silent and orderly
processes, a curb and check upon the tumult and misrule of
man's life.

Coleridge's view of human life was wider and more sympa
thetic than Wordsworth's. Ha had gi-eater dramatic power,
and entered with the sympathy of complete understanding
into situations that Wordsworth could scarcely conceive of,
and saw good iu characters whom the latter would have

]:iii

iii*

liHIf

i, 5

i ,1 hS ,

HI:

^ ,

1 ^ ■

'4 \ , '

j ;■•'

■ • 1

." I.

■: f \;

■ t lf • ■.

Mjir-.

i '

r^!'

1 1

ULii

102

COLERIDGE.

judged liopelessly depraved. He was more in sympathy, too,
with the past efforts of the race, and with the literary and
artistic interests of his own time. His mind was richer, more
varied, more widely assimilative tlian Wordsworth's, but its
meditative depth was not so great. There are no lines in
Coleridge vith anything like the pregnancy of - Wordsworth's
best utterances.

But it is not by his poetry that Coleridge must be finally
iudijed: his critical work is a more abiding source of stimidus
and help. In the example of his persisteut effort to reduce all
his reading and obsei'ving to a single principle we have a legacy
more valuable than all he has left us in poetry. The need which
he was called to supply — it is unfortunate that he did not
more frankly and fully recognize his call and save much loss
of energy— was the need of criticism, the need of a new
synthesis to replace the old feudal synthesis wliich the destruc-
tive analysis of the 18th century had broken down.

Born in 1772, Coleridge arrived at manhood in the closing
decade of the 18th century. The 18th century was an age of
scepticism. All the great men at the close of the century
were engaged in a destructive criticism of the ideas on which
society was then supposed to rest. Volney and Voltaire in
France, and Gibbon and Hume in England, directed their logic
against the divine right of kings and the superstitions and
conventional creeds which were then '.»t;lie\(»d to be inseparable
from Christianity. No one would now deny that in attacking
the irrat-onal growths with which religion and society were
tuen overburdened, these acute but shallow thinkers did good
service, or would tind it difficult to underattind why they should

GENERAL ESTIMATE.

103

have attracted for a time all the young and generous spirits
who looked upon the old and established as a hindrance to the
realization of their schemes of social regeneration. But the
overthrow of the false and irrational involved the loss of
mvtrh that was genuine, and after the terrible upheaval of the
French Revolution men moved about as in a dismantled world.
The crazy old edifice of feudal loyalty and medireval religion,
endeared to multitudes of men by its antiquity and its
having been the abiding place of their fathers, lay in ruins
about them. We know what follows in such cases, " disap-
pointed hopes, moral exhaustion, enthusiasm burnt to ashes,
the melancholy of discovered illusions and the remorse and
yearning that follow a supreme work of destruction." Men of
scientific mind dropped visions and concerned themselves with
the pursuit of practical ends, others like Shelley or Byron stub-
bornly refused to admit their disappointment, and remained
to the end exponents of the Revolution. Another class, like
Wordsworth, withdrew from practical concerns and con-
centrated themselves on a poetry of nature or sentiment,
others again were possessed, like the men of the Oxford move-
ment, with a pathetic and impotent yearning for the irrecov-
erable past which the Revolution had swept away.

Certain rare spirits like Coleridge strove to bring unity to
their time, to knit up the ravelled sleeve of thought, to build
up faith and loyalty again on a more permanent basis. To do
this they endeavoured to understand the world in which they
found themselves placed, believing with Arnold that the mere
desire to learn and know the truth even for our own personal
•fttisfaction was a beginning to make it prevail, a preparing the

'h'M

; i.

■

*(:|i

104

COLERIDGE.

way for that wliicli always served this, and that this desire was
wrongly therefore stamped with blame absolutely in itself, and
not only in its caricature and degeneration. What will, there-
fore, remain forever a source of stimulus in Coleridge's work, is
his perception of England's comparatively greater need, in the
earlier years of this century, for culture, for criticism, than for
poetry, and his persistent effort to supply that need. Compre-
hend this need, which is indeed our own need, the need of Can-
ada, where so many people run prematurely into poetry, compre-
hend his belief, repeated in numberless forms, that knowledge
is power, moral power, and his effort to spread the light, and
we have the ckie to all his work. Many people m.ike much
of his grand distinction between subject and object, phenom-
ena, and things in themselves, understanding and reason,
fancy and imagination, and indeed it does appear in all his
thinking ; in his criticism of poetry as the distinction between
fancy and the imagination, and in philoso[)hy and religion as the
distinction between truths of science and truths of revelation
or faith. It is this distinction tliat enables him to accept the
results of science along with a belief in a conventional religion
which he had once doubted. But the distinction will not per-
manently stand. Modern philosophy rejects Coleridge's dis-
tinction between phenomena which we ca!i know and the
real things behind the veil which we can only apprehend
through faith, as fundamentally unsound and atheistical.
Modern theology finds it daily more ditiicult to maintain its
belief in the special sanctity of particular places, objects or
things. Even criticism in. which Coleridge's native taste
enabled him to get great results from an inadecjuate theory, as

GENERAL ESTIMATE.

105

the earlier astronomers were able to predict eclipses by means
of the Ptolemaic hypothesis, rejects his distinction between
fancy and imagination, understanding and reason, as separate
faculties rather than different degrees of the same faculty, and
makes Wordsworth's dictum rather its guiding principle —
" poetry is the finer expression which is in the face of all
science." What will stand of Coleridge, however, is "the stimu-
lus of his continual effort, not a moral effort, for he had no
morals, but of his continual instinctive effort crowned often with
rich success to get at and lay bare the real truth of the matter
in hand, whether that matter were literary, or philosophical,
or political, or religious, and this in a country where, at that
moment, such an effort was almost unknown, where the most
powerful minds, Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron, threw themselves
upon poetry which conveys truth indeed, but conveys it indi-
rectly, and where ordinary minds are so habituated to do
without thinking altogether, to regard considerations of estab-
lished routine and practical convenience as paramount, that
any attempt to introduce within the domain of these the dis-
turbing element of thought, they were prompt to resent as
outrage."

France, that wrought such destruction in our feudal habits
of loyalty, and our mediteval ideas of religion, made an im-
potent attempt in Rousseauism to re-establish our faith, but it
was reserved for Germany, deep-thinlcing, indefatigable Ger-
many, to give us a rational basis for belief. Germany was
enabled thus to become the intellectual guide of the modern
world, through a great previous critical effort, and Goethe was
one of the new movement's most important organs. If Vol-

■p*

106

COLERIDGE.

taire may be regarded as the modern Mephistopheles, Goethe
is the Earth Spirit who builds again the beautiful world.

Coleridge's great usefulness lay in his recognizing the import-
ance of German thought, and in his attempt to domesticate it,
or in his supplying in England for many years, and under
.critical circumstances, by the spectacle of this effort of his, a
stimulus to all minds capable of profiting by it ; and his action
will be felt as long as the need for it continues. Coleridge
constantly regietted his scanty poetical production, and his
over-attentio., m riticism and philosophy, but that only
proves either that it is the last infirmity of noble minds to
yearn for what ''ey .<vve not, or that a man, even a great
man, is incapable of properly valuing his own work. England
needed criticism then as yet, and Coleridge supplied it.

! !iy

Dethe

port-
te it,
nder
lis, a
ition
idge
his
only

3 to

reat
and

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

IN SEVEN PARTS.

•' Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visilnles in rerum
uuiversitate. Sed horuiu omuium familiam quis nobis enanabit, et
gradus et cognationes et discrimiua et siiigulorum munera ? Quid agunt ?
Quiu loca habitant ? Harum rerum notitiain semper ambivit iiigenium
huiuaiium, nunquain attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, (luandoijue
in animo, tan([uain in tabuhl, majoris et meliorig mundi imaginein
contemplari ; ne mens assuefacta hodiernaj vitte minutiis se contrahat
nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea in-
vigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab iucertis, diem a nocte,
distinguamus."— T. Burnet, ArclueoL Phil. p. 68.

An ancient
Mariiiei- meet-
el h three (Gal-
lants hiddcTi to
a weddinii-feast,
and cietaiiieth
one.

PART I.

It is an ancient Mai'iiior,

And he stoppeth one of three.

" By thy long gray l)eard and glittering eye,

Now vvherefore stopp'^st thou me ?

" The Bridegroom's "loors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin ;
The guests are met, the feast is set :
May'st heai- the merry din."

He holds him with his skinny hand,
"There was a ship," ijuoth he.
" Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon ! "
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

The Wedding- He holds him with his glittering eye-
hound'by t'he The Wedding-Guest stood still,
seaf.aiinjr man, And Hstens like a three years' child ;

and constrained rni -\ir • u j.u u* mi

<o hear his tale. J^lie Manner hath hia will.

[107]

if 'i'.

ill

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

The Wedding-Guest sat mi a stone :
He cannot choose but hear ;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner: —

" The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,

Merrily did we drop

Below the kirk, below the hill,

Below the lighthouse top.

The Mariner "The sun came up upon the left,

tells hov the

ship siiiied Out of the sea came he !

southward with . , , , ^ • ^ , i ,i .1

af,'ood\viiidaiui And lie shono bright, aTid on the right
fair weather, till ,__ , , • , li

it rea6hed the Went down into the sea.

line.

"Higher and higher every day,

Till nver the mast at noon " —

The Wedding-Guest here })eat his })reast,

For he heard tlie loud bassoon.

!i>i

The Wedding. The bride hatli paced into the hall,

Guest heareth t^ , . ,

the bridal Keu as A rose IS she ;

music ; but the -vtit ji-i iii? i

Mariner con- iSoddifig their heacis betore her goes

tinueth his tale, ^tm • 1. ^

The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast.
Yet he oarmot choose but hear ;
And thus spake on that ancient man.
The bright-ej'^ed Mariner.

The ship drawn " And now the storm-blast came, and he
Was tyramious and strong :
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.

by a storm
towards the
south pole.

I 5 Wl i|;

THE ANCIENT MARINER. ^09

Wiili slopinn; masts and dipping prow, 45

As who pursued with 5'ell and blow

Still treads the shadow oi his foe,

And forward Vjends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roared the l)last,

And southwai-d aye we fled. 50

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold :
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

The land of ice. And through the drifts, the snowy clifts 5i

and o( fearful j ■,-

sounds, where Did Send a dismal sheen :

no liviiigr thing xr u u i ^ i

wan to be seen. iN or shapes 01 men nor beasts we ken —
The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around : 60

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound !

S ■::

Till a fjreat sea-
bird, ci.Ued the
Albatross, came
through the
miow-fog', and
was received
with great joj'
aud ho»pitality.

And lo ! the
Albatross
proveth a bird
of good omen,
and follovveth
the ship as it
returned north-
ward through
fog and floating
iue.

At length did cross an Albatross :
Thorough the fog it came ;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ;
The helmsman steered us through !

And a good south wind sprung up behind;

The Albatross did follow,

And every day, fur food or play,

Came to the mariners' hollo 1

i:!

M:-

110

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,

It perched for vespers nine ;

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white.

Glimmered the white moon-shine."

The ancieijt
Mariner iiihos-
]iitalil.v killeth
the pioiiH liinl
of iiood omen.

" God save thee, ancient Mariner,
From the fiends that plague thee thus !— n()

Why look'st thou so?'' — "With my cross-how
I shot the Albatross!"

PART II.

The sun now rose upon the right :

Out of the sea came he,

Still hi^l in mist, and on the left 85

Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day foi' food or play
Came to the mariners' hollo !

His shipmates And I had done a hellish thing,

cry out against . i •, i i •, ,

the ancient And it would work em woe;
ki'iHnK tiieWrd For all averred, 1 had killed the bird
(,'00 uc . rpjjg^^ made the breeze to blow.

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow !

But when the
fog cleared ofif,
they justify the
same, and thus
make them-
selves accom-
plices in the
crime.

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head.

The glorious 8un uprist :

Then all averred, I had killed the bird

That brought the fog and mist.

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,

That bring the fog aiid miat.

100

«'}

fUE ANCIENT MARINER. • • '

oontinues^the "^^'^ ^"'^^ breezc blow, the white foam flew,
Hhip enteri the 'fi,e furrow followed free :

I'acint! 0('i'aii, '

and Haiu north. We were the first that ever burst 105

ward, even till it

luacheathaLine. fnto that sileilt Sea.

The ship hath
I'een sudden' v
becahnea.

Down dropt the bre'jze, the sails dropt down,

'Twas sad as sad could be ;

And we did speak only to break

1 he silence of the sea ! 110

All in a hot and copper sky,

The bloody Sun, at noon,

Right up above the mast did stand,

No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

110

2 '

And the Alba- Water, water, everywhere,

tross begins to t i i •

be avenged. And all the boards did shrink ;
Water, water, everywhere.
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot : O Christ !
That ever this should be !
Yea, slimy things did crawl with le£,rs
Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout
lowed them; The death -tires danced at night ;
visible inhabi- The water, like a witch's oils,

tantsof this n . i i i i i -j.

planet, neither iiurnt green and blue and white.

1-20

2 5

130

; 1

: j
■■ i

!l#

1 ■

ill

^':

'■Ay

,1'v ■

112

TIIK AN(!IKNT MAUIVKR.

And Honio indrouins assurod \v(M'o
Of tlio spirit titat plagued us so;
Nino fathom <leep ho liad followed us
From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root ;
We oould n<.)t speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.

Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks
Had T from old and young !
Instead of the Cross, the Albatross

depart e«l hoiiIb
nor hii^'oIh ;
ooricoi'iiiiii^
whom the
lenrnod Jew,
JoMophuH, and
the Platonic
Constant inopo-
litan, Miohael
PselluH, may be
• •onsulted.
They are vory
mimeroiiH, anil
tht-re is no cli-
mate or dement
without one or
more.

The shipniatex,
in their 8oro
diatresH would
fain throw the
whole f^iiilt on
the ancient

Mariner; in sign About my neck was hunj'.
wliereof they •' "

hantr the dead

sea-bird round „ _

hisneok. PART III.

There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, atid glazed oach eye.
A weary time ! a weary time I
IIow glazed each weary eye !
Tiie ancient When looking Westward, T beheld

Mariner behold- . °

itiiasij,'ninthe A Something in the sky.

element afar off, ° "'

140

.45

At first it seemed a little speck.

And then it seemed a raist : 150

It moved and moved, and took at last

A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist !

And still it neared and neared :

And as if it dodged a water-sprite, 155

It plunged, and tacked, and veered.

Ai its nearer With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

approacli, it

aeemeth him to We could nor laugli nor wail ;

: \t-

»■*■

TDK ANCIKNT M\RI\KR.

113

Im- ft Hhip; ntirl
at u dear r;iii-
HOMl hf fitjclh
IiIn Hpecch fi'oii,
Mil) buiidH of
(liirst.

Tliinii^'h utter (lniujL,'li( all diunb we stood !
1 hit my arm, T .sncA«'cl the blood,
And crieil, A. sail ! a sail 1

160

With throats uuslaked, with black lipa baked,
Agape they lieard me call :
Aflashofjoy, Gramercy ! tliey for joy did gi-in.

And all at once their bieath drew in, 16')

As they were drinking all.

And horror (oi- See ! See : (I cried) she tacks no more !

lows; for tmn it ,,.,, . , ,

»)LUMiiip that Hither to work ns weal ;

comes oiiwurd ,,r. 1,1 -.i , • 1

witiiout wind VN ithout a hroeze, witliout a tide,

8hb steadies wit)i upiiglit keel !

The western w^ave was al a-llame,

T1h5 day was well-nigh doiifi !

Almost upon the western wave

Rested the broad bright sun ;

\/hen that strangr sh;ipe drove suddenly

Betwixt us and the sua.

170

175

i^:

It seemetii him And straight the sun was flecked with bars,
ton of ft hhip. (Heavens .Mother send us grace!)

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
Witli broad and burning face.

180

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she neurs and nears !
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
Like restless gossameres 1

And its ribs are ^j.g those her ribs tlirou<'h which the Sun

seun as bai-s 011 o

the face of the pj^j pger, as through a grate 1

fiettiiii,^ sun. r ' 00

Tiie spectre- ^j^j ig that Woman all her crew 1

woman and her

185

III!'

liili!

114

deftth-tnate,
and no other
on board the
skeleton ship.
Like vessel, like
orewl

THK ANCIENT MARINER.

Ts that a Death 1 and are there two t
Is Death that woman's mate 1

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold :
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.

1 90

-'" h

Death and Life- The naked hulk alongside came,

in Death have * i ,i , • ,• t

diced for the And the twain were castmg dice ;

ship's crew, and ,,rru • J i t> t) i>»

she (the latter) Ihe game IS dote ! 1 ve won, 1 \ e won !

winnefh the >-% j.i i j i,- ■! xi •

ancient Marin- C^uoth she, anci whiooles tlince.
er.

No twiliffht
within the
courts of the
nun.

The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out
At one stride comes the dark ;
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
Ofl' shot the spectre-bark.

19.5

100

At the risin},' of We listened and looked sideways up !

the moon. -r. , i i. a.

r ear at my heart, as at a cup,

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 205

The stars were dim, and thick the night,

The steerman's face by his lamp gleamed white ;

From the sails the dew did drip —

Till clomb above the eastern l)ar

The horned Moon, with one bright star 210

Within the nether tip.

One after
another.

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turned his face with a ghastly pan^,
And curbed me with his eye.

215

THK ANCIENT MAHINER.

■ ';*

115

"roMowf '' ■^'^"^ t^"^<3'^ ^'fty living men,
dead, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.

^I'tLife-in- The souls did from their bodies fly, —

Death bcyuis mi /« i •

her work on the Tliey fled to bliss or woe !

ancient Mariner. .,

And every soul, it passed ine by,
Like the whizz of my cross-bow !

220

PART IV.

The Wedding. "I fear thee, ancient Marin(;r !

guest feareth

that a spirit is I fear thy y<innv hand !
talking to him. » , , '

And thou art long, and lank, and l)rown,

As is the ribbed sea-sand.

225

I fear thee and thy glittering eye.
And thy skinny hand so brown." —
But the ancient Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 230

Mariner as- mi ■ i i i i

siireth tlim of This body dropt not down.

his bodily life,
and proeet'doth

to relate his Alone, alone, all all alone,
hornble pen- '

anca. Alone on a wide wide sea !

And never a saint took pity on

jVEy soul in agony. 235

He despiaeth The many men, so beautiful

the creatures of "^

the calm. And they all dead did lie :

And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on ; and so did I.

And envieth T looked upon the rotting sea,

that thevslioiild . i i

live, and so And drew my eyes away ;
many lie dead. ri i i i.i i.^- i i

1 looked upon the rotting deck,

240

And tliere the dead men lay.

!■»-!-

■■H

IIG

THE ANX'IRNT MARINER.

1 lookod to heavon, .'in;! tvutd to i»i'ay
But ()i- ever a [)rayer had guslit,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.

245

li<jl

■ :o ::'■

:l!

Rut the curse
liveth for liim
ill the eye of
the dead men.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,

And the balls like pulses l)eat;

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky. '^^O

Lay like a load on my wearv eye,

And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs.
Nor rot nor reek did they :
The look with which they looked on me
Had never passed away.

2 .TO

In his loneliness
and lixi-ilnuss
he yeiuiieth to-
wards the
joiirne.vini,''
moon, and the
stars that still
sojourn,, vet still
move onwanl ;
and everywhere
the lilue sky he-
lon;;s to them,
and is their
aiiiiiiintod rest,
and iliuir native
coiinlry and
their ')\vri
natural homes,
whicliihcyenter
unannounced,
as lords tliat are
certainly ex-
pected, and yet
there is a silent
joy at their
Arrival.

An orphan's curse would drag to hell

A spirit from on high ;

But oh ! more horrible than that

Is the curse in a dead man's eye !

Seven days, seven nights, 1 saw that curse,

xVnd yet I could nut die.

The moving moon went up the sky,
And nowhere did abide :
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside —

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main.

Like April hoar-frost spread ;

But where the ship's huge shadow lay,

The charmed water burnt alway

A still atid awful red.

200

205

270

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

."ifeSooSbe. r%ond the shadow of the ship,

crttres^o'ihe ^ "^^'^"^^'^'^ ^^e water-snakes :

great calm. Tliey iiioved in tracks of shiain- white,

And when they reared, the elfish light

Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship

I watched tlieir rich attire :

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,

They coiled and swam ; and every track

Was a flash of golden fire.

117

Their beauty
and their
happiness.

He bles^seth
them in his
heart.

O happy living things ! no tongue

Their beauty might declare :

A spring of love gushed from my heart,

And 1 i)lessed them unaware !

Sure my kind saint took pity on jue,

Ard I blessed them unaware.

to'brTakl^'''"" '^^^''' selfsame moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell oif, and sank
Like lead into the sea.

275

280

285

290

PART V.

O sleep ! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole !
To Mary Queen the praise be given !
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
That slid into ray soul.

By frrace of the The silly buckets on the deck,

holy Mother, mi i i

tiie ancient iluit had SO long remained,

-Mariner is re- , *

freshed with I dreamt that they were filled with dew
And whou I awoke, it rained.

2'J5

3U0

^.1 -.1 1.1.,,

mmmm

i i

118 THE ANCIENT MARINER.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank ;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs :
I was so light — almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessed ghost.

He heareth And soon T heard a roaring wind :

sounds and t t i

seeth stranpe It did not cnme anear ;

sighte and com- ■ ^ • i • i i i m

motions in the 13ut With its sound it sliook the sails,
sky anil the ele- ,„, ^ ^, . ,

ment. Ihat were so thin ami sere.

The upper air burst into life !
And a hundred fire-Hags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about I
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.

305

310

315

And the coming wind did roar more loud»
And the sails did sigh like sedge ;
And the rain poured down from one black cloud : 320
The moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still

The moon was at its side :

Like waters shot from some high crag,

The lightning fell with never a jag, 325

A river steep and wide.

The bodies of The loud wind never reached the ship,

the ship's crew -er . • t i • j i

are inspirited, Yct HOW the sliip moved on 1

mo'lison!'^ Beneath the lightning and the moon

The dead men gave a groan. 330

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

119

but not by the
souls of the
men, nor by de-
mons of earth
or middle air,
but by a blessed
troop of angelio
spirits, sent
down by the in-
vocation of the
guardian saint.

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered ; the ship moved on ; 335

Yet never a breeze up-blewj

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes.

Where they were wont to do ;

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools —

We were a gliastly crew. 340

The body of my brother's son
Stood by me, knee to knee :
The body and I pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me.

" I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " 345

Be calm thou Wedding-Guest !

'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,

Which to their corses came again,

But a troop of spirits blest :

For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 350
And cluster'd round the mast ;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted t-o the sun ;
Slowlv the sounds came back again.
Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the sky-lark sing ;
Sometimes all little birds that are.

355

360

120

The lonesome
spirit from the
Houth pole
carries on the
ship as far as the
line, in obudi-
ence to the an-
gelic troop, but
still requireth
vengeance.

THE ANCIENT MARINEK.

How they seemed to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning !

And now 'twas like all instruments,

Now like a lom^ly flute ;

And now it is an angel's song, 365

That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on

A pleasant n(jise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June, 370

That to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on,

Yet never a breeze did bi-eathe :

Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 370

Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep,

From the land of mist and snow.

The spirit slid ; and it was he

That made the ship to go. 380

The sails at noon left off their tune,

And the ship stood still also.

The sun, right up above the mast,

Had fixed her to the ocean ;

But in a minute she 'gan stir, 385

With a short uneasy motion —

Backwards and forwards half her length

With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go.

She made a sudden bound : , 390

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

121

The Polar
Spirit's fellow-
demons, the in-
visible inhabi-
tants of the cle-
ment, take part
iTi his wronif ;
and two of them
relate, one to
the other, that
penance long
and heavy for
the ancient
Mariner hath
been accorded
to the Polar
Spirit, who re-
turneth south-
ward.

It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swoimd.

How long in that same fit I lay,

I have not to declare ;

But ere my living life returned, 395

I heard, and in my soul discerned,

Two voices in the air.

" Is it he ! " quoth one, " Is this the man ]

By Him who died on cross,

With his cruel bow he laid full low 400

The harmless Albatross.

" The spirit who bideth by himself

In the land of mist and snow, v

He loved the bird that loved the man

Who shot him with his bow." 405

The other was a softer voice,

As soft as honey-dow :

Quoth he, " The man liath penance done,

And penance more will do."

PART YI.

FIRST VOICE.

But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 410

Thy soft response renewing —

What makes that ship drive on so fast ?

What is the Ocean doing ]

SECOND VOICE.

Still as a slave before his lord,

The Ocean hath no blast ; 415

His great bright eye most silently

Up to the moon is cast —

",~' I -^-

ilij

ill

122

THE ANCIENT MARINER,

If he may know which way to go ;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.

420

FIRST VOICE.

But why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind ?

The Mariner
hath been cast
into a trance ;
for the angelic
power causeth
the vessel to
drive northward
faster than
human life

rouid endure, j^^ ^j^^^gg f ^ora behind.

SECOND VOICE.

The air is cut away before,

425

Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high !
Or we shall be belated :
For slow and slow that ship will go.
When the Mariner's trance is abated.

The super- I woke, and we were sailing on

natural motion . , ,

is retarded ; the As m a gButle weauher :

Mariner awakes, ,„, , , , • i i ji i • i

and his penance Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ;

Itocrina A.Tiour __ _ -

430

begins anew.

The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,
For a charnel-dungeon fitter :
All fixed on me their stony eyes,
That in the moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, v th which they died.
Had never passed away :
I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Nor turn them up to pray.

The curse is And now this spell was snapt : once more

finally expiated ^ . , ,,

I Viewed the ocean green,

And looked far forth, yet little saw

Of what had else been seen —

435

440

445

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

123

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round, walks on,

And turns no more his head ;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made :
Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.

It raised ray hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring —
It mingled strangely with my fears.
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet <^iie sailed softly too :
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze —
On me alone it blew.

And the ancient Oli ! dream of joy ! is this indeed

Mariner behold-
eth his native

Is this the hill 1 is thiy the kirk ?

The lighthouse top T see ?
Is this the hill 1 is thiy th'
Is this mine own countree 1

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar.
And I with sobs did pray —
* O let me be awake, my God !
Or let me sleep alway.'

The harbour-bay was clear as glass.
So smoothly it was strewn !
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the moon.

150

I .■).■.

460

105

470

475

B m

:|./

■'■1

iiiii

1-4 THE ANCIENT MARINER.

Tlie rock shone bnVlit, the kirk no less,
That Htands above the rock :
The moonlight steeped in silentnes3
The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light, \^0

Till rising from the same,
The atijfciio Pu^ many shapes, that shadows were,

sinnts leave the .

dead bodies, Yn crimson colours came.

and appear in A little distance from the prow

their own forms ,p, . , ■, .o^

of light. ihose cnmson shadows were : iSo

I turned my eyes upon the deck —
Oh Christ ! what saw I there !

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,

And, by the holy rood !

A man all light, a seraph-man, 490

On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand :

It was a heavenly sight !

They stood as signals to the land,

Each one a lovely light; 495

This seraph-band, each waved his hand :
No voice did they impart —
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.

But soon T heard the dash of oars, oOO

I heard the Pilot's cheer ;

My head was turj\ed perforce away,

And I saw a boat appear.

TIjl' nermit of
the wood

THE ANflKNT MARINRR.

The Pilot, and the Pi!ut',s l)oy,

I hoard thoiii ooiniiig fast :

])ear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy

The dead iium could not blast.

I saw a third — I hoard his voice :

It is the Ifermit good!

He singeth loud liis godly hymns

That he makes in the wood.

He"i1 slirieve my soul, he'll wash away

The Albatross's blood.

PART VII.

Tliis Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears !
He loves to talk with raarineres
That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve —

He hath a cushion plump :

It is the moss that wholly hides

The rotted old oakstump.

The skifF-boat neared : I heard them talk,
" Why, this is strange, I trow !
Wliere are those lights so many and fair,
That signal made but now 1 "

125

505

510

515

520

525

!i'

approuchcthtiie "Strange, by my faith!" the Henuit said —

ship with 4 11 1 , II

wonder. " And they answered not our cheer !

The planks look warped ! and see those sails,
How thin they are and sere ! 530

I never saw aught like to them,
XJnless perchance it were.

12C,

THE ANCIENT MAHINEn.

Jii'own skeletons of leaves th;it lug

My forest brook along;

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 535

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,

That eats the she- wolf's young."

"Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look —

(The Pilot made re])ly)

I am a-feared " — " Push on, push on ! " 540

Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the sliip,

But I nor spake nor stiried ;

The boat came close beneath the ship,

And btrai^ht a sound was heard. 545

■' • i'! ■

i iiliv

The ship siid- Under the water it rumbled on,

denly sinketh.

Still louder and more dread :

It reached the ship, it split the bay ;

The ship w ent down like lead.

The ancient Stunned by that loud and dieadful Kound, 550

irariner is saved ''

in the Pilot's Which sky and ocean smote,

Like one that hath bten seven days drowned

My body lay afloat;

But swift as dreams, myself 1 found

Within the Pilot's boat. 555

Hit;!

Upon the whirl where sank the ship.
The boat spun round and round ;
And all was still, save that the hiii
Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked
And fell down in a fit;

TIlF .\N<MKNT MAKIN::n.

1"J7

The holy Meniiifc raisod his eyes,
And prayed where ho. did sit.

I took tlie oars : tlxe Pilot's hoy,

Who now doth crazy go,

Laughed loud and long, and all the wliiic;

His cyea went to and fro.

«♦ Ha ! ha ! " quoth he, " full plain I see

The Devil knows how to row."

r,G5

And now, all in ray own countree, HTO

I stood on the firm land !

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat.

And scarcely he could stand.

The ancient "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holv man!"

Mariner earn- mi tt • i i • i ' r^-e'

eptiy entreateth l.he Hermit crossed his brow. 0/5

the Hennit to . i « i i t i • i i

shrieve him; "Hay quick, quoth he, "1 bid thee say —

and the penance ,,;., ", » , ., ,„

of life falls on What manner or man art thou !
Uin.

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woful agony,

Which forced me to begin my tale ; ^ 580

And then it left me free.

And ever and
anon through-
out his future
life an agony
constraineth
him to travel
from land to
land;

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns :
And till ray ghastly tale is told.
This heart within rae burns.

I pass, like night, frora land to land ;
I have strange power of speech ;
The moment that h^s face T see,
I know the man that must hear me :
To him my tale I teach.

585

590

it I

ii'

128 THE ANCIENT MARINEU,

What. I(»u(l upro.'tr bursts froni lluit (]oor !

Tlio wedding-guests ire there:

But in the garden-bower the bride

And bride-maids singing are :

And hark the little vesper bell, 595

Which Ijiddeth me to prayer !

O Wedding-guest ! this soul hath been

Alone on a wide, wide sea :

So lonely 'twas, that God himself

Scar<3e seemed there to be. GOO

O sweeter than the marriage feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company ! —

To walk together to the kirk, 605

And all together pray.

While each to his great Father bends,

Old men, and babes, and loving frien<]s,

And youths and maidens ga}^ !

aiKitotcat^i, by Farewell, farewell ! but tin's I tell 610

his own ex-

aiiipiu, love and To thee, tliou Wedding-Ouest !

rcvcrent'e to all ' n i i

thinf?sthatCJod He pi'ayeth well wJio loveth well

made and lov-j t, . , i i • i i i

eth. Ijotli man and bu'd and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best

All things Doth great and small : 615

For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all.

The Mai'iner, whose eye is ]>right.
Whose Iteai-d with age is hoar,

595

THE ANCIENT MAUINEK. 129

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 620

Turned from tlie l)ridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned,

And is of sense forlo^-n :

A sadder and a wiser man,

He rose the morrow morn. G25

GOO

605

610

615

-^»fer

SELECTIOX FROM COLERIDGE.

YOUTH AXn AGE.

Vei'He, ca ))reeze 'mid ])]()ss()iiis strayiiig,
Wliere Hope clung feeding, like ii bee —
Both were mine 1 Life went a niaying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young !
When I was young? — Ah, woful when !
Ah I for the change 'twixt Now and Then I
This breathing house not l)uilt with han<ls,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands
How lightly then it Mash'd along : — -
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding kikes and rivers wide.
That ask no aid of sail or oar.
That fear no spite of wind or tide !
Noui^ht cared this body for wind or weather
When Yout ind F lived in't t(»gether.

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ;
Friendship is a sheltering tree ;
O ! the joys, that ca;ne down shower-like,
Of Friendshiji, Lo\e, and Liberty,

Ere I w;is okl !
Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
Which tells nie. Youth's jio longer here!
O Youth ! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known that Thou and I were one,

'ii

1;-)

[131]

132

vourn AM) AGi?,

I'll tliink it l)ut a foiul (conceit —
It cannot be, tliat 'riiou art gone !
Thy vesper-bell hath ivot yet toU'd : —
And thou wert aye a masker bold !
What strange disguise hast now put on
To make l)elieve that Thou art gone 1
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooj)ing gait, this alter'd size :
But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes I
Life is but Thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dew-drops arc the gems of moining,
But the tears of mournful eve !
Wli(>re no hope is, life's a warning
That only ser\-es to make us grieve

When we ai-e old :
— Tluit only ser^ es to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest
That may not rudel}' be dismist.
Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.

•^^^

j;t!

NOTES ON COLERIDGE.

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

The Rime of the Ancient Afariner was written in the autumn
of 1797, and pubh'shed, as Coleridge's contriljution to the joint
volume of Li/iira/ Jkdlads, in the following year. During the
two years of Coleridge's residence at Nether Stowey, his con-
versation with Woi'dswortii "frequently turned on the two
cardinal juunts of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy
of the reader by a faithful adherence t(j the truth of natui'e, and
the power of giving the interest of novelty by the modifying
colours of iniMgination." In one of their many conversations
on this subject the thought; sugge.st(Mi itself that a series of
poems might be composed, in some of which the incidents and
agents miglit be. in part at least, superiuitural, in others,
chosen from ordinary life. Wordsworth undei-took "to excite a
feeling analogous to the supernatural b}' awakening the mind's
attention from the letharg}' of custom and directing it to the
loveliness and wonders of the world before us," while Coleridge
directed his efforts to transferring from our inward nature to
persons and characters supernatural " a human interest and a
semblance of truth suificieut to procure for these shadows of
imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment
which constitutes poeti(; faith." Thus originated the plan of
the Lijrical BaJlmlK, for which Cohu'idge wrote the Ancient
Mariner and l»egan the Dark Ladie and Christahd.

The immediate occasion of the j)oeni w^as a strange dream of
one of Coleridge's friends, a Mr. Cruikshank, who fancied he
saw coming into port a skeleton ship with spectre figures on

[133]

■':T-^]fi^

^ I

'*i

134

NOTES ON COLKRIDOK.

board. Many otlior ideas woi'e added to this first siinj)le
suggestion, and notliing bettei' illustrates Colei'idge's oniiiixor-
ous reading and widel}^ assimilative mind than his skilful
weaving into one com})lete and rounded whole of so many
suggestions from sueli a variety of sources. From the Witches'
Spell, Act I, sc. iii, Macbeth, he seems to have (obtained a hint
of the "night-mare Life-in-Death," as well as of the phantom
ship :

Sleep shall neither nij,'ht or day
Hang upon his pent-house lid ;
lie shall live a man lortiid :
Weary seven ni.iihts, nine times nine
Shall he dwindle, peak and pine.

From Shelvocke's Voi/iU/e Round the World, to which "Woi-ds-
worth drew his attention, he seems to have taken the idea of
man's ingratitude in slaying the binl and the world spirit's de-
termination to avenge the wanton dt^struction of its creature.
Wordsworth himself suggested the plan of reanimating the
dead men to work the ship. Similar and perhaps more delinite
suggestions came to him from a i-ude Danish ))allad, A Wonder-
ful Bdllml of Se< I far hi' I Mm, .-md from the epistle of Bishop
Paulinus of Nola to .Macar-ius, wherein is mentioned the
working of a vessel by a troop of angels. The conceptions of
the "slimy sea," and of the "ice, mast-high," and of the
"storm-blast, tyrannous and strong," were gathered— if we are
to judge from mai'ginal references in many note books — from
various sources, - from Captain Jam(\s' Strange Voi/(tge into tlie
South Sea, Cook's Voyages, Haklu3't's Voyages, and such out-
of-the-way reading as the visions of J^urnet and Purchas's
Pilgrinis. The su])se(iuent wanderings of the mariner, his
mental restlessness, his irresistible desire to impart his experi-
ences were ol)\iously suggested to Coleridge by the legend of
the "Wandering -Tew." Scvei-al details were suggested by
Wordsworth, who also wroU; ji iow lines, Itut the greater part

NOTES ON COLKRIDOE,

135

of the poem is Coleridge's invention, original in that highest
sense of originality, wliich consists, not in inventing, but in
using in a uiastei'ly way what is already available.

The poem is written in tjie ballad stanza, the sti'ucture and
movement of which, however, Coleridge has very nmch modiiicd.
The choice of this form was owing partly to his compact
with Wordsworth, partly to that revived interest in the past
which since 1750 had been expressing itself in various ways,
and partly to tlie suitability of the form itself.

After love and adventure, the most common theme of the
(lider ballad and that which it most successfully rendered was
tlie supernatural. Men's minds in the days when the folk
songs originated were replete with wonder and mystery. They
saw the beau'iful, but always in the guise of the strange and
weird, and frec^uently in the form of an allegory. The ballad
springing from the living heart of the people has the excel-
lencies and defects of the natural imagination. It was
spontaneous, naive and natuid, often rapid and forcible, and
again garrulous and childish, unreflective, but very suggestive
and devoid of artitice or ornaments. In keeping with these
characteristics of thought, the metrical form was simple — two
couplets of tetrameters, or more frecpiently a (juatrain of
alternate tetrameters and trimeters. Rhyme often gave way
to assonance, while alliteration might aj)pear anywhere. The
cadence was a simple rude harmony. Figures of speech were
rare but fresh and unrellective, refrains and itei'ations were
common, the number of fctjt was variable, accent an<l even
pronunciation were freely modified on occasion. In this
ple.asing yet rude and narrow instrument Coleridge, so to
speak, pulled out many more stops. By pruning its repetitions,
heightening its diction, rendei'ing its imagery more reflective
and refining its rhythm, ho made it capable of conveying
exquisitely his delicately marvellous conception of tiie
Bupernatural.

136

NOTES ON COLERIDOK.

The literary value of the poem has boon variously estimated,
but all critics and commentators are agreed as to the simple
realistic force of the narrative and the vividness of the
imagery, and in allegoric;»l poetry it certainly is a merit
that the symbol should be definitely gras])ed, })ut should we
not endeavour also to have an appioxiniating definite conception
of the thing symbolized ? Arrogant and indolent dilettanteism
refuses to incjuire into the meaning of the poem, shiflding
itself behind Coleridge's reply to Mrs. ]iarbauld that the poem
had too much moral in it. Surely it is strange reasoning that
can extract from Coleridge's admission that the poem con-
tained a moral, indeed too much moral, the inference that it
has no moral at all. In the form of an allegory the poem is
a profound criticism of life, and those who have felt this are
nearer to the meaning of the poem, howe\('r much they may
differ fi-om one another in their interpretati<ms, than those
dilettante critics who retire into vague talk about beauty
when the thought of the jioem eludes their analysis.

The subject of the poem is the same as that of Goethe's
Faust, though the more obvious and suggestive comparison is
with Carl3'le's ^'^'artor liesarlus ; the struggle of a stnjng soul
with the entanglements of sense and the final emergence,
though ])earing tokens of the conflict, into spiritual serenity.
Joyous we set out in the morning of life, the world we think
was made to siipply our every wish as soon as it arises, from
the very vitality of our nature we are hurried into excesses,
moral coldness and discord ensue. From this we think to
escape by quenching our better intimations, a litwer state of
moral degradation — a life-in-death — follows, in which the
native force of the soul is all but lost. In our embers, how-
ever, is something that does live ; our better nature reasserts
itself, first in an awakened intei-est in the glories of colour,
and then in a sympatliy with animate things, our subjective
isolation is broken up, and we become conscious of a moral

NOTES ON COLERIDGE.

137

order of the universe in glad acquiescence with which wc find
peace and serenity.

THK RIME OF THE ANCIENT MAIIINKR.

PART I.

" Rinit! " here me;ius poem. Chaucer in the Cantcrhiiry Talvn calls
one tale The Rijm of Sir Thopaz,

1. Ancient Mariner. "Ancieut" means simply atlvunceil in
years. In ooavorsation Coleridge wouUl Bpeak of the Mariner as the
Ohl Navigator. It would he well to note here, as frequently throughout
tlie j)oein, the weird efFfct produced by certain features of the jjoet's
vocabulary.

2. One of three. Compare II. 588-590. What numbers are met
with throughout this ballad in the text itself and in its divi.sions 'i Why
such nunibi'is V

11. loon -a base fellow — now obsolete in this sense. Compare
Macbeth v. , 3 :

Thou creani-fa^ed loon —

12. Bftsoons ^ soon after.

13. 14. The Mariner's "glittering eye" expressed the spiritual
agony that convulsed his being until his tale was tohl. Insiglit into the
soul's workings won from a great spiritual crisis gave him strange
powers of fascination,

15, 16. liy Wordsworth.

21. 'Toyously he sets forth in life.

31. etc. Note the di-amatic elTect of the asides or interruptions so
common in this poem.

32. bassoon — a deep-toned wind instrument of music.

33. Compare Christahel, ll., 63-04:

The lovely maid and the lady tall
Are iHiciii'j both into the hall.

36. A body of minstrels. Cjmp.ire the D(trk La>lie :

Hut flrst the nodding minstrel.'? KO
With nmsio meet for lordly bowers.

138

NOTES ON COL Kill DOE.

111! .

iiiif

u'f
§

:! !

41. Amid the reckless buoyancies of youlli iirc fonnd excesses.
Compare in a somewViat similar sense, Arnold'^ /("",'/''// C/iapet:

Then on the ht'if,'hts ooineH the storm.

Gloss "tlrawn." Perliajis "driven " was intended.

55. clifts cliffs. Did the snow-ca]iped cliffs of ice send a dismal
light througli the drifting mist and snow ? or did the green ice send the
dismal light through the layers of drifted snow resting upon it ?

57 62. Moral isolation — spiritual coMncss and discord.

68. all between~all around, — between the ship and the open
sea.

62. Tiike noises one hears when in a swoon.

63. A large acfaatic l)ird with great breadth of wings and extra-
ordiiuiry powers of flight, often met with at great distances from land off
the Cape of (iood Hope or in Hehring Straits. Introduction here
suggested by Wordsworth.

'I'he bird is but a " better intimation," an inner and divine voice that
speaks to the benumbed soul.

76. vespers = evenings.

78. Kxamine closely into the poet's references to the great
heavenly bodies and into his treatment of colours and sounds through-
out this poem. Compare with similar references and treatments in the
ordinary' ballads.

81, 82. The Mariner would stifle this inner voice.

PART II.

91-4. Superstitious fears of sailors regarding the killing of stormy
petrels, albatrosses and other birds.

98. uprist - uprose.

101. I'he shipmen, at first horrified, rlnally acquiesce in and share
in the ungrateful act.

104. Altered in the edition of 1817 to :

The furrow streamed off free.

To the sailors on board tlie ship, which would be the more accurate
description ?

NOTKS ON COI.KIUIXJK.

139

107. What does *' dropt down " iiioan here ? ([^oinjtuie 1. 311.

108. A lower state of moral degratlati >n follows, lie looks with
loathing upon the olijective world (1. 123, etc.).

123 130. Poetical • xaggeration — and yet " it is a well-known fact
that windrt and storms are important agents in keeping the ocean jmro.
In the hot latitndes a long period of dead calm gives oiipoitiiuity for
tiie devf lo|imeiit (»f innumerahle gelatinous marine animals, many of
which are pliospliorescent ; and their frail suhstance cannot resist the
force of the waves, l)ut is broken to i)iec*s." Cook, in his yvi/aijcs,
speaks of small gelatinous "sea-animals" swimming al)out on the
surface of the ocean, emitting the brightest colours, pellucid, blue,
sappliire, violet, green, etc. -and in tiu- dark, glowing like fire.

127. etc. Compare Murbdh, I., 3 :

The weird nisteiti, hand in hand,
I'osters (if tt>e sea and iaiul,
Thus do \iO ahout, aliniit.

128. death-flreS corpse candles, dead men's candles or will-o'-
the-wisps, as they were called among the superstitious. These are
generally phosphorescent lights that appear to issue from houses or
rise from the ground — a visible result of chemical action. Tiie}' were
believed to foretell death.

129. Oils l)urnt during the incantations of witches seem to have
bet II mixed with such substaiices as would colour the (lames and add to
the mystery of the scene.

139 142. Loathing both himself and the great objective world, he
is now haunted by the constant remembrance of his act.

Gloss. Josephus was a Jewish general and historian of the first
century. I'sellus, an authority ou denionology, lived in Constantinople
during the 11th century.

PAIiT III.

Gloss. Note the use of "element" here and elsewhere for "air,"
or " sky," etc.

155. dodg'ed. Not undignified in Coleridge's day.

164. Grainercy = grand mercii=great thanks— an exclamation
ol joy and relief. In Table Talk, Coleridge says :— " I took the

140

NOTES ON fOLKKIDCiR.

•ill

iMi

'■'

i,:.

'';

1 ;■

i- -

'il

ll''
I> i

':-'

thdught of j,'iiiiiiiiig for joy from my companion's riinark to nx) wlu-n
M'o h.id olimlifd to the top of I'liiiliinnion ami wero iitivily dfuil with
thirst. We could not speak from tlie constricticm till we found a little
puddlo under a Htone. iiti Haul to me, ' you grinned like an i<li()t.' Ilu
had done tin; same."

184. gossameres. 'I'ho filmy cobweb-like network to be seen
in summer weather.

193-4. 'I'hc earliest edition read :

And hJr' is far likcr ficatli than he ;
Her flesh makes th'' still air cold.

Conii»are the two readings, pointing out the j)oet'c signilicance of the
change.

It has fancifidly been tlunight that as Coleridge made the (iorrection
in 11. 1!>3 4 later in life, when under the benund)iiig inlluence of his
opium habits, the vague name "Night-mare liife-in-|)<ath " was sug-
gested by personal experiences. Compare with the ode, Dijecliun.

197. Lower he sinks. I^ife now is with him a I.ife-in-Death.

210-212. Such phenomena arou«e the superstitious fears (»f sailors.
It is denied that stars ever a])pear within the lower tip of the horned
moon.

222. Every death reminds the Mariner of his crime. For this
popular belief that a (h:j)arting soul may at times be heard or seen,
compare Tennyson's Talkiiuf Oak :

The gloomy brewer's (Cromwell's) soul
Wont by me like a stork.

PART IV.

224 231. This interruption, .so much in the manner of the popular
ballad, relieves the monotony of the narrative, and indirectly reveals
to us tlie ellccts upon the Mariner of his great mental sutl'erings.

226 7. By Wordsworth.

234-5. Compare 11. 28(3. 294, etc. What is the artistic purpose of
these references or statements ?

245, or ever » before ever.

NOTES ON OOr-KRlDGR.

246, etc. rioathing has grown inoro intonRe ; degradation deeper,
ilia moral iiowers arc duail, aud in hid spiritual hlinduess, hfl uaiinot
pray.

282. At last, he can reach no greater depths of moral degeneration.
He longs for (loath,

264 6. f'oinparo in effectivencas with 11. 471-9.

270 81. Compare note on 11. 123-130, " Watersnakes." "Captain
Kingman, in hit. 8 deg., 46 niin. 8., long. lO.j deg., .30 min. E., paa.sed
through a tract of water twenty-three miles in brea<lth and of unknown
length 80 full of minute (and some not very minute) itho.sphorcscent
organisms as to present the aspect (at night) of a boundless plain
covered with snow. Some of these animals were *' serpents " of six
inches in lengtli, of transparent gelatinous consistency and very lumin-
ous. . . . The ptiosphorescence of the ocean prevails largely
tlirough the whole extent of the trojncal seas and proceeds from a great
variety of marine organisms — some soft and gelatinous, some minute
Crustacea, etc. , . . One of the most curious phases of i)hos-
j)horescence is the appearance on the surface of calm or but little
agitated water of luminous spaces of several square feet in area, sliining
fitfully and bounded by rectilinear or nearly rectilinear outlines, pre-
senting irrcgulir forms, across which the light flashes as if propagated
rapidly along tlu; surface." — Herschel's Plnjsical Gcoyrapliy.

There are, of course, no real snakes in mid ocean.

282. The native force of the soul cannot be altogether lost. Faint
gleams of the divine spark appear. He grows interested in the ol)jec-
tive world, in the moon, the stars, the sky, the watersnakes ; sympathy
with aninuite nature enters his heart, and thia sympathy atoning for
his ruthless act, teaches hiui how to pray.

PART V.

292. See references in notes on Wordsworth's sonnet To Sleep, 1. 13.

297. silly useless, empty.

314. The electrical lights that shine in the air.

325. jag pi'ong, point or projection.

350. In the old ballads, visitors from the other world, ghosts, etc.,
always depart at dawu or at the cock-crow — often with song.

142

KOTES ON COLKIunoM

350 372. An oxct'lk'nt passage for a dctiiil'jd study of the delicacy
of (Joleridge'a imaginative touch and of the sweetness of his verse
melody.

362. jargon -ordinarily, confused talk. In ballads, as here,
it often denotes the chattering of birds.

369 372. I'he Mariner's thoughts turned longingly from the
horrors of tlio sea to the sweet melodies of the land. I'oiiit out tlio
rhythmic <tl'ect of t!je long stanza form. Ex;,iuine into and justify
other variations in this poem, in stanza and '/ersi; forms, in inetrical
foot ami cadence.

383 390. At the magical hour of noon th(! vessel r.;actied the
eijuator, beyond which the lnneso;);e spirit fi'om tlie Polar region.! could
not go. Hither at the cninmand of the angelic troop he had brought
th(! siii[), and now for a moment the vessel pauses, tiien under the
inlluence of the Polar spirit's demand for vengeance, which vengeance
the angelic troop will not consent to, the shi[) moves backwards an.l
forwards. Finally a comprt)mise is etlected, and the. Polar spirit leaves
the vessel.

394. T Am unable to tell,
living' = conscious.

These voices represent justice and mercy,
honey-dew ~ a sweet substance found in minute drops

395.
406.
407.

on certain jdants — a secretion from very small plant lice.

409. Man may not escape from s[)iritual conflicts and si)iritual
errors without the marks of the internal struggle. Penance must be
exacted.

PART VI.

414 17. C<im pare Coleridge's 0oo?7o .•

h 11

Oh woman !
I have stood silent, like a .sl;i\e liefoiv thee !

and Sir John Davies' Orchislr^

Forlo! t,lie se.a th.at fleets ahout tiie laml,
Aiirt like a ;;ir(lle clips her solid waist ,
Music and measure both doth iindci's' and :
For liis i;i'eat chryslal eye is always cast
Up to the moon and on her fixed fast.

Notes oN CoT.ERinoE.

143

418 19. This refers to the moon's ii)fliiencfi in tlie production of
tides. What scientific law is referred to in 11. 424-5 ?

426-9. It may Ix; imagined that the spints ]\;\ve before tliem some
celestial goal to reach f.nd delay WiUiM render tlieir arrival inoppo; 'une.

James, in his VoyiKje to the South Sea, speaks of a co:!unon artilice
among Spanish and Portuguese sailors, lately returned from an unsuc-
cessful voyage towards the Pole, to conceal their ignorance of the
realities of tha Polar regions by mysterious whisperings of dreams,
trances, superuaturai interferences, under the intluence of wliioh they
were driven northwards.

435. charnel-dung'eon. A vault heneath or near a cluirch,
wherein were deposited the booes of the long-since d.ead.

448-61. Coleridge, says Whipple, gives in this ;:assag(^ poetic ex
pression to what is n all men, thougli uuconfessed — a 3Ui)eniatural fear
in the heart of something near us at which wj ihue not look. Hero we
have not fear caused hy conscience, hut a pure dread of tlie unknown,
whose colours ar'j woven by tlie imagination.

456-7. Compare 11. 30!), etc.

458. Perhaps his fears arise as he remembers the supernatural
nianifeS:tations that followed the wind referred to in 11. .SOD, etc.

464, etc. May the Mariner regain fully his former moral status ?

470-71. ^Vhy these alternative petitions?

504. The Pilot and the Hermit bring external help to the reti.irni!ii'
Mariner ; one representing in some sense practical wisdom and the othi;r
accing as the bearer of the truths of Christianity.

PAKT VII.

533-37. Mark the appropriateness and suggestiveness of tlie
Hermit's comparison.

The " ivy-tod " is a thick clump of ivy.

649. The Mariner must bear i'l liis own person the only traces left
of his mighty strug^df against the world of .-icnse.

660. Analyze here as throughout the poe:iis, Coleridge's nu-t)iod,
vague and yet suggestive, of revealing to us the effects of the great
spiritual struggle upon the Mariner's appearance. Conipirc in manner
with Milton's description of Sin and Death iu Paradise Lod, Hk. ii.

■WP^

144

SOTKS ON COLKHlDaK.

Gloss. " Penance of life " = life penance.

601, etc. Whilst the Mariner's spirit has attained to a peaceful
Berenity, have his sympathies and joys remained unchanged ? Com-
pare 11. 21, etc.

612 17. Have we here the lesson of the poem ? Do you agree
with ( 'oleridge himself that there is too frequent and too great obtrusion
of the moral of the poem ?

'{'he poet in this passage is consistent with the age and its noble
entliusiasm for all create<l things. Much of a like generous sensibility
is foun<l in Burns (To a Field Mouse), iu Wordsworth [Hart-Leap
Wall) an<l in Cowper :

I would not enter on mj' lists of friends

(Thouf,'!! fi^raced with iinlishnd tiiatiiiefs and fine sense,

Yet wantiiitr sensibility) the man

Who needlessly sets foot upon a woini.

623. forlorn = forsaken by sense.

YOUTH AND AGE.

Poets have found no commoner subject for lyrical thought
than "youth" or "age" — youth with its ^movant enthusi-
asms, its ^oves, its joys ; age with its serenity, its gravity,
even, at times, its sterilities. Such lyrical thought has sprung
often from the common-place experiences of tlie great masses
of mankind in ballads, and has engaged the genius of our
noblest sj)iritual thinkers. Byron passionately laments the
loss of the warmth and glow of youthful emotions in his
Vouth and Age, Shelley, in his Lament, longs for the ideal
joy that in his youth crowned the "prime of the world",
Tennyson, " thinking of tlu; days that are no more," and
grieving over the failure of a j^outhful aspiration, feels

Tears from the depths of some divine despair
Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes.

Time and again Longfellow carries us back tlirough the

NOTES ON CGLKiaDQE.

145

scenes of his boyhood ; time and again has lie lamented th<^
benumhing power of years :

O sweet illusions of the brain
O sudden chills of fire and frost ;
Tlie world is in'if^ht while ye remain
And dark and dead when je are lost !

Wordsworth, we liave ah-eady found, now lamenting the im-
poverishment of life by the extravagances of youth; now
mourning not nitTcly for what life in its contact with the
inexorable facts of the world has wrested from spiritual
consciousness, but al)ove all for what it has added or left
behind. His tone, howev(;r, even here, is manly, cheerful and
universal. Coleridge in later years fre([uently refers to his
youth and to the great, spiritual losses ho has sustain(Ml, but
about his regrets there clings an element of narrow {)er-
sonai feeling. Subject to intense physi(.-a1 suH'erings, rendered
d(ispond(Mit by his own metifal apathy, lu^ broods over his
loss(?s in a luiM'bidly egoistic and despairing way.

According to the statements of his daughter, Sara, the
thnie stanzas of Youth and Aye were written at various
periods of the poet's lite-. The first stanza was prefixed
to the second in 1824, and the last stanza was added in
18-7, whilst stanza ii \\'as written many years before 1821.
The whole poem, as completed, was published in 1832. Can
you detect any traces of this irregular composition?

It would be well to examine carefully into the metrical form
of the poem, to consider the appropriateness ot the figurative
language and to trace the logical connection of the ideas,
especially in stanza II.

the

9. Coleridge, during liis later years, suffered iuteusely from
rhonmatism and gout, from oppressiou iu breathing, and from tho
phyaical inertia resulting from atoutiiess ami his opium-eating liabits.
10

m^^

146

^ssssm

NOTES ON COLERIDGE.

12. Like. Is this word connected in thought with " body,'' 1. 16,
or with "flash'd," 1. 1 1 ? Examine the punctuation. Note the peculiar
use of '* skiffs." The first boat propelled by steam was set afloat upon
the Hudson River in 1807. In 1812, the first steamboat appeared in
Great Britain — upon the Clyde. Until 1815-20, it was deemed impos-
sible to use these boats upon the open sea (1. 13).

37. A sentiment true to Coleridge's life and experience.

39-49. This last stanza has a strongly personal note. Written in
1827, it is the product of the old age of the poet — of a eeble, helpless,
and in some ways, hopeless old age. He longed for the relief that
death brought in 1834. For this same wailing tone, so frequently the
burden of his later poems and letters, the student might read the
Visionary Hope, Ode to Dejection and Work without Hope,

m .

i 1 :

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

[Thomas Campbell, a cadet of the respectable family of Campbell
of Kernan, in Argyllshire, was born in Glasgow, in 1777, where his
father was in business. He was educated at the Glasgow Grammar
School and University. Owing to the straitened circumstances of
his father, whose business ventures had been unfortunate, he had to
support himself partially during those years by private tuition. At
the age of twenty he moved to Edinburgh, attending lectures at
tlie University, soliciting employment from the booksellers and
making the ac(piaintance of a set of young men then resident in
the Scottish metro[)oii3 whose names have since become historical
— Walter Scot^t, Henry Brougham, Francis Jetfrey, Dr. Thomas
Brown and others. In 1799 he published his poem The Pleasures
of Hope, the success of which was Instantaneous. A short visit
to the <'^)ntinent in 1800 was followed by his marriage in 1803.
He moved to England shortly thereafter, settling in Sydenham,
whose refined and intellectual society he found congenial to his
taste. In 1805, a Government pension of £200 a year made him
practically inde])endent. He successfully contested, in 1827, the
Rectorship of Glasgow University with Sir Walter Scott, and was
re-elected the two following years. He removed to London in
1840, but the last years of his life were spent at Boulogne^ where
he died in 1844. He was burled in Westminster Abbey.]

Chionological List of Campbell's Chief Works.

The Pleasures of Hope 1798

Hohenlinden "^

Ye Mariners of England j" ^^^^

The Battle of the Baltic j

Gertrude of Wyoming \ \%qq

O'Connor's C^hild )

T,'!'"""™ ] 1824

Mmor Poems j

Pilgrim of Glencite 1842

1147]

DEVELOPMENT.

Campbell's life shows little of that strug«^le to realize a gift
of genius in spite of the solicitation of other tendencies, which
Wordsworth's or even Coh'ridge's life so sti'ikingly exhibits.
His importance in literature is ahnost wliolly owing to an
original emotional delicacy, a native feeling foi- style, and he
made scarcely any effort to ac(|uire by cultivation the qualities
in wliich his nature was ddicieut — the qualities of steadiness,
punctuality, prudence, in a woid, of sanity and practicality.
His strength and his limitations were largely those of the
Celtic temperament which was his by birth. We may doubt
the over-ruling importance of race without denying its inllu-
ence altogether. It is quite true that a man can by force of
will successfully combat the power of an inherited tendency,
say to drunk<inness, and it is equally true that the inherited
tendency will operate if force of character is lacking. Tacitus'
account of the Germans, and Caesar's of the Gauls, are as true
of the modern representatives of the Teutonic and of the
Celtic races respectively as they were when they were written.
The obvious inference is that certain racial characteristics
tend to become here<litary in a people except where modified
l)y the effort of particular individuals to ac(juii'e a broader
culture than that of their own people. Now Celtic character-
istics have possessed a peculiar attraction for writers of all

[U9]

i«

I'll 'I '

■;'5' i

150

CAMPBELL.

ages. Tacitus noticed thorn, Caesar doscribod them, Matthew
Arnold, in liis Celtic Literature^ has observed them with great
precision and delicacy. "The Celtic is," he says, "an organi-
zation (juick to feel impressions and feeling them very strongly;
a lively personality, therefore, and keenly sensitive to joy and
sorrow. If the downs of life, too, outnumber the ups, the
temperament, because it so quickly awl nearly conscious of all
impressions, may no doubt seem shy and wouudod ; it may be
seen in wistful regret, in passionate, penetrating melancholy,
l)ut its essence is to aspire ardently after life light emotion, to
l)e expansive, adventurous, gay. The impressionable Celt,
soon up and soon down, is the more down because it is his
nature to be up, to be sociable, hospitable, eloquent, figui'ing
away brilliantly. He loves bright colours. He easily becomes
audacious, over-crowing, full of fanfaronade. The Celt is often
called sensual, but it is not so much the vulgar satisfaction of
sense that attracts him as emotion and excitement. Balance,
measure, patience, the eternal conditions of success are less
prominent in the Gelt. In poetry the Celt has shown genius,
indeed, splendid genius, but here, though emotion counts for
much, reason too, reason, measure, sanity count for more — and
the Celt has not produced great p(jetical works. He has only
produced poetry with an air of greatness, investing it all and
sometimes giving to shorter poems cjr to passages, lines, or
sna<^ches of longer poems, singular beauty and power. He
gives you only so much interpretation of the world as the first
dash of a quick, strong perception and then sentiments, infi-
nite sentiment can give . . . The sensibility of the Celt
is not to be blamed. It is a beautiful and admirable force if

DEVELOPMENT.

151

everything else were not sacrificed to it. Sensibility gives
genius its materials, makes one full of reverence and enthu-
siasm for learning, eloquence, conversation and the things of
the mind. One cannot have too much sensibility if one can
keep its master and not its slave — if one can keep a law of
measure, of harmony presiding over the whole."

Of the Celtic temperament, Campbell had the quick, strong
perception. Owing to the straitened circumstances of his
father he was obliged, while attending college, to do private
tutoring, yet in spite of the additional labour he made rapid
progress in his studies and gained a distinguished place in the
classes of the university. He had its exquisite sensibility.
According to his friend and biographer, Dr. Beattie, " his
imaginative faculty had been so unremittingly cultivated that
circumstances, trifling in themselves, had acrjuired undue
influence over his mind. He drew from everything around
him with morbid ingenuity some melancholy presage of the
future." He early showed its fondness for the things of the
mind, for poetry and eloquence, and fur style, but he was
deficient in patience, perseverance and industry. In 17*J8, at
the age of 21, he published The Pleasures of Hope^ modelled
upon Rogers' The Pleasures of Memory, which appeared five
years previously. It has the fault, in common with its model,
of a prevailing didactic tameness, but neither the nature of the
subject nor the conventional form of the poem could altogether
obscure the fact that didactic subject t>nd conventional form
had been used with remarkable freedom. In it a delicacy of
thought and an occasional power of pathos were skilfully com-
bined with a beauty of imagery, a harmony of versification

;i ill'

152

CAMPHRLL.

and a roinurkahlc felicity of luiiguuge. It contains many
lines familiar to every ear :

'Tis diHtance lends enchaiitniont to the view,

and,

What though my \vin{;e<l hours of bliss have been
Like anjjel-visita, few and far between.

Notwithstanding its popularity- — the poem ran tlirougli four

editions within a year of its pul>lication, — Caiuphell was suth-

ciently aware of the direction of his own genius not to be led

away by his success. He had to listen to the new men of the

coming century for a few years longer before he caught the

metre and dicti(Mi that would give his Celtic nii.tur(; free play.

His travels on the Colli iiient in 1800-1 brought liim into contact

with the romantic thought of (Jormany and introduced him to

the critical canons of Schlegel, and these influences, directly

and indirectly, appear as moukling, to some extent, the fonn

and matter of such lyrics as were the product of these years

abroad. In Ye Mariners of EiKjlaud, in llohenlinden, we find

traces of the new romantic school, a Wordsworthian sincerit}'

and naturalness of manner, combined with what better and

more recent critical principles gave him, a less superb diction,

chaster imagery, greater warmth and freedom of metrical

form. It is characteristic, too, of the new inlluence, for the

arrival of which he had waited longer than other poets of the

age, that in these shorter poems he falls back upon earlier

ballad measures, through which he can give to his work greater

spontaneity, together with greater unity and compactness of

thought. The dull manner and desultory design of his earlier

poem. The Pleasures of Hope, to a large extent vanish in the

animated strains and singleness of poetic purpose of theses

war-songs.

DEVELOPMKNT.

153

For some time now, 1803-9, ho stifled liis juu'tic pdwerH l»y
c<jmnK)n liaok woik in piimpldets iind journuls, but Imck-woik
!is it was, this fununoii Htrugglo, phiin, utilituriaji and imn-
iinayiiiative, togotlior witli inbred chissical tastes did imuh, if
not more, than all other itilliumoes- than either tlie rniii;nitic-
isni of Wordsworth or the critical principles of Coleridge to
prune, moderate and shape; his poetic style.

Endowed from his Celtic nature with unusually keen
sensibilities and active intuitions, he never erred in appre-
liending and ex])ressing the as})irations (►f the age. The
lieroic temper of England in her Napoleonic struggle is
mirrored in his war lyrics; tlie new spiiit of interest in his
fellow-man cries out in him passioiuitely for the protection of
Poland and the liberation of the slave. An<.l not only did \n\
with his acute Celtic sensibilities intuitively understand the
age and its aims, with sj^lendid Celtic adaptability of temp«'r
and genius he could shape himself anew to the shifting demands
of that age. Scott, with his long metrical romances, created a
new litei'ary taste — and in 1809, responding to this demand,
Campbell turned from his war-songs as mere "drum and
trumpet things " and wrote his G'erlrnde of WyoDiimj. The
bi'illiant platitudes, the disconnected thought, the forced plan
of the Pleasures of Hope all disappear. Ihu-e we ha\(! a
simple tale pervaded by much sweetness, purity and simplicity
of manner and thought and a deep pathos that mark the
developing poet.

In his short and charming f>a!lad, Lord UUiu^s Dauyhter,
published in the same year, his poetic powers have reached
the flow of the high-tide. Here we iii.d a terseness and coucise-

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154

CAMPBELL.

ness uf form — almost epigrammatic in character, a warmth
and tenderness of feeling and a true vigour of descriptive
epithet :

By this the storm grew loud apaoe,
The water-wraith was shrieking ;
And in the soowl of heaven each faoe
Grew dark as they were speaking.

How strong and sincere is the pathetic touch in :

" Come back ! Come back ! " he cried in grltt,
" Across this stormy water ;

And ril forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter !— oh, my daughter I "

In O'Connor's Child, published also in 1809, we have the
noblest product of the noblest features of the Celtic character.
Here one cannot find reason or measure or sanity, but a
deeply wistful regret, a romantic, adventurous and weird
interest, j, truly tragic pathos. All didactic purpose has
vanished, and with much delicacy of touch can he sing :

Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
A son of light — a lovely form,
He cornea and makes her glad ;
Now on the grass-green turf he sits.
His tassell'd horn beside him laid ;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade.

with passionate Celtic eloquence :

When all was hushed, at eventide
I heard the baying of their beagle:
Be hush'd I my Connooht Moran cried,
'Tis but the screaming of the eagle.
Alas ! 'twas not the eyrie's sound ;
Their bloody bands had trook'd lu out ;
Up-listetiiiig starts our couohant bound
And hark 1 again, that nearer about
Brings faster on the murderera,

155

DEVELOPMENT. /

Spare, spare him— Rrazil— Desmond flcroe.
In vain — no voice the adder charma.

Their iron hands had dug the cluy,
And o'er his burial turf they trod,
And I beheld, -O God ! O Qod I
His life-blood oozing from the aod I

with some vividness and emotional suggestivoness of imagery :

No :— let the eagle change his plume,
The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom ;
But ties around this heart were spun,
' That could not, would not, be undone I

After 1809, his poetic powers fade rapidly. " He seems,"
says Scott, " to be afraid of the shadow of his own fame."
Years of sorrow come upon him, worldly cares and social
interests benumb him, passion and animation and sensibility
disappear, as they must disappear in all lives, and with them
go the whole creative power of the Celt ; with wife dead, son
mad, harp unstrung, he turns to write the prosaic, the affectedly
simple Theodoric, — and he fails. Again he attempts production
in the Pilgrim of Glencoe, and even more unworthy is the
result !

To the last, however, he retains some classic purity of
phrase and line, some sense of beauty and proportion, and
exhibited some delicacy and grace of form. Strength has
departed, but much sweetness is left. Nothing, for instance,
can equal the perfection of form of :

The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,
And sad, pale Adulgitha came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded
Aad slew the slanderer of her fame.

She wept, delivered from her danger ;
But when he knelt to claim her glov.e —
" Seek not," she cried, " oh ! gallant stranger,
For helpless Adelyitb^^.'s love.

■ilBi

156

CAMPBELL.

For he is in a foreign far land
Whose arm Rhould now have set me free
And I niviHt wear the willow garland
For him that's dead or false to me."

i.i

•• Nay ! say not that his faith is tainted 1
lie raised his visor— at the sight
She fell into his arms and fainted ;
It was indeed her own true knight.

ESTIMATE OF HIS WORK.

In attempting an estimate of Campbell's poetic work ' and
thought the student is at once met with what Arnold con-
siders the primary defect in the ptx'tic character of the Celt.
In poetry he may have genius, splendid genius, but in poetry,
"though emotion count for much, reason, too, reason, measure,
sanity count for more — and the Celt nas not produced great
poetical works. . . . He gives you so much interpretation
of the world as the first dash of a quick, strong percep-
tion and sentiments, infinite sentiments can give ." Of

thought deep and profound, of definite and methodical
philosophy, Campbell had none, and if he ever lost grip of
his poetic powers it was when he turned aside to express the
deeper unities of things. In the higher realms of imagina-
tion, he was strangely weak and tame ; insincere and un vital
are to him conceptions that thrill the souls of his greater
contemporaries. In his View from St. Leonard's he speaks
of the sea :

The spirit of the universe in thee
Is visible ; thou hast in thee the life~
The eternal, graceful and majestic life —
Of nature, and the natural human heart
Is therefore bound to thee with holy love.

How tame and unsatisfactory compared with the sincerity
of:

I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with a joy
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime
[157]

'1,

158 OAXPBBLti.

Of something far more deeply Interfused,
WhoHc dwellintf is tlie light of setting mins,
And the round ooean and the living air,
And the blue sky and in the mind of mail ;
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thinking things, aU objects of all thougfats,
And rolls through all things.

In another sense also he was inferior to Wordsworth. The
great poet of nature, having once grasped the concrete facts or
relations of an object, an incident, or a tale, did not regard the
mere reproduction or reairanging of these facts as his particu-
lar mission. To the every-day colour that surrounded the
subject of his thought must be added the " light that never
was on sea or land " ; mind must enter into the very arcana,
the very being of the incident, clothe it with its rational
interpreting power and create it anew in the light of a great
informing idea. But this Campbell to a lar^3 extent was
unable to do. Poetic thought was with him the impulse of
the moment, a strong overmastering emotion which rapidly
flowed out upon the object and as quickly ebbed ; with him it
was not tranquil thought remembered in emotion, but a
quick, " sharp dash of perception," giving stimulus to rich and
overflowing sensibilities.

In many ways no English poet so closely resembles Camp-
bell in personal character and literary genius as that other
typical Celt, Goldsmith. Like Campbell, the Irish poet was in
private life unsteady, imprudent, immoderate, passionate ;
fond of flattery, indolent and even insincere. With their
Celtic instincts both men were benevolent, witty, eloquent,
and — at times — foolishly boastful.

In literary capacity they were singularly alike. While br^h

■' f

ESTIMAtE OF HIS WorfK.

169

poets were devoted to a chaste clearness and simplicity of
thought, their very efforts to secure this ended in smooth, epi-
grammatic verse, where sense was sacrificed to sound and
where exquisite melody hid tedious moralizings or irrational
logic. We hear Goldsmith speaking through Campbell's
couplet in : " '

She studied not the meanest to eclipse,
And yet the wisest listened to her lipi,

and we catch the gist of the Irish poet's peculiar social views
in :

To gorgre a few with Trade's precarious prize,

We banish rural lite, and breathe unwholesor-.e skies.

As a result of their fastidiousness of taste, their classical
exactness, their polish, their singular felicity of diction, and in
some way, of their lack of constructive power, we possess from
these men a number of household quotations in single lines
and couplets altogether out of proportion with the relative im-
' portance of their authors. How completely have the following
lines from Campbell become the common property of all Eng-
lish speakers :

To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.

or
or
or
or
or
or

Coming events cast their shadows before,
Song is but the eloquence of truth.
To bear is to conquer our fate, '

What millions died that Caesar might be great.
And muse on Nature with a poet's eye.
Like pensive beauty smiling in her tears,

/' 11

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li'i

160

CAMPBELL.

'Tis diBtance lends enchantment to the view,

Like angel-viHits, few and far between.

And yet they differ ! Campbell possessed the greater mental
energy and the deeper spiritual power. Whether from the
stronger impulses of the age or the inherent capacities of the
man, certain it is that in his war-songs the Scotch poet shows a
force, a fire, an energy together with a freedom of thought
altogether beyond the limited range of Goldsmith.

i,|

SELECTIONS FROM CAMPBELL.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Ye Mariners of England

That guard our native seas !

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze !

Your glorious standard launch again 6

To match another foe :

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow ;

While the battle rages loud and long

And the stormy winds do blow. 10

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave —

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave :

Where Bhike and mighty Nelson fell 16

Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow ;

While the battle rages loud and long

And the stormy winds do blow. 20

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep ;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves.

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak fiU

S; ..

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[161]

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162

SELECTIONS PROM CAMPBELL.

She quell8 the floods below —
As tliey roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow ;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors !

Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of vour name,

When the storm has ceased to blow ;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storrxi has ceased to blow.

. 30

\:\ !'

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce caine forth

All the might of Denmark's ciown.

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on. *

Like leviathans afloat
Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line :

6ATTLB Of TUB BALTIC.

163

It was ten of April morn by the chime :

Aa they drifted on tlieir path 16

There was silence deep as death ;

And the boldest held his breath

For a time.

But the might of England flush'd

To anticipate the scene ; 20

To her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space lietween.

'Hearts of oak !' «>ur cajitains cried, when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 25

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of tlie sun.

Again ! again ! again !

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back ; —

Their shots along the deep slowly boom

Then ceased-— and all is wail,

Aa they strike the shatter'd sail ;

Or in conflagration pale

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then

As he hail'd them o'er the wave,

* Ye are brothers ! ye are men !

And we conquer l>ut to save : —

So peace instead of death let us bring :

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet

With the crews, at England's feet,

And make submission meet

To our King.'

164 8BLEOTION8 FROM TAMPHKLL.

Tlien Denmark bless'd our chief

That he gave her wounds repose ;

And the sounds of joy and grief

From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from t he day : 80

While the sun look'd smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise I 65

For the tidings of thy might,

By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;

And yet amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep 60

Full many a fathom deep

By the wild and stormy steep,

Elsinore !

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride

Once so faithful and so true, 65

On the deck of fame that died.

With the gallant good Riou :

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave !

While the billow mournful rolls

And the mermaid's song condoles 70

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave !

1^ ••

HOHENLINDEN.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

ir.

H0HBNLIMDB9. |Q0

But Linden saw another sight, 5

When the drum heat at dead of night
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger ueigh'd
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills wu. / 'hundor riven;
Then rush'd the steed, to ! attle driven ;
And louder than the ^M)lts of Heavru
Far flauh'd the lod artille^'y.

But redder yet that ligVb (hall glow
On Linden's hills of sbiindd snow ;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 20

'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rollijig dun.
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye Brave 25

Who rush to glory, or the grave 1
Wave, Munich I all thy banners wave.
And charge with all thy chivalry !

Few, few shall part, where many meet !
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 30

And every turf beneath their leet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

« \

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166

r<BLECT10NS FEOM CAMPBELL.

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THE RIVER OF LIFE.

The more we live, more brief appear

Our life's succeeding stages :
A day to childhood seems a year,

And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth,

Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals lingering like a river smooth

Along its grassy borders.

But as the care-worn cheek grows wnn.
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker.

Ye Stars, tliat measure life to man,
Why seem 3'our courses quicker?

When joys lia^e lost their bloom and breath

And life itself is vapid,
Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,

Feel we its tide more rapid 1

It may be strange — yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding.

When one by one our friends have gone
And left our bosoms bleeding ?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength

Indemnifying tleetness ;
And those of youth, a seeming length,

Proportion'd to their sweetness.

{ ,1

\\M

NOTES ON CAMPBELL.

THE WAR SONGS.

The best of our folk-Kongs or ballads, springing as tlioy do,
naturally and spontaneously, from the heart of the whole
people, represent, in their application to a particular epoch, not
a trivial, ephemeral or local interest, but give utterance,
explicitly and implicitly, to a great national thought and a great
national movement. The Robin Hood ballads recall to us the
mediaeval struggle against unjust social and feudal conditions ;
the Border Minstrelsy had for basal thought the invincible
spirit of independence that hung about the vales and peaks of
the Cheviots.

What is true of the ballad a^^ the spontaneous product of a
nation's tendencies and a nation's aspirations is also true of the
greater works of the individual poet as well as of a special
"school" of poets. The peculiar significance of Shakspere's
dr<«ma lay in its expression of the new and powerful Elizabethan
interest in man ; the significance of the epics of Milton arises
from their interpi-etation of the Puritan's conception of the
relations between God and the human soul ; while Wordsworth
reveals to us — as the main principle of his poetic creed - the
restorative influences of the inter-action of nature and the
spirit of man. In like manner and to a degree quite in keep-
ing with his comparative inferiority as a poet, the greatness,
the true inwardness of Campbell's war- songs can be understood
only from a discovery in them of the sj)irit, the yearnings and
the enthusiasms of the age out of which they have directly
sprung.

[167]

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168

NOTES ON CAMPBELL.

Mighty impulses swayed men's minds. True, "the thing
we specifically call French Revolution," had in appearance
failed, had been " blown into space and had become a thing
that was," but on its ruins in France arose the gigantic
despotism of the first Napoleon. To this tyranny all Europe
responded with the spirit of strenuous effort, of patriotic self-
sacrifice and of undying resolve. Such a spirit reigning every-
where, found expression everywhere. The Arndts, the Kbmers
of Germany, sang to a glorious conclusion the " War of
Liberation " ; Burns had spoken out amid the trumpet tones
of his Scots Wha Hae, Scott thrilled all Britain with his
heroic death of Marmion, and gave us in Branksome Hall,
where warriors kept watch night and day in complete armour,
a picturesque image of the England of the time. The heroic
mood of the country, its national spirit and passion forced
a response from Campbell.

But Campbell's songs represent more than the war-spirit
of England. England's greatness, as well as her existence,
depended then, as it h;id depended for centuries before, upon
her naval supremacy, and upon their acceptance and glorifica-
tion of this assured and certain fact, palpably and essentially
significant, did his lyrics rely for their greatness and
permanence.

The subject-matter of these war-ballads is the subject-matter
of all such songs. The past with its heroic men and heroic
deeds is invoked ; the present is heralded with its opportunities
and its capabilities ; the future depicted with its oft-repeated
rewards of " song, feast and fame." The manner is the natural
manner of ballad poetry, brisk, animated, enthusiastic ; the
cadence is shifting and melodious, the movement rapid and
the imagery vivid and suggestive. At times, carried away by
the enthusiasm of the moment, the diction may grow vague
and meaningless, the figurative conceptions far-fetched, the
metrical form irregular, the logic of the thought involved and

NOTES ON CAMPBELL.

169

complex, but these weaknesses only argue a corresponding
increase in spiritual energy and enthusiasm and rarely ma/
what is the characteristic feature of the poems — a un'ty of
purpose and effect.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

The exact date of production of this poem has been left in doubt.
Biographers generally assign it, together with Hohenlinden, to the year
1800; the poet's autobiographical remains tell as that the patriotic ring
of this lyric, when discovered among his papers in 1802, by the sherifT
of Edinburgh, saved him from arrest for suspected treason. It formed,
with The Pleasuren of Hope, The Battle of the Baltic, Lord Ullin's
Daughter, O'Connor's Child, an 1809 edition of Campbell's works.

6. The "other foe," referred to here, was Russia, with her allies
Denmark and Sweden, in the Armed Neutrality of the North. See notes
on the Battle of the Baltic.

9, 10. Note the repetition of this in other stanzas — an artifice
borrowed from old ballad measures. To what extent has Campbell in
these war-songs departed 'rem the rej^ular ballad form ? See notes on
the Ancient Mariner for the ballad measures, etc.

15. Blake, the great admiral of the Commonwealth time, died from
natural causes while entering Plymouth Sound on his return from an
expedition against Santa Cruz. This line when Hrst printed — before the
battle of Trafalgar — read :

Where Biake, the hoast of freedom, felL

31, 34. Compare with notes on the Battle of th" Baltic, 11, 19, 20.

36, 37. See Battle of the Baltic, 11. 65-8.

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

The surrender of Malta to an P^nglish fleet in 1800 incensed the Czar
Paul, who looked upon himself as the patron of the hereditary i)roprie-
tors of that island — the Knights of St. John. Taking advantage of the

,j^,:

^llMl

170

NOTES ON CAMPBELL.

«l:

i ■

M^P

irritatiou in Denmark and Sweden over England's enforcement of the
Kight of Search over neutnal vessels, he drew them with himself into a
northern coalition against the latter power. An English fleet, under
Sir Hyde I'arker and Vice- Admiral Nelson, hoping to forestall a union
of the Baltic fleets, entered the Sound in April 1801, appeared before
Copenhagen, attacked and silenced the Danish batteries, captured the
bulk of the Danish ships and forced Denmark to withdraw eventually
from the coalition.

1. Compare with the opening verse of the ^Eneid : arma virumque,
cano, etc.

5. The Danish defences consisted of battle-ships, mortar-boats, land
batteries, and huge floating batteries. Compare 11. 10, 11 below.

8. The Prince Royal of Denmark was commander-in-chief.

15. The English fleet under Nelson weighe<l anchor in the offing at
9 o'clock and sailed before a gentle breeze into the harbour of (Copen-
hagen tlirough a narrow channel flanked by moored batteries.

19 20. " Perhaps absolute correctness or definiteness of diction is
less to be insisted upon in what is ejaculated than whav is concocted."
Exemplify what you may call Campbell's faults of diction and faults of
sound in these war-songs. What in part may account for these faults
and what in part condone them ?

21. Fleeter— implies a comparison. With what or whom ?

22. Deadly— from the dangerous shoals and from the raking fires
of the batteries.

26. Like the sun hidden by a southern storm.

Note the cumulative effect of 11. 23-27. Campbell with characteristic
power often in these ballads depicted a whole scene with a few graphic
touches.

27-36. An unusually stubborn engagement of four hours' duration.

37-45. Several Danish vessels had struck their flags and drifted
lielplessly into range of both the.r own and the English cannon. To
save the crews, Nelson humanely sent a messenger to the Prince Royal
with a flag of truce oflFering a temporary cessation of hostilities on con-
dition of surrender of the helpl-iss vessels, and expressing a hope for a
reconciliation of the two nations. " The brave Danes," he wrote, •' are
the brothers and should never be the enemies of the English."

40. Save from absorption by her great allies, Russia and France.

50. As the battle -smoke cleared away.

NOTES ON CAMPBELL.

171

63. Blsinore. A Danish seaport on a rocky coast within twenty-
five miles of Copenhagen. It commands the Sound. Why used here
instead of Copenhagen ?

67. RioUi a gallant English captain, was slain in command of a
squadron.

HOHP]NLINDEN.

This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians, under
Archduke John, and the French, under Moreau, in a forest near Munich
and not far from the Isar Kiver. Campbell claimed — though perhaps
untruthfully — to have been present on the scene either during or
immediately after the battle.

11-16. Compare in manner with Drayton's Battle of Ayincourt :

They now to fij^ht are (?one :
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan ;
To hear was wonder ;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake ;
Trumpet to trumpet spake ;
Thunder to thunder.

THE RIVER OF LIFE.

The strong and animated movement, the majestic Byronic
energy of Campbell's war-verse have here given place to a
gentler cadence and an air of delicate and pathetic mildness so
cluiracteristic of the later works of the poet.

The thought of the poem has been in ])art expressed in
almost the same figurative language by Longfellow :

The meadow-brook that seenietli to stand still
Quickens its current aa it nears the mill ;
And so the stream of time that lingereth
In level places and so dull appears,
Runs with a swifter current as it nearf
^e gloomy mills of Deall^.

I'l '

il. •

HENRY WADSWORTTI LONGFELLOW.

[Henry W.vclsworth Longfellow was born Fobruiiry 27, 1807>
in Portland, Me., of worth}' New p]ngland stock. Trained in
private schools and in Portland Academy, he entered Bowdoin
College in 1821, was graduated with high jjonours in 1825, and,
looking with indifference upon the profession cliosun for him — law,
he enthusijistically accepted in the same year an appointment as
Professor of Modern Languages in his Alma Mater. Three years
were allowed him wherein to better fit himself for the duties of
his position, and these three years were spent abroad in France,
Spain, Italy and Germany, travelling, studying and acquiring
facility in the use of the great Eurojjean languages. Returning
to America in 1829 he entered upon his professional duties, giving
all his energies to the routine of class work, to researches into the
pliilology of tlie Romance tongues, and to the preparation of text
books for his students. Thus restricted in his powers by his petty
duties at Bowdoin, he gladly accepted in 1834 an appointment as
successor to Professor Ticknor in the chair of Modern Languages
at Harvard. Immediately he again went abroad to study the
languages of Northern Europe, especially those of Germany and
Holland. Whilst passing through tlie latter country he was detained
at Rotterdam by the sudden illness and death of his wife — a Miss
Mary Storer Potter, whom he had married in 18.'}1. He assumed
in 1837 the duties of his chair in Harvard, and remained in active
work as professor until 1854, Avhen he retired to devote all'his time
to literature. In 1801 he suffered a terrible loss in the distressing
death by fire of his second wife — a loss that for some years be-
numbed his poetic faculties and threw over his remaining days an
air of pensive and lonely e.xclusiveness. Third and fourth trips he
made to Europe in 1842 and 18(58, receiving in his last visit to
England the most cordial welcome from the Universities and
the literary world. In 1882, in his own home — Craigie House — at

[173]

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LIFE OP HENRY WADSWORTFI LONOFKtLOW.

Camhriflgo, near Boston, he quietly passed away — the peaceful
end of a singularly peaceful life.]

Chronological List of Longfellow's Chief Works as Published-

Coplas de Manrique (trauslatioii)

Outre-Mer (travels)

Hyperion (prose romance)

Voices of the Night

Ballads and other Poems

Poems on Slavery

Spanish Student (drama)

Poets and Poetry of Eur()j)e

Belfry of Bruges

Evangeline

Kavanagh (prose romance)

Seaside and Blreside

Golden Legend (dramatic poem)

Hiawatha

Miles Standish

Tales of a Wayside Inn

Flower-De-Luce

Divine Comedy of Dante (translation)

New England Tragedies

Divine Tragedy

Christus

Aftermath

Hanging of the Crane

Masque of Pandora

Keramos

Ultima Thule

In the Harbour (Ultima Thule, Pt. 11.)
Michael Angelo (dramatic fragment) . . .

1833
183")
1839
1839
1841
1842
1843
184r)
]84(>
1847
1849
1850
18;-)!
18o5
1858
1803
1867
iSG7-70
1808
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1878
1880
1882
1884

LITERARY LIFE ANt) THOUGHT.

" The literature of America," says Whipple, " is but an
insufficient measure of the realized capacities of the American
mind. When Sir William Hamilton declared that Aristotle
had an imagination as great as that oi Homer, he struck at
the primary fact that the creative energies of the human mind
may be exercised in widely different lines of direction.
Imagination is, in the popular mind, obstinately connected
with poetry and romance, and when the attempt is made to
extend the application of the creative energy of imagination
to business and politics, the sentimental outcry becomes almost
deafening. ... In fact, it is the direction given to the
creative facultv that discriminates between Fulton and
Bryant, Whitney and Longfellow. ... It would be
easy to show that in the conduct of the every-day transactions
of life, more quickness of imagination, subtllity and breadth
of understanding and energy of will have been displayed by
our business men than by our authors.

By the necessities of our position, the aggregate mind of
the country has been exercised in creating the nation as we
now find it. . . . The nation out-values all its authors,
even in respect to those powers which authors are supposed
si)ecially to represent. No one can write intelligently of the
progress of American literature during the pa-^t hundred years

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LONGFELLOW.

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without looking at American literature as generally subsidiary
to the grand movement of the American mind."

In considering the literary character of any particular epoch
in American history, or in estimating the relative worth of any
particular American thinker — though he be like Longfellow, in
many respects the most interesting and in all respects the
most popular of her authors— the student of literature will
feel strongly the significance of the truth that underlies their
quotation, and will recognize to some extent the limitations
that mar the greatness of America's literary men. AVordsworth
and Coleridge, if not to their immediate contemporaries, at
least to our generation, stand forth upon the threshold of this
century as the commanding figures of the .age, the moulders and
wielders of English opinion, the philosophers whose thoughts
pervaded all phases of life, directed to some extent all the
energies of man, the prophets whose inspired visions revealed
the wonders of human life and the mysteries of the spiritual
world. From such heroic figures as these we turn to Bryant,
or Poe, or Whittier, or Longfellow, with a painful sense of loss.
Here is no shaping spirit, no inspired prophet, no profound
philosopher ! But here are literary men, translators, elegant
versifiers, and, to some extent, poets, relatively speaking, great
American poets, reflecting imperfectly, rarely leading or shap-
ing the aggregate of American thought. Here, too, are uttered
philosophies, borrowed in origin, detached and incoherent in
method, involving a body of thought " quite subsidiary to the
grand movements of the American mind." The student of
American literature, then, must approach lus work with the
conviction that however mighty are the great forces or ten-

r»och

LITERARY LIFE AND THOUOHT.

177

deiicies at work shapiiii; the current of the national life, these
forces spcMid their momentum in other and widely scattered
H(!lds of eiKM-^'y, not in literature ; that in so far as literary
thought, or aliove all, poetry, is the result of these mighty
influences, as such a result it must be regarded as compara-
tively insignifioant ana subsidiary. Or, to put it in another
way — the causes beinr; known as potent and far-reaching— the
student must add no fictitious value to the (^ll'ects. Of no
American author must he be more careful in his estimate than
r)f Longfellow, because of him it may be said that more
inade([uately than others does he represent the stronger and
gn^ater movements of the age.

Up to the beginning of the 19th century American life and
tendencies were altogether practical, material and utilitarian.
The range of thought and of spiritual experience had been
narrowed in the earnest struggle for existence against the
sterner forces of nature. Such creative powers and impulses
as had not become sterilized were busily engaged in matters
of industrial or mechanical progress. Externally, too, there
pressed upon the American the burdens of great foreign com-
plications : the mighty efforts for national existence put
forth tentatively early in the 18th century were not to cease
until the war of 1812 had removed all fears of foreign inter-
ference. Whilst in these external and objective relations
American life had narrowed, hardened and grown moi-e
intense, there were also at work mighty forces, shaping and
moulding the moral life of the ii-T/Ion. The early Puritan
temper — that of the Stuart days — so nibble in its sense of

personal independence and personal responsibility, so calm and
12

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T.ON'OFRLLOW.

self-controlled in its piimit,iv(( ;in<l idciil foiins, liiiJ grown
hurHli and limited in later years. Whilst honourin;^ at tirst
and (l«!velo|>irjg as no othor uiovenient, the true greatness of
tlin individual soul, this same Puritan temp(!r and spirit
expn\ssed itself hefore the end of the 17th century laigely in
caricature an<l degtMUiration — *' in arehitifcture as sipuii-e*
meeting houses with hippisd njofs and belfr-ies ; in sculj)ture aa
grave-stones with winged death's-heads in l»»w relief; in
poetry, as epitaphs and elegies; in decoration, whitewash ; in
music, the 'lining-out ' of psalms ;" — and yet in some featuies
the early Puritan tempei- ha<l not altogether disa|)peared.
Through the grotesipie excresences of 17th century bigotry, it
had suocessfull\' passed ; through, the materiaUsm, the immo-
rality', the fatalism of the Post-lie vol utionary period— and
now in the first (piarier of the l!)th icntury it was still a
livinj' factor in the Ameriv:an character. The American
temper was still sei'ious, still religious, and amid the restrain-
ing influences of a continued struggle with material things,
still altogether sane.

But the 19th century ushered in a new age — what we may
call an ethical age. Politically the country had asserted her
supremacy on this continent, had rapidly extended her boun-
daries and with unpjwalleled success developed her resources.
More than ever men's thoughts now turned to the investiga-
tion of internal and domestic problems. Before the mind of
the nation came up for settlement the questions of freedom
and uni(^n, of slavery and disunion. Standing, too, on the
verge of a new era of democratic life, truer, fresher, and more
robust than the old life, nobler and more humane in its

LITERARY LlPfi ANt) TilOUOIlT.

179

Workings, the AiiUM-ican toinpor ])OcniiiP more cheorful ; wider
synipathicM arose ; man uiilnii'dcned liimsclf of tlie weakuessj'S
of 18th century thought ; self-love gradually (lis.ippeareii Itefoie
love of the race ; appeals to emotions and sympathetie in-
terests replaced appeals to reason. Such an era, so essen-
tially ethical in its aim and character, must hav(^ wielded ex-
tensive and far-reaching influences upon the whole succeeding
century. Tt wrought great changes in theology. lioftier
became the dignity of the naked human soul ; more human
' licame the conc(^ption of th(^ life of Chiist; the world was an
incarnation of God ; man was a new-born bard of the Holy
(jrhost, ever open to the influx of the all-knowing s[»irit ; the
Bible was but one form of revelation ; through all was seen a
realization of the grander and more spiritual realities. And
it was not without its profound influence upon society and
social questions. Americans became leaders in the work of
philanthropic reform. Prisons and hospitals, intemperance
and slavery come under the processes of practical legislation —
woman's rights, missions, pantisocratic schemes, Brook Farms,
New Harmony societies, are fresh fields of ethical work and
thought. But greatest of all results was the new and jn-o-
found view of the relations existing between man and nature.
Channing by the seashore could say : " here in reverential
sympathy with the mighty power around me, I become con-
scious of power within;" here he found his noblest joy, "the
happiness of communing with the works of God." Emerson
felt that the greatest delight in nature was the suggestion of
the occult relation between man and the vegetable. Tt is
from this recognition in America of the new scheme of 01*60-

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Loi^(jFKrj,oW.

tioii, that Nvc have tlie landscape-views of (^iflonl, the nature-
studies of Audulion, and the contein})lative jioenis of Bryant,
No sli_i;lit propelling force in thus turning nu^n's thoughts to
the relations between man and nature, and through and
beyond nature-woi-ship to transcendentalism must have l)(»en
th(i study of foreign mo(h>ls. Wordswoi'thianism gently made
its way aci'oss the Athmtic to burst forth in that enthusiastic
nature-song, Thanatopsis. Coh'ridge did not remain without
his influence. In an edition of his Aids to Hijlection, his
transcendental ideas first came to American minds. (Termany
added her influence through the translations and essays of
Carlyle and thrt)ugh the widespread interest gathering around
th(! last days of Coethe. These new foi'ces, native and assimi-
lated, togetlier with the re\ival hi universities of CJreek
studies, condjined to produce l^^n rson, ;;«?' excellence, the
king of Amei'ican ti-aiiscendentalists.

As the (uirly and purely ethical or sentimental stage of the
thouu'ht movement of this centuiv a(l\anced towards tran-
scendentalism, the indi\ idual American became more and more
emancipated from custom, less and less timid and obsequious
to public (tpinion ; less sensiti\e <» foreign criticism, and
moi'e ap[)reiiensive of a moral law and of the indwelling of (he
universal S})irit in the hearts of men, working the fusion of
(bid, man and nature. "The uniscrse becomes trans}»arent,"
e.xclaimed Emerson, "and the light of highei- laws tlian its
own shines through it. Tlie moral law lies at the centre of
nature and radiates to tlie ciicumfi'rence. The .spirit alters,
moulds, makes nature."

Such an age, moved by such suggestive and far-reaclujig

LITERAKY LIFK AND THOUGHT.

181

^chiliy

iiiduences, rich in thought and life, cheerful, buoyant, fresh,
impulsive, yet growing more and more spiritual, demanded
interpreters. Channing, Etnerson, Wliittier, Bryant and
Longfellow appear. Where and in what rank shall we place
Longfellow? We have already said that he, of all great Ameri-
can thinkers of the day, represented most imperfectly and most
inadec^uately tlieso greater national movem(»nts to winch we
have referreil. Indeed to these mighty inHuenct^s in their
entirety he could not enthusiastically respond ; his life and
temper were n(\gative in character ratluM- than positive.
Living in the same age;, he had little of the moral intensity or
[)assion of Wliittier, of the spiritual fei-vour of Channing, <<t
Bryant's minute and loviiig a{)pi't^3iation of naturt;, of J^jner-
son's lofty intellectual courage and his transcendentalism.
And ytit Longftdlow's thought is moral, is s{)ifitual ; lie
does love nature and has ii\tellcctual independence. Possessed
of moderate intellectual power, of I'crtned sensibilities, of
scholai'iy tast<vs, ]w, caught just so much of tin; aims and
aspirations of the day as was within the reach of the gi-eat
mass of the American people, and his poetic fame rests up(m
the skill of word, of verse, of imagery, of illustration, with
which he has re[»i'esented these aspirations to the conscious-
ness of man. In ord;M- more clearly to understand this, let us
hurriedly re\iew his literary life and growth, attempting, as
h(! ]>asses through the \arious stages of his development, to
point out the comparatively insignilicjvnt intluences of the
great forces of the age ujxrn his work and character. It will
be convenient to regard his development under two distinct
heads : (a) The appi-enticeship period, wherein he was but a

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LONGFELLOW.

man of letters; (6) the poet period, wherein he attempted
native and spontaneous v/ork.

(a) APPIIKNTICKSHIP — THE MAN OP LETTEHS.

Born in Porthind, Maine, in a north-eastern state, the
poet's youth was passed amid tlie fading influences of Puritan-
ism. Little was there in his surroundings, whether at home
01' at school, to arouse in him passionate and soul-stir)-ing
energi<;s, to stimulate him to strong and strenuous effort.
His father, blessed with no creative genius in himself, sur-
rounded the youth with a refinement, an austerity, a moral
exactness that recall another father and a much greater son —
the (Toethes. The mother — a typical product of what was
characteristic in Puritanism — was intensely fervent and reli-
gious. In this strongly moral atmosphere, with its culture and
yet with its sturdy connnon sense, the boy lost all traces of
coarseness and gained his delicacy of taste, his sensitiveness,
his steady, moral and moralizing temper, and his indifference
to the warmth and glow of the passions of life. Nature, in so
far as he lived in her presence at Portland, did little to
develop his growing mind. Indeed all influences to him,
other than those of his home, were of an earthly, materialistic
cliaracter, narrow, non-stinmlative and uiivital. E^ en his
memories of youthful joys are non-suggestive.

His early productions in verse — for as early as his Bowdoin
College (lays he had written verses — possess some smoothness
of versificati(m but embody no poetic thought, boast no spark
of poetic fire : they are imitative, derivative, and issue from a
very slender poetic reed- Even here, however, is revealed his

LITERARY LIFE AND THOUGHT.

183

relation to the great external world. Nature and human lifi;
are his su])joets only so fai- as in them he sees reflected artistic
forms and possibihties of treatment. Instinctively lu; turns
from (lie elemental significance, the spiritual content of things,
to colour, richness and decorative grace.

It is interesting to note in Longfellow the sti'uggle for the
attainment of a vehicle of expression. lie had very eai'ly in
life felt the yearnings of a literary spirit — not of a creative
impulse -and calmly stated to his father his determination to
seek expansion in literature : " I most eagerly aspire after
future eminence in literature ; my whole soul burns ardently
for it and every earthly thought centres in it. . . Surely
there never was a better opportunity offet-ed for exertion of
literary talent in our own country than is now offered.
"Whether natuie has given me any capacity for knowledge or
not, she has at any rate given me a very strong predilection
for literary pursuits ; and I am almost confident in believing
that if 1 can rise in the world, it must be by my exercise of
my talent in the wide field of literature."

This letter, vith its ([uiet tone of settled conviction, leads us
to expect what later years tui'iKHl into fact. From intiuiate
knowledge of his own powers and limitations, he shaped his
life with singular felicity in harmony with the capacities that
were his by birth. Whether from the instinctive tastes and
sensibilities of his own being or from the force of his own
voluntary effort, certain it is that amid all the vicissitudes of
a long life, Longfellow never failed to follow that path "which
his mtellectual and emotional endowment pointed out."

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LONGFELLOW.

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At college he lived in his liooks, untouched by outside
influences, ))ut catching in his linguistic studies the intei-pret-
ing j)ower of litei-ature. In foi-eign literary models, indeed,
not in actual contact with iiien, he sought interesting revela-
tions of life, and in the ordinai'V duties of his instiuctorship
he went to those literary pi'oductions wherein was end)odied
hu)nan experience in its most sympathetic foini. Jlis ti'aveis
in I^]nrope, 1826-29, gave him so widened an acipiaintance
with historic and contemporaneous literature, s«» cniai'ged the
stores of his knowledge^ that he must moi'e imperativel}' than
ever seek a means of expre»ision. And this necessity for
utterance did not now point irresistibly towards poetry.
*' My poetic career is finished," he wrote his father when
returning from the continent. " Since I left America 1 have
hardly put two lines together " Such means of expression of
concrete facts as wei'e naturally his — the text-book for his
classes, the lecture, the pamphlet, the essaj' — grew distasteful
to him. In them it was impossible regulai'iy to classify and
arrange the wealth which his travels had poured upon him,
and now, in addition, his delicacy of taste demanded more
permanent and more artistic forms. As a natural result of
this striving for utterance, he published the im})ressions and
lessons of his trip abroad in Ontre-Mer : A Pilgrimage B<yond
tlie Sen. No deep insight into the heai-t of man has the
author as yet, no love of the finer products of man's genius —
paii»ting and sculpture, no originality of thought, imperfect
mastery of the material he had amassed, and but little con-
structive power. In 1839 he published the impressions of
his second voyage woven into a prose romance, Ilyptrion.

rn?

LITEF^ARY LIFK AND THOUGHT.

185

Little skill in design does the romance show, but growing
lyrical and imaginative power. Tendencies, indetMl, are now
heading him strongly back towards poetry, and his own dis-
criminating taste is soon to be convinced that in prose,
thoughful, practical, argumentative prose, he can never find
complete utterance.

In his Ilijperion we note distinct traces of (xerman influences
— the pathetic, emotional, stMitimental colouring, the growing
tendency towards subjective thought, towards self-satisfied
moralizings, the air of I'omance with which the characters are
invested — and yet but few transcendental ideas have reached
him. His nature is altogether too earthly, tocj non-spiritual
to be moved as Emeivson was by the ideal conceptions of the
new philosophy. Spain he has already imitated in a transla-
tion of Cu/)/as lie Jfimrif/H,e ; Italy was to l)e studitul in Iwu'
masterpiece, 77ic' Divine Comedi/, and of English poets he did
not refrain from imitating lioth thought and form. We seem
to hear the music of More's Melodies in :

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the

They died in tlieir fjrlory, siin'oiiiided hy fame,
.\rid victory's loud trump llieir deiit.ji did proclaim ;
They are dead ; but they live in each patriot's breast,
And their names are enirraven (in hunour's l)rit,''ht crrst.

And Wordsworth's thought appears — sadly .shorn — in :

If tliou art worn and hard l)Oset
With sorrows, that tlioii wonldst forijet.
If ttiou wouldst read a lesson that will keej)
Tiiy heart from faintinj,' and th^' soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and iiills ! No tears
Dim the sweet look that tiature wears.

Longfellow at first instinctively and later in life intention
ally, accepts these foreign influences as tuicessary f<>r the

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LONGFELLOW.

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growth of American literature. " Ere the new world," he
says to "Whitman, " can be worthily original and announce
herseh and her own hoi'oes, she must be well saturated with
the originality of others and respectfully consider the heroes
that lived before Agamemnon," To the study of these foreign
models he brought his scholarly instincts, a pure, chivalrous
temper, and the modest, impressionable mind of a poet, com-
mingled with a gentle charity, a joy in life and a zeal for the
beautiful. But to this study he did not and he could not
bring that intensity of purpose, that strength of soul, that
prot\)und spiritual sympathy or that warmth and geniality of
nature that would renew, revivify, re-create in him the spiritu-
ality of the medi;>3val Italians, the transcendental philosophy
of the Germans or the nature-poetry of England.

THE POET.

AVith the publication of Hyperion in 1839 we enter upon
the true })oetic period of Longfellow's life. He is now a
finished scholar, with taste and powers expanded and matured
by years of study and experiment — and he remained a scholai',
though the urgency of the student's mood nmst vanish in the
full flush of intellectual manhood. His personal experiences
had luHM) enlarged and deepened ; maturity had brought its
hours of reflection and turned the eyes of the youth away from
the external world of fact. With a definite purpose he now
resolutely faces the realms of poetry as the sphere of his allotted
work, and with the exception of a disastrous effort in Kavanagli,
a rural romance, al)andons prose for life. Now, too, begins in
him what we may call the period of original production. He

LITERARY LIFK AND THOUGHT.

18:

liiinsclf feels assured !it last of the possession wifliin liiirisclf
of inatu!'e(i capacities for native poetic work. In the Prelude
io the Voices of the. Nvjltt we are told that his soul has now,
mingled and couihined with its experiences,

Dreiiins that fhu soul of youth eiigajje
Ere fancy has Iiihii <|uellL'(l ;
old legends of the monkish pajje,
Traditions of tlio saint and sajfe,
Tales that have the rime of age,
And chronicles of eld.

And with this wealth of specific and legendary fact went the
now vital memories of youth :

FIven in tho city's throng
I felt the freshness of the Htreams,
That crossed liy shndes ami sunny gleams,
Water the gieen land of dreams,
The holy land of song.

With a calm conviction of deeper and richer reflective powers,
he can sing :

Look, then, into thine heart, and write !
Yes, into life's (leep stream !
All forms of sorrow and delight.
All solemn voices of the night,
That can soothe thee or affright, —
Be these henceforth thy theme.

Henceforth the man of letters is gone and the poet reigns.

He is still inoulded, it is true, to some extent by foreign
influences. German thought predominates in the Voices of the
JVi'/ht (I8.3i>). There is heard the tender, roiuuntic and senti-
mental voice of Heine without his deeper pathos or his wilder
scorn, but in its domestic, reflned, humane spirit, the volume
is Longfellow's^and in its ever-growing tendency to moral i/e.
In fact, the tem[)er of the poet is changing. The fanciful

188

LONGFELLOW.

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romantic element of Iliji»rion is jL^radually melting into a
second pliase of thought in which the gicat American tcTid-
ency ai the day, its respci t for the innate worth of man,
and for the oneness of spiritual existence, l)attle<l strongly
with the serious Puiitanical temper of his own life and the
scholai'ly instincts of his Cambridge environment. Though
his thought for the next decade, l(S40-50, was more spon-
taneous, more native, more original, the ethical tendencies
were too strong for him, and at times he j)reached in verse,
Psalm after Psalm was pul)lished, turning with polished lines
and connnon-place thought upon the (piestions of every-day
American life— its hopes, energies, struggles, and its faith.

It is dirticult to say of Longfellow, as has been said of \^ ..<i-
ridge, that in spite of his own j)ersonal longings and of the
demands of the age, lie followed, in directing his creative im-
pulses, the trend of the develoi)ment of liis own thought, bong-
fellow's temper consorted well with the temper and genius of
the average American. With an instinctive consciousness of
the narrow compass of his poetic voice he shaped, in his lyrics —
his more spontaneous, though most didactic work — his thought
and expression in harmony with the connnon-place demands of
the great mass of Americans. From these sermons in verse,
he passed into more national forms, the ballads, and with a
definite purpose. " I have broken ground," he writes in 1840,
"in a new field with the * Wreck of the Schootier lle^peras^ on
the reef of Norman's Woe, in a great storm. I shall send it
to a newspaper. I think I shall Avrite more. The national
ballad is a virgin soil here in New England, and there are
great materials. Besides, I have a great notion of working

MTKKAnv LIFK AND THOUGHT,

] rJ

upon tlie peoj)l(i'.s focliiiqs. T dosiro a now sensation an<l a
new sot of critics."

The absence of the transcendental spirit from his Voices of
the Night, In's successful strui^gle against the broadenini;
Unitarian tendencies of the age were due to a large extent to
the non-inipressionnble character of his mind and perhaps to
his dry-as-dust scholarly instincts. Tn harmony with the same
instincts lu? turned quickly away from the great political
movements of the hour, the practical problems of education,
temperance, freedom and union. His poems on the slave
cjuestion are forced and uninspired, the righteous indignation
fictitious, and the spirit not national, whilst during the great
civil war his voice was almost silent.

P>utj»his poetic greatness is not to be estimated by his shorter
and perhaps more spontaneous poems alone. Of a healthy
temperament, his moral and mental powers bles.sed with more
tliuii usual activity, he could not be content with swallow-
lliiihts of song. Since 1S41, a conceptif)n of a gn^at poem had
lain uiiwi'ought in the mind of the poet. In 1842, growing
dail}' in mastery of the teehnicjue of his art and more conscious
of the powers within him, he had written .

Half of my life has gone and I lia\x' let,
The years slip from me and liave not fulfilled
The aspirations of my youth, to build
Some tower of sonj? with lofty para])et.
Not indolence, nor pleasure nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not he stilled,
But sorrow and a care that ahnost killed,
Kept me from what I nia\ acciniiplish yet.

The thought had c;ome to him to undertake a long and
elaborate poem with the name of Christ, the theme of which

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190

tOVOFP.M.OW.

would lt(> tho various aspects of Ohristendoiii in the apostolic,
middle and modern ages. Planned in 1841, this work was in
part completed in IST.'i. Lik(? (loethe's Fxit.st, the production
of the inasterpiece reflected the onw. "d march of the author's
intellect, recorded his most intimate thoughts, his hopes, his
faith, and his solution of life's pro})leiiis. Longfellow has
halllcd all douhts, is sincere in his trust, and catching
something of the century's spii'ilual enthusiasm relies u[)on
man's ultimate realization of the divine in mnn. Here we
have the riptMied and matured fiith of tin; singer; the con-
crete ethical pi'inciples of his short poems, the spirituality
Itocn of Dante, the tender ecclesiasticism i-etlected fi-oin jiis
mcdiicval studies are all combined in the final stage of his
creeil — "in man the divine is transparent" — and here he, in a
non-enthusiastic, unvital way, a})pi-oaches most closely a reali-
zation of the great religious movement of his time.

Of his other longer and more ambitious poems little need
be said. Tln^y may possess a wide sweep, gi-eat technical
skill, a nice sense of fitness, and may show a deep national
spirit, l)ut whethei- as /'Jvatujellnc, I/iaivafJid or MUes Standish,
they reveal to us nothing new in the inner life of the poet, A
great grief came to Longfellow in ISOl in the sudden death of
his wife. "][(; felt the need," says his biographer, "of some
contiimous and trantjuil (-)ccupation for his thoughts, and after
some months he sunnnoniMl courage to tak(> up ag.iin the task
of translating Dante.'' With distinct pleasure he returns to
his former means of contact with the minds of other poets,
but his long training in original work has strengthened his
powers, increased his skill, and enlarged his independence.

I.ITKUAHY MFK AND TiroifSJlT.

191

's, his

fn this task (»f translating he found a gentle stinuihis for liis
poetic life, and a (luickening of his spirit, *' I agree with
y(m completely," Ik^ writes to Fi'eiligrath, "in what yon say
al)out translations. It is like running a ploughshare thi'ongh
the soil of one's mind ; a thousand germs of thought start up
which otherwise mi^ifht have lain and rotted in th(^ •'round."
Translation seems to have heen particularly the field of work
for Longfellow's genius. And in conjunct ion with his worlc,
the word has a new and enlarged significance. His was not an
original mind ; out of th(^ rough nuiterials of lifo and nature
he could not hew definite and oi'ganized thought ; but of
thought as mirrored in history, in the arts, in jioetiy — as in
these it had liecn caught and organized by othei" and more
original minds,- -he could make a reari-angemcnt, in his own
most exquisite language, of what he found or admired. Tn
other words, he could not create, rarely did he rtjconstruct, ; in
rearranging find expressing the work of others he achi(!ved
success.

The poet never seems to have been without some greater,
more ambitious poem whei-ein to mirror his inner life. Ctm-
stantly — to within a year of his death — he did dash off light
snatches of song expressive of passing incidents (»r intei'ests,
but in secret some greater work called for his dcfpcr s\inpa-
thies, his calm reHections, the wealth of his inticr life. In
this greater work we see that a mild, serene temper has iictw
become his ; the beautiful platitudes of his middle age are
gone ; with greater classical rtigularity come finer critical
discrimination and a less fanciful glow. The iJirhie Tntgpihi
he completed in 1870, and innnediately l)egaa a dramatic

Rpna

192

LONOKRF-LOW.

. -I,

't, '

poem, Michad AikjpIo. This work, the socrot prodiK't of (lie
last docude of liis life, exinesscs his daily tli(tii<,'jit and records
his final views upon human life.

In the form of Michael Angelo we have no douht the
poet himself, With wisdom and calm reflection he broods
over the prohlems of life— and feels its failures, lleisunder a
spell which allects (die like :

Malaria of the iiiiiul,
Out of fhe toinl) of the majestic jiast;
That fever to accomplish some jrreat work,
That will not let us sleep. He must go on
riitil lie (lies.

ami he continues :

I Haw the anficiue statues,
The forms auf^nsl of yoda and Ood-like men,
And the i,'reat world of art re\eale<l itself
To my youiif,' eyes. Then nil that man liath done
Seemed jwssihle to me. Alas! liow little
Of all I dreamed of has m\ hand achieved !

I, "

ti II

And this sense, this conviction of toils unproductive, of work
unfinished, mijilit it not be the poet's consciousness of a yearn-
ino; to leave })ehind a .sometiiing created anew out of the
materials of his own af, > and country, seeing which men would
not lightly let his tjame die, or might it not he a confession of
a failure on his part oy the sli er force of mighty introspective
power to see into the very life an<l soul of things, and leave
them revealed to his fellowman?

Catching, then, and representing only so much of the age's
more stimulating ideas as came within the conscious recogni-
tion of the average American mind, Longfellow's influence
upon the subseijuent progress of thought in his country, upon

'V^'

LITEHARY LIFB AND TFIOUOHT.

193

its onward an«l upw.inl course tmist li.ivo hecn alight. But
greater far tliaii the iulhieiice of his philosophy of life or hia
gift of iti^piration was the sweet, pure, refining influenc*! of
his life itself, and the sirni)lieity of his life was his, not alone
by birth, by education, by environment, but became peculiarly
his through conscious ollbrt. " In life, ho chose and refrained
accordiug to the law of his will, and took clear views of hia
nature and its tendencies." "There was," says Soudder, "a
notable sanity about all his modes of life, and hia attitude
towards books, and nature, and man."

,.'

1
j

_ 1
r'

*■ 1

,^'

1
I

•

«■<

EVANGELINE.

A TALE OF ACAIJIE.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuriMj^ pines and the

hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the

twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, witii voice's sad and prophetic,
8tand like harpers lioar, with l)eards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring

ocean r,

Speaks, ani in ac;;ents disconsolate answers the wail of the

forest.

This is the forest primeval , })ut where are the hearts that
beneath it

Leaped like the roe, wlien he hears in the woodland the voice
of the huntsman 'I

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian
farmers, —

Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the wood-
lands, JQ

Darkened by shadows of earth, but retlecting an image of

heav n 'I
Waste are those pleasant faru.s, and the fanners forever

departed !
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of

October
Seize them, and whirl them aloit, aiuJ sprinkle them far o'er

the oceaii.
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of

Grand-Pre. ir

[195]

196

KVANGKLINE.

Yo who believe in affection tliat hopes, and endures, and is

patient.
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's

devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung \)y the pines of the

forest ;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.

ti 'I

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; I,

II":

PART THE FIRST.

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas, 2(y

Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre

Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched to the

eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without

number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmer had raised with labour

incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the flood-
gates 25
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the

meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and

cornfields
S})readiiig afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the

northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty

A tl antic 30

Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their ctation

descended.

EVANGELIKB.

197

ind is
iman's
)f the

lias, 2ft
to the

vithout
labour
flood-

I'er the

and

to the

mtains
[ghty

Ictation

Tliere, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly builfc were the houses, with frames of oak and of

hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the

Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; and gables

projecting 35

Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the

sunset
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the

chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs vspinning the

golden 40

Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles witliin

doors
Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the

songs of the maidens.
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the

children
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless

them,
lleverend walked he among them ; and up rose matrons and

maidens, 45

Hailing his slow approach with words of affeetionato w(^lcom(>.
Then came the labourers home from the field, and serenely tlii^

sun sank
Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from the

belfry
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the vilhige
Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending, c,o
Hose from a hundred heai'ths, the homes of peace md

couteutment

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108

EVANORMNK.

Thus dwelt tojj^otlior in love tliose sinni)l<' Acadian f.-nniors, —
Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were tliey free

from
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of

repul)lics.
NeitluM' locks had they to tlieir doors, nor bars to their

windows ; 55

But tlipii- dwellings were' open as day and the hearts of the

owners :
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.

|f,',|,

'Hi

i? i

Somewh.'it apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of
Mi nils,

Benedict i^ellefontaine, tlie wealthiest farinei' of Grand-Pi-e,

Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his house-
hold, (!0

Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and tlie pride of the village

Stal worth and stately in form was the man of seventy wintei-s;

Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-
flakes ;

White as the snow weie his locks, and his cheeks as brown as
the oak-leaves.

Fair was she to beliold, that maiden of seventeen summers ; m

Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by
the wayside,

Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade
of her tresses !

Sweet was hei- breath as the breath of kine that feed in the;
meadows .

When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide

Flagons of home-bi-ewed ah', ah ! fair in sooth was the
maiden. 7o

Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, v/liile the bell from its
turret

EVANGELINE.

199

Sprinkled with holy sounds the uir, as the priest with his
hyssop

Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,

Down the long street she passed, with hw ciiaplet of heads
and her missU,

Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-
"ngs, 7-

Brought in the olden time f-om France, and since, as an heir-
loom.

Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.

liut a celestial brightness — a more etlureal beauty

Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after con-
fession,

Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon
her. 8„

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite
music.

Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of the faniuM
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and a shady
Sycamoi-e grew by the door, with a w oodbine wreatliing around

it.
Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath, and a foot-
path g5
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in tlie meadow.
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a penthouse
Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the roadside
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of Mary.
Farther down, on the slope of a hill, was the well with its

moss-grown

Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for the

horses.
Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were the barns

and the farm-yard ;

I-

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200

EVANGELINR.

There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique ploughs
and the harrows ;

There were the folds for the sheep ; and the.e, in his feathered
seraglio,

Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with the self-
same 95

Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent Peter.

Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a village. In
each one

Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch ; and a staircase.

Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn-loft.

There too .- i dove-cot stood, with its meek and innocent
inmates loo

Murmiu'in^ -^vei : love ; while above in the variant breezes

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of mutation.

t'<'%\

ri "

■

1 1_ 1

■ii

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer of
Grand-Pr(5

Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed his house-
hold.

Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened his
missal, i05

Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest devotion ;

Happy was he wlio might touch her hand or the hem of her
ijaiinent !

Many a suitor came to her door by the darkness befriended.

And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of her foot-
steps,

Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the knocker of
iron : no

Or, at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the village,

Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he whispered

Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the music.

But, among all who came, young Gabriel only was welcome ;

(.f

?red

EVANG KLINE.

'201

Gabriel Lajeuiicsse, the son of Basil the blacksmith, us

Who was a mighty man in the village, and honoured of all men;
For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and nations,
Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the people.
Basil was Benedict's friend. Tiieir children from earliest

childhood
(}re\v up together as brother and sister ; and Father

Felician, 120

Fi-iest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught them

their letters
Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the church and

the plain-song.
But when the hymn was sung, and tlie daily lesson completed.
Swiftly they hurried away to the foi-ge of Basil the blacksmith.
There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to behold

him 125

Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a plaything.
Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire of the

cart-wheel
Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of cinders.
Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering

dai'kness
Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every cranny

and crevice, iw

Warm by the forge within they watched the labouring bellows.
And as its jmnting ceased, and the sparks expired in the ashes,
Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into the chapel.
Oft on sledge? in winter, as swift as the swoop of th ' eagle,
Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the

meadow. 135

Oft in the barns they clindoed to the populous nests on the

rafters,
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which the

swallow

202

EVi»Nr.KT.INK.

l>n*n<fs fiom th'^ shore <»f the sea to restore the sight of its

ilt^ljUtliiijLjs ;
Luckv was he who found tliat stone in the nest of the swallow !
Thus passed a few swift years, and they no loM<(er were

children. iw

He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of the

morning,
(iladdened the eai'tli with its light, and ripened thought into

action.
She was a woman now, witli the heart and hopes of a woman.
" Sunsliine of Saint Eulalie" was she called ; for that was the

sunshine
Which, as the farmers believed, would load their orchards with

apples ; ur,

She too would brii g to her husband's house delight and

ai/jndance,
Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children.

.I.

' iS rt

.^-M'

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■ -• ■( ,'

..,■■ , II

It : t

II.

Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder
and longer.

And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.

Birds of passage sailed through the leatlen air, from the ice-
bound, 150

J)esolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.

Harvests were gathered in : and wild with the winds of
September

Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with tlie angel.

All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.

Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had horded their
honey if.5

Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters assert.xl

Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the fo^^es.

KVANOFIIVK.

203

Sucli was the julvtnit of autumn. Then followed tluit beautiful
season,

Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Suinni tr of All-
Saints !

Filled was the air with a diH.niiv and niaL'ical lidit ; and the
landscape leo

Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.

Peace seemed to reig/i upon eailh, and th(> restless heart of the
ocean

Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony
blended.

Voices of children at phty, the crowin<,' of cocks in the farm-
yards,

Whir of wings in the drowsy :iir, and the cooiiif' of

pigeons,

16&

All were subdued and low as the muiuiurs of love, and the

great sun
Looked with the eye of \o\f- through the golden vapours

around him ;
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet ai d yellow,
Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittei-ing tree of the

forest
Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantUis

and jewels. i7o

Now recommenced the reign of i-est and affection and still-
ness.

Day with its burden and heat had ileparted, and twili<dit
descending

Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the
homestead.

Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each
other,

.it

.'t*

.«vl;

204

EVANORLINK.

And vvitli their nostrils distpiidod inhaliiij' the fi-ivsliness of

eveiinig.

157

Foremost, bearin<^ tlie hell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
Proud of iier snow-white hide, and the ribbon that w.ived from

her collar,
Quietly paced and slow, as if coiisci )us of hum;ui affection.
Then came the shepherd b-xek with his bleating flocks from the

seaside.
Where was their favourite pasture. J^ehind them f(jllow(^d the

watch-dog, ISO

Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his

instinct,
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers ;
Regent of flocks was he when the shepluMxl slept ; their

protector,
When from the forest at night, through the starry silenct;, the

wolves howled. 185

Liite, with the rising moon, returned the \/ains from the

marshes,
Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor.
Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their

fetlocks.
While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous

saddles,
Painted with brillant dyes, and .adorned with tassels of

crimson.

11)1)

Nodded in bright array, like holl3'hocks heavy with blossDuis.
Patiently stood the cows nif^anwhile, and yic^lded their udders
Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and iji regular o;idence
Into the sounding paih; the foaming strea^iilets descended.
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were lieu-rd m the farm-
yard, Ida
Echoed back by the barua. Arion they sank iut«* stdlness ;

RVANGKLINE.

205

Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of I lie barn-
doors,
Rattled the woodrn bars, and all for a season wfis silent.

.1)0

IS.

Tn-doors, vv;inr. by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly the
farmer
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the tlanies and the
smoke-wreaths 20(i

Stru,ij;g]ed together like foes in a burning city, jlehind him.
Nodding and mocking along the wall with gestures fantastic,
Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into dark-
ness.
Fac s, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm-chair
LaugJHid in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the
dresser 205

(!!!aught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sun-
shine.
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Chi-istmas,
Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vine-
yards.
Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline seated, 210
Spinning flax for the loom that stood in the corner behind her.
Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent shuttle.
While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the drone of a

bagpipe,
Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments

together.
As in a church, when the chant of the choir at intervals

ceises.

216

Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest at the

altar,
So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion the

•;lock clicked.

(

■■■■' \ I ■
■ .ii •
■■i'i«

Mill

J <

200

KVANOKLINR.

Tliiis as lilt'}' si(,, tlici'c; \v('i'(! fiMilslfjis liciid, jiiid, suddctily

lifted,
Soundi'd the v.oodeu latch, and tlif do'-r :-\vuii^ back on its

liiii,i,'(\s.
Jjenedict kiu^w by the lioh-iiailcd shoes it was iJasil hlack-

sniidi, -i-M)

And hy her heating heart Evangeline kninv who was with him.
"Welcome!" the farnjer exclaimed, as their footsteps paused

on the threshold,
"Welcome, JJasil, my friend ! Come, take thy place on the

settle
Close by the chinniey-side, which is always empty without tliee;
Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of

tobacco ; 226

Never so much thyself art thou as when, thi'ough the ui'ling
Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly ai.d j( (al face

gleams

Rounfl and red as the harvest moon through t> v.- mi^u of the
mai'shes."

Then, with a smih; of content, thus ;';i...»'ered J^c'isil the black-
smith,

Taking with easy air the accustomed seai ^y the iire-side: — 230

"Benedict Bellefcm'aine, thou hast ever th^ jest and thy ballad!

Ever in the cheerfullest uuhhI art thou, wK n others are filled
with

Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin bel !'^ them.

Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked ip a horse-
shoe."

Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline brought
him, 235

And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he slowly
continued : —

"Four days now are passed since the English ships at their
anchors

EVANOKLINi;.

f>OT

l{\(\v ill 111*' f!jisj)«'i'«'au'K iiumtli, willi flicir rjimum jMiinlfMl

H<^aiiist us.
What their (Icsi^'ii maybe is unknown; hut all are <'o)nTnanile<l
On the nioiTow to meet in the cluuvh, wlieie his iMiijest) s

mandate -lU'

Will he pfoclaimed as law in the land. Alas I in the mean-

time
Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the people."
Then made answer the farmer: — "Perhaps soua^ friei.dier

purpo.se
lirings these .ships to our shores. Perhaps the harvests in

England
]l\ untimely rains or untimelier heat have heen hli;>hted, 24.')
And from our l)ursting barns they would feed their eattle and

children."
"Not so think(;th tlie folk in the village," said, warmly, the

blacksmith.
Shaking his head as in doubt ; then, heaving a sigh, ho

continued : —

" IjOuisl)urg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, noi- Vnrt Hoyal

Many already have iled to the forest, and lurk on its out-
skirts, 2r.()

Waiting with anxi<»us hearts tlie dubious fute of to-morrow.

Arms liave })een taken from us, and warlike weapons oc all
kinds ;

Nothing is left but the blacksmith's .•;ledge and the scythe of
the mower."

Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial farmer : —

"Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our Hocks and oui-
cornfield.s, 255

Safer within these peaceful dikes Vjesieged by the ocean,

Thafi our fatheis in forts, besieged by the enemy's cannon.

Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no sliadow of sorrow

mssmmmmm

208

EVANGEriNR.

i-i.

Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night of the

contract.
Built are the house and tlie barn. Tlie merry lads of the

village 260

Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the glebe

round about tiiern,
Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for a twelve-
month.
Kone Leblanc will be here anon, with his pa})ers and inkhorn.
Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of our

children ?"
As apai-t by the window she stood, with her hand in her

lover's, 265

Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father had

spoken,
And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary entered.

III.

Berit like a labouring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,
Bent, but n<.>t broken, by age was the form of the notary

public ;
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize,

hunij 270

Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and glasses with

horn bows

Sat astride on his nose, with a*look of wisdom sui)ernal.
Father of twt'nty children was he, and more than a hundred
Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch

tick.
Four long vears in the times v)f war had he laii'ifuished a

captive, 27;')

Suft'erirtg much in an old French fort as the friend of the

English.

t '

EVANGELINR.

200

maize,

270

with

[■ed
,'atch

Now, though wanVr grown, without all guile or suspicion,
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children ;
For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest, 280

And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses.
And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers (»f

children ;
And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in tlie stable,
And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nut-
shell, 285
And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover and

horseshoes,
With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.
Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the bla'^ksmith.
Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his

right hand,
" Father Lebhuie," he exclaimed, " tliou hast heard tlie talk
in the village, 290

And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships and

their errand."
Then wath modest demeanor made answer the notary public, —
*'Go.ssip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;
And what their errand may be T know no better than others.
Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention 295

Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then molest

.?■

" God's name I " shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible

blacksmith ;
"Must we iji all things look for the how, and the why, and the

wherefore 1
Daily injustice is done, and might is tlu^ right of th(! stron"-est!"
But, without heeding his warmth, c<mtimied the notary

public, - auo

i 1

210

EVANGELINE.

11'

h r-t-

*' Man is nnjust, but God is just ; and finally justice
Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,
When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal."
This was the old man's favourite tale, and he loved to repeat it
When his neighbours complained that any injustice was done

them. 305

" Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justi"'"-
Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in z left hand,
And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice presided
Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the

people. ' 310

Even the birds had built tl.eir nests in the scales of the

balance,
Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above

them.
But in the course of time the laws of the la'^d were corrupted
Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed,

and the mighty
Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's

palace 3i5

That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a suspicion
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.
She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold.
Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.
As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended, 320
IjO ! o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the thunder
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left

hand
Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the

balance.
And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie.
Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was

inwoven.

)}

826

EVANGELINE.

211

36.

320

der
left

the

was

826

Silenced, Imt not convinced, M'hen the story was ended, t!ie

blacksmith
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but j&iideth luj

language ;
All his thoughts were congealed into lijies on his face, as t];o

vapoui's
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the wintcM-.

Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table, .'WO
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-bi'owed
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in tlie village

of Grand-Pre ;
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of tlie j)arties,
Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in

cattle. 335

( )iderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,
And the jjtreat seal of the law was set like a sun on the niaririn.
Tlien from his leathern ])()uch the farmer threw on the table
Three times the old man's fe>> in solid pieces of silver;
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bi-ide-

groom, 340

Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their W(!lfare.
W^iping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,
While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.
Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old

men 34C

Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful mana'uvre,
Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in

the king-row.
Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure.
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon

rise

212

EVANOELINE.

'''im t]

"!"»

li -

()v(»r tlie pallid s<^a aiul the silvory mist of the meadows. 3.^0
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the loverly stars, the foi'get-ni<'-nots of the angels.

Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from the belfry
Hang out the liour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway
Rose the gur^sts and departed ; and silence reigned in the

houselu)ld. 35.5

Manv a farewell word and a sweet good-night on the door-

step
Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with glad-
ness.
Car'efulJy then were covered the embers that glowed on the

heafth-stone,
And on ihe oaken st^a-rs resounded the tread of the farmer.
Soon with a soundless step the fo(^t of Evangeline fol-

k»\\'ed, 3G()

Up tlie stain-ase moved a luminous space in the darkness,
Liglited less by th-.^ lamp titan tli'^ shilling face. f)f the nit'den.
Silent she passed through the hall, and entered tiie dour of her

chamber.
Simple that chamber was, with its curtuin> of white, una its

clothes-press
Am}»le and iiigh, on whose spacious shelves were carefnlly

folde<l 305

Linen and woolh^i stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven,
'i'his was the prfciious dcjwer she would luring to her husband

in mai'riage,
Better ihan fiorks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a

hnUKe-wife.
S''on slit: extinguished her lamp, for the rnellov and radiant

m«HH. light
Streamed through the windi<\v,-i, and lighteii the roouj, till the

heart of the maiden 370

EVANGKLTNB.

213

$70

SwelJefl and obeyed its power, like the trcimulous tides of the

ocean.
Ah ! she was fair, exceeding fair to l)ehold, as she stood with
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chaiiiljer!
liittle she dreamed that below, among the trees of the oirhard,
Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and

her shadow. 375

Yet were lier tlioughts of liim, and at times a feeling of sadness

Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moon-
light

Flitted acioss the Moor and darkened the room for a moment.

And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely tlie moon
pass

Forth fi'ORi the folds of a clouil, and one star follow her foot-
steps, 380

As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with
Hagar.

IV.

Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village of (Jraid-

Pre.

Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of Minas,

Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were riding at
anchor.

Life had long been astir in the village, and clamcn'oiis

labour 38(1

Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the

m«»rning.
Now from the country around, from the farms and neighbourin<'

hamlets.
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian peasants.
Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh fi-oni the young

folk
JNIade the bright air brightei', as up from the numerous

meadows, 890

214

EVANfiELINE.

iiii

Where no path could l)o seen hut th(! track of wheels in tlie
greensward, •

Group after group apjxared, and joined, or j)assed on the high-
way.

Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labour were silenced.

Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy groups at
the house-doors

Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped together. 3!).')

Every house was an inn, M'liere all wer^ welcomed and feasted;

For with this sini])le people, wlio lived like brothers together.

All things were held in conunon, and what one had was
another's.

Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more abundant ;

For Evangeline stood, among the guests of her father ; 4(io

Bright was her face with smiles, and svords of welcome and
gladness

Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as .slie gave it.

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the orchard,
Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of betrothal.
There in the shade of the porch were the })riest and the notary

seated ; 504

There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the blacksmith.
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-p:-ess and the

beehives,
Michael the fiddlei- was placed, with the gayest of hearts and

of waistcoats.
Shadow and light from the leave.^ alternately played on his

snow-white
Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of the

fiddler 410

Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown from the

embers.
Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his fiddle,

EVANGRLINF.

•21-)

Tovs les Bovrgeois Je CharfreH, and Le CoriJlon <1e Din>krrque^
And anon with his wooden shoes lieat time to the music.
Merrilv, merrily whirled the w heels of the dizzvinir daricrs 4i.'i
Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the meadows ;
Old folk and young together, and children mingled among

them.
Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's daughter!
Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the ))lacksmith !

So passed the morning away. And lo ! with a summons

sonorous 4-20

Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the meadows a dium

beat.
Thronged ere long was the church with men. Without, in

the churchyard,
Waited the women. They stood by the giaves, and hung on

the headstones
Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from the

forest.
Then came the guard from the ships, and marching proudly

among them 425

Entered the sacred portal. With a loud and dissonant clangor
Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling and case-
ment,—
Echoed a moment only, and slowly the [jonderous portal
Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of the

soldiers.
Then uprose their commander, and spake from the steps of the

altar, 4«o

Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal commission.
"You are convened this day," he said, "by his Majesty's

orders.
Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have answered

his kindness,

216

EVANGKI.INK.

■..^S:ili

^:^m

f '

■„i

ill

■(Tl

Let your own hearts reply! T<» tny riratural make and my
temper

Painful the task is T do, which to you T know must be
grievous. 435

Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our monarch:

Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle of all
kinds

Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves from this
))i-ovince

Be transported to other lands, (lod grant you may dwell
there

Ever as faithful subjects, a hai)py and peaceable people! 440

Prisoners now 1 declare you, for such is his ^Majesty's pleasure !"

As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of summer,

Suddenly gathers a storm, and the leadly sling of the hail-
stones

Beats down the farmer's corn in the field, and shatters his
windows.

Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch from the
house-roofs, 446

Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their enclosures ;

So on the hearts of the people descended the words of the
speaker.

Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and then
rose

liouder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and ancrer.

And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the door-
way. 450

Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce imprecations

Hang through tlie house of prayer ; and iiigh o'er the heads of
the others

Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the black-
smith.,

As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows.

i:.^

EVANGKIJNE.

217

Flushed was his face and distortc^d with passion ; and wildly

he sliouted, — 45.'>

" Down with the tyrants of Enufland I we never have sworn

tluiin allegiance !
Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our homes and

our harvests 1 "
More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand of a

soldier
Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down to the;

pavement.

440

In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry conten-
tion, 400

Lo ! the door of the chancel opened, and Father Felician

Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of the jiltar.

liaising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed into sik^nce

All that clamourous throng; an thus he spake to his people ;

Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured and
mournful 465

tSpake he, as, after the tocsin's alarm, distinctly llu- clock
strikes.

"What is this that ye do, ray children? what madness has
seized you 1

Forty years of my life have I laboured among you, and taught
you.

Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another !

Is this the fruit of my toils, of m;' vigils and prayers and
privations 1 no

Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and tbrgivenoss 1

This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and would you pro-
fane it

Tims with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with hatred ?

Lo ! where the crucified Christ from His cross is gazing upon
you :

■-'M^t3nFSSmj^SJSL

'?'-^*-''rr2iiJP£^i'?i

h m

218

KVANGELINE.

J.,

''(II

'.'i

See ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy
«jom passion ! 475

Hark ! how those lips still repeat the prayer, 'O Father,
forgiven them ! '

Let us repeat that prayer in the liour when the wicked assail us,

L(!t us repeat it now, and say, ' O Fatliei-, forgive then* ! ' "

Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts of his
people

8ank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the passionate out-
break, 480

While they repeated his prayer, and said, " O Father, forgive
them ! "

Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed from

the altar;
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the people

responded,
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and the Ave

Maria
Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, with

devotion translated, 486

Rose on the ardour of prayer, like Elijah ascending to heaven.

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of ill, and
on all sides

Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women and
(jhildren.

Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her right
hand

Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, that, des-
cending, 490

Lighted the village street with mysterious splendour, and roofed
each

Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned its
windows.

• JS.

EVANOELINK,

219

Tjong witliin li.id boon spread the snow whito clofli on the. tiiblo ;
There stood tlic wheaten loaf, and the honey fVugrant with

wild tlowers ;
There stood the tankard of ale, and the chee.se fresh l)rou«^ht

from tlie dairy ; 405

And at the head of the hoard the great arm-chair of the

farmer.
Thus did Evani,'eHne wait at her father's door, as the sunset
Threw the long shadows of trees o'er tlu! broad ambrosial

meadcnvs.
Ah I on her s{)irit within a deeper shadow had fallen,
And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial

ascended, — 500

Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, and

patience !

Then, all-for^'etful of self, she wandered into the village,

CTieering with looks and words tlu^ mournful hearts of the
women,

As o'er the darkening fields with lingei'ing st«^ps they departed.

Urged by their household cares and the weary feet of their

children. 505

Down sank tlie great red sun, and in golden, glimmering

vapours
Veiled the light of his face, like the Prtjphet, descending from

Sinai.
Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus sounded.

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evangeline

lingered.
All was silent within j and in vain at the door and the

windows 610

Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by emotion
"Gabriel!" cried she aloud wit^h tremulous voice; but no

answer

':^!

lip

I' ,(!"■■

2 -JO

EVANnKLINK.

Chiih' from ^h^'. jjravfH of tli(^ dead, nor the gloornior grave of

the living.
Slowly at length she r<»1urned to the tenantless house of hn

fathei".
Smouldered th(! fire on tlu; hearth, on the board was the supper

untasted. r.i,.

I*]ni{)ty and drear was each room, and haunted with phantoms

«»f terror.
Sadly eehotMl her step on the stair and tin; llowr of her chatnlxM'.
Tn the dead of tlit^ nit^dit she heard the disconsolate lain fall
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree hy the

window.
Keenly tlu^ liglitning (lashed ; and the voice of tin; eeh(»ing

thund«;r 6Jii

Told her that (tod was in heaven, and governed the world He

created 1
Then she rememhei'eid the tale .she had heard of the justice of

h(?aven ;
Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully filumboi-rd

till morning.

Four times the sun had risen atid set ; and now en the fifth
day

Cheerily called tlie cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-
house. 525

Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent an'1 rv arnful procession,

Came fiom the neighbouring hamle , farms tin Acadian

women.

Driving in ponderous wains Mieir Iioum iiold L'joods to the sea-
shore,

Pausing and looking back to gaze once m ire on their dwellings.

Ere they were shut from sight by the windijig road and thf
woodland. 330

;rav(' of
I of hrt

6ir.
lutitoins

n full
by the

echoing

orltl He

jstice of

iiiibercd

u! fifth
e t'arrn-

525
CC>.si(>ll,

Vcadiau

the sea-

'elliui^s,
and tlif

S3U

PA'ANfJRr.TN'R.

S31

(!I<>se at, tlieir sides tlieij- children ivui, and uiLjcd on tli(^

oxen,
\\'lul(! in their little hands they clasped some fiai,'inents of

playthings.

Thus U} t\\v Gaspereau's mouth they hurried ; and tliere on

the sea-heach
I'iled in confusion lay the household <,'oods of the ))easants.
All day loni; hetwcH'ii the shore and the ships did the boats

ply ; r.n5

All (lav lon-i the wains came labouriny down from the village.
Late in th«; afternoon, when the sun was near to his set tin*;,
lichoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from tin;

churchyard.
Thither t;;e women and ciiildren thronged. On a sudden the

chur(;h doors
Op(»ned, and forth canm the guard, and marching in gloomy

procession 540

I'ollowed the hmg-impi'isoned, but patient, Acadiiin farm(M's.
1'iVen as pilgrims, who journey afar from their h(»mes and their

country,
Sing as they go, and in singing forget tliey ai-e weary and way-
worn,
So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants ilescended
Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and

their (laughters. 545

I'oi-emost the young men came ; and, raising togetlmr their

voices,
Sang with ti-(!mulous lips a cJiant of the Catholic Missions :—
•' Sacred luiart of the Saviour I « > inexhaustibh' fountain !
ImII our hearts this day with strength and submission and

patience.! "
Then the old men, as tlu;}' marched, and the women that stood
by the waj'side 660

rsm

n ]

i;-: :?

'!, . '\ 'lii

'■V

222

EVANOKLINE.

Joinod in the sacn'd psalm, and the birds in the sunshine

above tliem
]\[ingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed.
Half-way down to the shore Kvangeline waited in silence,
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the liour of affliction,- -
Calmly and sadly she waited, until tlie procession approached

he I', ftoo

And she beheld the face of Ga})riel pale with emotion.
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to meet him,
Clasped she his hands, and laid iier head on his shoulder, and

whispered, —
" Gabriel ! be of good cheer ! for if we love one another
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances may

happen ! " 5co

Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, for her

father
Saw she, slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was his aspect !
Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the iire from his eye,

and his footstep
Heo.vier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart in his

bosom.
But with a smile and a sigh, slie clasped his neck and embraced

him, 5(ir.

Speaking words of endearment where words of comfort availed

not.
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful pro-
cession.

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of em-

barking.

Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion
Wives were torn from their husbands, and '.nothers, too late,
saw their children 57o

Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.

EVANOELINR.

00<^

unshiiir

^parted,
ice,

ction,--
roached

555

t him,
:lei', and

3es may

500

, for her

i aspect '
his eye,

) in his

tnbraced

665

availed
iful pro-

Oi em-

boo late,

570

i-eaties.

So unto separate ships wore }>asil and (Jahi'iel carried,

While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her

father.
Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the

twilight
Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste the refhicnt

ocean 575

Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-lK>ach

Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-
weed.

^'arther back in the midst of the household goods and the

waggons.
Like to a gipsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle.
All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, 5S0
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.
J>ack to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,
Dragging adown the beacli the rattling pebbles, and leaving
Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailois.
Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their

pastures ; ' 585

Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from thcii-

udders ;
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the

farm-yard,^ —
Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the

milkmaid.
Silence reigned in the streets ; from the church no Angelas

sounded,

Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the
windows. 590

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been
kindled.

Built of the drift wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in
the teuipest.

KVANGRLINE.

11:

lloiiiid them sh;ip(^s of i^louinand sorrowful faces were gatliered,
Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of

children.
Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his

parish, 695

Waiidercd the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and

chocriug,
Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.
Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat with her

father,
Aufl in the llickering light beheld the face of the old man,
Haggard and hollow and wan, and v/ithout either thought or

emotion, 600

E'cii 'IS the face of a clock from which the hands have been

taken.
Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer

him,
Vainly offered him food ; yet he moved not, he looked not, ho

spake not,
But, with a vacant stai'e, ever ga/.ed at the flickering fire light.
^^ Jienedicite !" murmured the priest in tones of compassion. C05
More he fain would have said, l)ut his heart was full, and his

accents
Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a

threshold.
Hushed by the scene hv. beholds, and the awful presence of

sorrow.
Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,
liaising his tearful eyes to the sih>nt stai's that above

them 610

Moved on their way, unpertui'bed by the wrongs and sorrows of

mortals.
Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together in
silence.

evangelinf:.

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the

blood-red
Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon
Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain and

meadow, 615

Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge sliadows

together.
Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the

village,
Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that lay in the

roadstead.
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering

hands of a martyr. 620

Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch,

and, uplifting,
Wliirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred

house-tops
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flaines intermingled.

ion. C05
Lud his

(1 on a

Mice of

iiaiden.
above

610

•<nvs of
lier in

These things belu'ld in dismay the crowd on the shore and
on shipboard.
Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their an-
guish, 625
"We shall beliokl no more our homes in the village of Gi'and-

Pr^ ! "
Loud on a sudd(ui the cocks began to ci'ow in the farm-3'ards,
Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing of cattle
Came on the evenini!; breeze, bv the harking of doi^s in1crrur)ted.
Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the slee])ing en-
campments 080
Far in the western prairies of forests that skirt the Nebraska,
When the wild horses allVighted sweep by with the speed of
the whirlwind,

Iff

'1-:

H-

22G

KVANGELINE.

Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river.
Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and

the horses
Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er

the meadows. 635

H^i^;

il*

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless the priest and

the maiden
Oazed on the scene of terror that reddened and widened before

them ;
And as they turned at length to speak to their silent

companion,
Lo ! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad on the

seashore
Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had departed. 640
Slowly the j)riest uplifted the lifeless head, and the maiden
Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her terror.
Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on his bosom.
Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious slumber ;
And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a multitude

near her. 645

Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfidly gazing upon

her,
Pallid, with teaiful eyes, and looks of saddest compassion.
Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the landscape,
Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces around

her.
And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering senses. 650
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the people, —
"Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier season
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land of our exile,
Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the churchyard."
Such were the words of the priest. And there in haste by the

sea-side, 655

fcVANGELINE.

227

Having the glare of the buniing village f »r funeral torches,
But without bell or book, they buiied the farmer of Grand-Pr^.
And as the voice of the priest repeated t}\e service of sorrow,
Lo ! with a mournful sound like the voice of a great congrega-
tion,
Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the
dirges, mo

'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean,
With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying

landward.

Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking;

And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the hai'l)(jur,

L(;aving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in

ruins. cus

PART THE SECOND.

3S. 650

Many a weary year had passed since the buj-ning of Grand-

Pre,
When on the falling tide the freighted vessels dei>art('d,
Bearing a natittn, with all its household gods, into exile,
Exile without an end, and without .'in example in story.
Far asunder, on separate coasts, the AcadiaiKs landed ; «)70

Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the wind from

the northeast
Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the J^anks of

Newfoundland.
Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandeied from city to

city,
From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savaimas, — -
Froni the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father

of Waters 75

■< S 'f

w ,■■-.■■■'

-)i '.^

228

EVANGKLINK.

Seizes tlie hills in his hands, and flra,i,'s tliein flown to the

ocean,
Deep in their sands to bury the scattered b:>nes of the

niaiiimoth.
Friends th(\y sought and homes; and many, despairing, heart-

bi'oken,
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a

fireside.
Written their history stands on tablets of stone in uhe church-
yards. 680
Long among them was seen a niaidcm who waited and wandered,
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things.
Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her extended,
Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway
Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suifered
beft)re her, C85
Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned,
As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is marked by
Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sun-
shine.
Sometliing there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, un-
finished ;
As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, <i'.K)
Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended
Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen.
Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever witliin

her.
Urged l)ya restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spii-it.
She would commence again her endless search and endeavour; mo
Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses

and tombstones.
Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its

bosom
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him.

'; '••"

EVANGELINE.

229

ua-

(VJO

ithin

)ii-it,
r; 695
D.sses

ill its

hiin.

Sonuitimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,
Came v;ith its aiiy hand to point and beckon her forward. 700
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her bt^loved and

known him.
But it was k)ng ago, in some far-off phice or forgotten.
" Gabi'iel Lajeunesse!" tlie" said; " Oh, yes ! we have seen

him.
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone to the

praii'ies ;
Coureurs-des-bois are they, and famous hunters and trap-
pers." 705
" Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others ; " Oh, yes ! we have seen

him.
He is a voyageur from the lowlands of Louisiana."
Then would they say, " Dear child ! why dream and wait for

him longer 1
Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others
Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loA'al ? 7io
Here is Baptiste Lei)lanc, the notary's son, who has loved thee
j\lany a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be liaj)py !
Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's tresses."
Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, "I cannot !
Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not
elsewhere. 7i5

For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the

pathway,
Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness."
Thereupon the priest, her friend and father confessor,
Said will" si smile, "O daughter ! thy God thus speaketh within

thee !
Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted ; 720
If it enrich not the heart ot another, its waters, returning
Back to their spring.s, like the i-ain, shall fill them full of re-
freshment ;

l^'i ' ;^

- - (

/
J

' i'

^Snas^S^^SBSHSHHI

;i '

■1 1

230

EVANGELINK.

That which the fountain sends forth returns again t;0 the

fountain.
Patience; accomplish tliy la})Our; accomplish thy work of

alFeotion !
Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is god-
like. 725
Therefoie accomplish thy labour of love, till the heart is made

godlike,
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rend<ired more worthy of

heaven ! "
Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline laboured and

waited.
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean.
But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered,

" Despair not ! " 730

Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless dis-
comfort.

Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence.

Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderers footsteps ; —

Not through each devious path, each changefid year of exist-
ence ;

But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through the
vallc}'' : 785

Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of its water

Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals only;

Then drawing nearer its banks, through sj'lvan glooms that
conceal it.

Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous murmur ;

Happy, at length, if he find a spot where it reaches an out-
let. 740

II.

It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful River,
Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wabash,
Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mississippi,

EVANQ KLINE.

L'31

tluit

Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian boatmen.

It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it were, from the ship-
wrecked 746

Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating together,

Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a common mis-
fortune ;

Men and women and children, who, guided by hope or by hear-
say,

Sought for their kith and their kin among the few-acred
farmers

On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Opelousas. 750

With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the Father
Felician.

Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness sombre with
forests.

Day after day they glided adown the t iirbulent river ;

Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on its
borders.

Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, where
plumelike , 755

Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept with the
current.

Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand-bars

Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of their
margin,

Shining with snow-white phnues, large flocks of pelicans waded.

Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the river, 760

Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gardens.

Stood the houses of planters, with negro-cabins and dove-cots.

They were approaching the region where reigns perpetual
summer,

Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of orange and
citron,

Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the eastward. 765

'■%■■'

:!m

0^0

KVANGKLINK.

They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering the Bayou

of PlfKjueinine,
Soon wore lost in a maze of sluggish and devious waters,
Wiiicli, like a network of steel, extended in every direction.
Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs of the

i?!y press
Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid-air 770

Wfi,v«!d like bannei-s 1 lint hang on the walls of ancient cathedrals.
Deathlike the silence seemed, and un})roken, save by t,he herons
Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at sunset.
Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac laughter.
Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed on the
water, 775

Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustaining the

arches,
Down through whose broken vaults it fell like as through

chinks in a ruin.
Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around

them ;
And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder and sad-
ness, —
Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be com-
passed. 780
As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the prairies,
Far in advance are closed the leaves o^' the shrinking mimosa,
So, at the h(tuf-beats of fate, with sad forebodings <.f evil,
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has at-
tained it.
But Evangelinf^s heart was sustained by a vision, that
faintly 785
rioatCvl before her eyes, and beckoned her on through the

moonlight.
It v\ as r.he thought of her brain thai assumed the shape of a
phantom.

KVANQKLINE.

233

Through those sh.adowy aisles had GHl)riel windorod before

her,
And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer and

nearer.

Then in hia place, at the prow of the boat, rose one of the

oarsmoii, 700

And, as a signial sound, if others like them peradvenlui'e
Sailed on those gloomy and midnight sti'eams, blew a t)last (»n

his bugle.
Wild through "ihe dark colonnades and corridors leafy the blast

rang,
Breaking the seal of silence and giving tongues to the forest.
Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirr-ed to the

music. 7!».T

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance,
Over the watery floor, and beneatli the reverljerant branches ;
But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the darkness ;
And when tlie echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the

silence.
Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed through the

midnight, 80O

Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian V)oatsongs,
Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers,
While through the night were heard the mysterious sounds of

the desert.
Far oil", — indistinct, — as of wave or wind in the forest,
Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of the grim

alligator.

805

of a

Thus ere another noon they emerged from the sliades ; and
before them
Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchafalaya.
Water-lilies in myriads rocked on tlie slight undulations
Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, the lotus

UM'

ill

234

KVANGKLINK.

Lifted 1mm- ;,'nM«'n cmwn abovo the ln'juls of tlie boatmen, sio

Fuiiit WHS the air with tho odorous breath of magnolia blos-
soms,

Aiici with th«! heat of noon ; and nundjerless sylvan islands,

Fragrant and thickly cmhowcrod with blossoming luMlges of
roses,

Near to whose shore they glided along, invited to slumber.

►Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were sus-
})ended. 816

Under the boughs of Wac^hita willows, that grew by the margin,

Safely their boat- was moored; and scattered about on the
greensward,

Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travellers slumbered.

Over them vast and high extended the coj)e of a tedar.

Swinging from its great arms, the trunipet flower and the
grapevine 820

Hang their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of Jao<jl),

On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, descending,

Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blossom to
blossom.

Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered be-
neath it.

Filled washer heart with love, and the dawn of an opening
heaven 826

Lighted hei' soul in sleep with the glory of regions celestial.

Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless islands.
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped .away o'er the water,
Ui'ged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trap.

pers.
Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and
beaver. 880

At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and
' careworn.

ik.

825

KVAVOKI.IVR. 23.5

D.uk and noglectod ktcks over.slmduwcd his l)i'u\v, {'.ml a siid-

ness
Soniewliat btij'ond liis years on Iiis face was I('i,'i1»ly writlcti.
(<al)iiol was it, who, weary witli waiting, UMha|t|)y and resth»s8,
Sou'dit in the Western wilds ul)li\ ion <»t" self and of sorrow. s:if.
Swiftl}' they glid<Ml along, close undei- the leo ot the island,
lint by the oi)posite bank, and behind a screen of |)alinettos ;
So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed in the

willows ;
All undisturbfHl by the dash of tlunr oars, and unseen, were

the sleepers ;

Aiiirel of Uod was there none to awake. i the slunilu^ring

maiden. sw

Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on the

praii'ie.
After the sound of tlieir oars on the tholes had died in the

distance.
As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and fhc inai,len
Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, "O Father Felician !
Sciiietliing says in my heart that neai- iih (JabricI wanders. 845
Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague sui>er tilion ?
Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truih to my spirit?"
Then, with a blush she Jidded, *• Alas for my credulous fancy I
Unto ears like thine such words as these have no meaninir."
But nmde answer the reverend man, an 1 he smiU-d as he
answered, — siio

" Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor aie they to me with-
out meaning.
Feeling is deep and still; and the word th;i,t floats on the

surface
Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor is

hidden.
Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illu-
sions,

< .

236

EVANGEUNK.

Gabriel truly ia nea^* thee ; for not far away to the south-
ward, 8.05

On the banks of the T^che, are the towns of St. INIaur and St.
Martin.

There tlni long -wandering bride shall be given agaiii to her
bridogi'Ooin,

There tlu; long-absent pastor rf^gain his flock and his sheepfold.

Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of fruit-
trees ;

Under the feet a garden of flowers and the bluest of heavens soo

Bending above, and nwting its dome on the walls of the forest.

Tiiey who dwell tlieie have named it the Eden of Louisiana."

Witii these words of cheer they arose and continued their
journey.
Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon
Like a magician {'xtcMidcd his golden wand o'er the landscape; so,")
Twinkling vapours arose; and sky and water and forest
Seemed all oii tire at the touch, and melted and mingled to-
gether.
Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of silver,

Floated tlie boat, with its dripping oars, on the motionless
water.

Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweetntiss. S7u

Touched by the magic spell, the saci'cd fountains of feeling

Glowed with the light of love, as the .skies and waters around
her.

Then from a neighbouring thicket the mocking bird, wildest of

singers,

Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the water,
Sliook from his little throat such floods of delirious music, 876
That the whole air and the woods and th(! waves .seciued silent

to listen.
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad; then soarln^r lo nnd-

ness

KVAXGELTNB.

237

8ooinorl tlioy to follow or guiilo tlu; revel of frenzied T>aochaiites,

Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lamentation;

Till, having gathered them all, he flung them al^road in
del ision, 880

As when, after a stdrin, a gust of wind through the tree-tops

Shakes down tlu; rattling rain in a crystal shower on the
branches.

With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throhbed with
emotion,

Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through the
Opelousas,

And, through the amlxn- air, above the crest of the wood-
land, .s8:i

Saw tlu: cohnnn of smoke that arose from a neighhoui-ing
dwelling ; —

Sounds of a horn thoy heard, and the distant^ lowing of cattle

III.

Near to the banks of the 'iver, o'ershadowed by oaks fi-(tm
whose branches
(Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe flaunted,
Such as the Druids cut (h)wn with golden hatchets at Yule-
tide, 890
Stood. s(K'lu(le(l and still, the house of tlu^ herdsman. A ffHfden
Girded it munfl about with a Ixilt of luxur-iant blossoms.
Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was of timbers
Hewn from the cy[)ress-tree, and carefully fitted togethei".
Large and low was the I'oof ; and on slendei' columns sup-
ported, 805
l{<»se wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious xcranda,
JIauui ot' the hunnning-bird and tin; bee, extended around it.
At each end of the house, nniid iIk^ tlowei's of the garden,
Stationed the ilo\e-cots were, as lo\c's pfM'petual syml)ol.
Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of rivals. 900

238

EVAXGKLlNF!.

Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow am) sunshini?

]lan near the tops of the trees ; but the house itself was in
shadow,

And frtun its chimney-top, ascending and slowly expanding

Into the evening air, a thin bhie column of smoke rose.

Tn the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a path-
way 90,5

Through the gi-eat grov(^s of oak to the skii-ts of (he limitless
prairie,

Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly d(\s('ending.

Full in his track of light, like ships with shad()\>y canvas

Hanging loose from their spars in. a motionlesis calm In the
tropics,

Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of grapevines. 9ia

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of the prairie,

JVlounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and stirrups,

Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and (loul)let of deerskin.

Broad and brown was the face that froui under the Spanish

sombrero

Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of its
master. 915

Round about him were numi)erless herds of kine that were
grazing

Quietly in the meadows, and In-eathing the vapoury freshness
That uprose from the river, and spread its(;lf over the lands-
scape.
Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and expanding
Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that resounded 91:0
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air of the

evening.

Suddenly out of the grass th(i long white horns of the cattle

Rose like flakes of tnam on the advei'se currents of ocean.

Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed o'er the
prairie,

EVAN GF LINK.

230

of its

015

led D'JO
of tlio

And tlie wh<ik' mass bocuine a cloud, a shade in the dis-
tance. »-26

Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through the gate
of the garden

Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden advancing to
meet him.

Su<ldenly down from his horse he sprang in amazement, and
forward

JUished with extended arms and exclamations of wondei* ;

When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the black-
smith. !».iO

Hearty his welcome was, as he led his gut.'sts to the gaidcn.

There in an arbor of roses with endless question and auswci-

Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their friendly
embraces.

Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and thoughtful,

Thoughtful, for Gabriel came notj and now daik doubts and
misgivings 935

Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, somewhat embarrassed,

Broke the silence and said, " Tf you came by the Atchafalaya,

How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's l)oat on the
bayous ? "

Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade passed.

Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a tremulous
accent, iMO

"Gone? is Gabr/'el gone?" and, conc(;aling her face on his
shoulder.

All her o'erljurdened heart gave waj*, and she wept and
lamented.

Then the good Basil said, — and his h?art grew blithe as he said
it,—

" Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he departed.

Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with ray herds and my

liorses.

045

ii-^ti:

240

EVANOEJJNE.

Moody and restless <:»ro\vn. and tried and troubled, his spirit

Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet existence.

Thinking ever o^ thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever,

Ever silent, or speaking only of tliee and his troubles.

He at length had become so tedious to njeu and to maidens, 050

Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and sent

him
Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the .Spaniards.
Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark INEountaiJis,
Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the beaver.
Tiii^refore he of good ch(;er; we will follow the fugitive lover; 95.)
He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the streams are

against }iim.
Up and away to-morrow, an«l through the red dew of the

morning,
We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his prison."

Then glad voices were heard, •md up from the banks of the
river,
Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the fiddler, mo
Jjimg und(!r Iiasil's roof had he lived, like a god on Olympus,
ILiving no other care than dispensing music to mortnjs.
Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his fidtlle.
" Long live Michacd," the}^ crieci, "our brave Acadian minstrel I"
Aa they bore him aloft in triumphal procession: and straight-
way !)05
FatlHM' Felieian advanced with Evaiigeline, greeting the old

man
Kindly and of ukI recalling the past, while Basil enraptured,
Haih'd with hilarious joy his old companions and gossips,
LauiihuiK loud a;id loiitr, and embracing mothers and dauuhters.
Much (hey marvelled to see the wealth of the ci devant black-
smith, 1(70
All his domains and his lierd.s, and his patriai-chal demeanour ;

spirit

11(1 sent

anicards.
untaijis,
beaver,
over: 95.')
ains are

f tlie

V o

ISOIl.

:3 of the

(Her. 900
y 111 pas,

Is.

itistv!'!!"
Istraiglit-

<)()5

the old

raptured,
j^ips,

luigl iters,
lilt black-

!)70

heaiiour ;

EVANGKUNR.

241

Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and the cli-
mate,

And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his who
would take them ;

Each oiie thou,i.5ht ia his heart, that he, too, would go and do
likewise.

Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the brec^zy

veranda.

076

Entered the hall of the house, where already the supper of Basil
Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted together.

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness descended.

All was silent without, ami illuming the landscape with silver.

Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but within
doors, OiM)

Brighter tlian these, .shone the faces of friends in the glimmer-
ing lamplight.

Then from his station aloft, at the hea<l of the table, the herds-
man

Poured forth liis heart and his wine togetlier in endless pi'o-
fusion.

Lighting his pipe ohat was filled with sweet Natchitoches
tobacco,

Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled as they
listened : - oss

"Welcome once more, n'.y friends, who long have been friend-
less and homeless,

Welcome once more to a home, that is better perchance than
tlie old one !

Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the rivers;

Here no stony gnamd provokes the wrath of the farmer :

Hmoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a keel
through the water. vmxj

All the y<'ar round the orange-groves are in blossom ; and

grass grows

242

EVANGELINE.

ili

More in a single night than a whole Cana<lian summer.
Here, too. numberless herds run wild and unclaimed in the

prairies ;
Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and forests of

timber
With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed into

houses. 995

After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow with

harvests,
No King George of England shall drive you away from your

honesteads.
Burning j^our dwellings and barns and stealing your farms and

your cattle."
Spc^aking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from his

nostrils,
While his huge, brown hand came thundering down on the

ta])le, 1000

So that tlie guests all started ; and Father Felician, astounded,
Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuiT half-wiy to his nostrils.
But the brave J>asil resumed, and his wor Is were milder and

gayer :—

" Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the fever !
For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, iocs

Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a nut-
" shell!"

Then there were voices lieard at the door, and footsteps

approaching
Sounded upon the stairs and the floors of the breezy veranda.
It was the neighbouring Creoles and small Acadian planters,
Who had been sununoned all to the house of Basil the herds-
man. 1010
Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and neighbours :
Friend chisped friend in his arms ; and they who before weie
as strangers,

KVANOKLINK.

24.T

his

)tsteps

iraiula.

loiters,

l)>enls-

1010

lours :
le were

M(!etinjL^ in exile, became straightway as friends to eacli otlicr,
Prawn by the gentle bond of a common country together.
But in the neighl)ouring hall a strain of nuisic, pi'oceeding lois
From the accordant strings of Michael's imdodious fiddle,
l>roke up all further speech. Away, like children delighted,

All things forgotten beside, ihey ga\e themselves to the mad-
dening
Whii'l of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to the music.
Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of iluttciiug gar-
ments. 11120

Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest and

the hei'dsman
Sat, conversing t<jgether of past and present and futui-e ;
While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within her
Okhm memories rose, and loud in the midst of the music
Heai"d she the sound of the sea, and an irrepressible sad-
ness 1025
Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole fortli into the

garden.
Beautiful w; s the night. Behind the black wall of the forest,
Tipping its summit with silver, arose tlie moon. On the river
Fell here and therethrough the branches a tremulous gleam of

the moonlight.
Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious

spirit. 1030

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the

garden
Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and

confession
Unto the night, as it went its w ly, 'ike a silent Carthusinn.
Fuller of fragrance than they, ana as heavy with shadows and

night-dews.
Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical

moonlight 1035

k \

244

ttVANGELINR.

Seoinod to iiuiiul;it(i iicr soul with iiidcfmable longings,

As, tlir(>uf,'li tlio garden gate, and beneath tae shade of the

oak-tr'ees,
Passed she along the path to the edge of the measureless prairie.
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, nnd fire-fli(;s
Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite num-
})ers. 1041)

Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens,
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and wor-
ship.
Save when a blazing comet was seen on tlu^ walls of that tem{)le.
As if a hand had appeared and written ui)()ii them, " Upharsin."
And tlui soul of the maiden, l)etween the stars and the tire-
Hies, 1045
Wandered alone, and sIkj cried, "O Gabriel ! O my belove 1 '.
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee ■
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me'
Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prairie 1
Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the woodlands
around me ! lo.O
Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labour,
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy

slumbers !
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about

thee i "
Loud and sudden and near the note of a wliippoorwill soumleil
Lik ! a ihite in the woods ; and anon, through the neighbourinjj;
thickets, 1055

Farther and fa,rther away it lloated and dr(»pped into silence.
" Patience 1" whispered the oaks from oracular caverns ot

darkness ;
And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-
morrow ! "

le of tlio
!s prairie,
ite num-

1040

heavens,
and wor-

it temple,

pharsin.

d the tire-

1045

belove. 1 !
bhee ?
reach nie ''
)rairie 1
wood hi lids

KCO

>our,

lie ill thy

led ahout

11 soandeil
hl)Ourinu

105;''

o silence,
averus oi

ded, "To-

KVANGKI.INR.

24.5

Biii,'ht rose the sun next day; and all the flowers of the

i^ardcn
l'>at}'.pd liis shining feet with their tears, and anointed his

tresses loeo

With the delicious balm that they bore in their vpses of

crystal.
"Farewt'll!" said the priest, as he stood at the shadowy

threshold ,
"See that you bi-inif us the Prodigal Son tVdiii his fasting and

famine,
And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the bridegroom

was coming."
'* Farewell I " answered the maiden, and, smiling, with Basil

descended kmis

Down to to the river's brink, where the boatmen already were

waiting.
Thus Ixjginning their journey with morning, and sunshine,

and gladness.
Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speeding be-
fore them,
Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over the desert.
Not that day, nor the next, nor yet t!ie day that succ«;eded, 1070
Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or river,
Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but vague and

uncertain
lAumours alone were their guides through a wild and desolate

country ;
Till, ai the little inn, of the Spanish 'own of Adayes,
Weary and worn, they alighted, and icarned from the gari'ulous

landloiil, 107.0

That on the dav l)efore. with horses and guides ami eompanions,
(iabriel left the \'ill;vge, and took the road of the pi-aiiics.

246

I ;■

KVANCELTNK,

IV.

Far in t\u'. Wejst there lies a desfut land, wh^jie the mountains

Lift, tlirouiijli ])erpetual snows, tlieii- lofty iind luminous sum-
mits.

])o\vii fr(»m their ja^^gcd, deep ravines, where the goi'ge, like a
«^at»!way, loso

Opens a passa<^e lude to the wheels of the endgrant's waggon,

Westward the Oregon flows and tlu^ Walleway and Owyhee.

Kastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river Moun-
tains,

Through the .Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the Ne-
braska ;

And to the south, from Fontaine-(|ui-bout and the Spanish
sierras, 1085

Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind (^f the
desert.

Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend tt) the ocean.

Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn vibra-
tions.

Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, beautiful
prairies,

]?illowy bays of gi-ass ever rolling in shadow and sunshine, looo

IJright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple amorphas.

Over them wandered the buffalo hei'ds, and the elk and th(;
roebuck ;

Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of riderless horses;

Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary with
travel ;

Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's children, 1095

Staining the desert with blood ; and above their terrible war-
trails

Circles and sails aloft, cm pinions majestic, the vulture,

Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered in battle,

uiitains
us sum-

', like a

lOSO

/yhee.
1' Moim-

tlie Ne-

Spauish

I of the

le ocean,
n vibra-

)eautit'ul

line, 1090
ami the

horses ;
iiy witli

Iren, 1095
jle war-

battle,

EVANGELINE.

2i7

By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heavens.

Here and there rise smokes from tiu! camps of these sava<;e
marauders; ikk)

Here and there rise groves from the margins of swift I'unning
rivers ;

And tlie grim, taciturn bear, the anchoritt; monk of the desert,

CIiml}s down their dark ravines to dig for roots by the brook-
side,

And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline heaven,

Like the protecting hand of God inverted above them. 1105

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark Moun-
tains,

(Ta})riel far had entered, with iiunters and trapj)ers l)ehind him.

Day aft(T day, with their Indian guides, the maiden and liasil

Followed his Hying steps, and thought each day to o'ei-take him.

Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke of his
camp-fire 1110

Rise in the morning air from the distant plain ; but at night-
fall.

When they had reached the place, they found oidy embers and
ashes.

And, though their hearts were sad at times and their bodies
were weary,

Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana

Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and vanished
before th(;m. 1115

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently
entered

Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features

Wore deep traces of s<)rrow, and patience as great as her
sorrow.

She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her people,

From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Canianches, 1120

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Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, r4.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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v.^- «*

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■I

248

EVANGELINE.

Where her Canadian Imsband, a coureur-des-bois, had been
murdered.

Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest and
friendliest welcome

Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and feasted
among thein

On the buffalo-raeat and the venison cooked on the eml;)ers.

But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his com-
panions, ' 1126

Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the deer and
the bison,

Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where the
quivering fire-light

Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms wrapped up
in their blankets, *

Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and repeated

Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her Indian
accent, 1130

All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, and
reverses.

Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that another

Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been dis-
appointed.

Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's compas-
sion,

Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered was near
her, 1135

She in turn related her love and all its disasters.

Mute with wonder tht; Shawnee sat, and when she had ended

Still was mute ; but at length, a;, if a mysterious horror

Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the tale of
the Mowis ;

Mow is, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded a
maiden, . _ • " luo

BVANGKLINB. 249

But, when the morning came, arose and passed from the wig-

wam,

Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sunshine,
Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far into the

forest.
Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a weird

incantation.
Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed by a

phantom, 1145

That, through the pines o'er her father*s lodge, in the hush of

the twilight.
Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to the

maiden.
Till she followed his green and waving plume through the

forest,
And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her people.
Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline listened iiso
To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region around

her
Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest the

enchantress.
Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the moon rose,
Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious sphuidour
Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling tlie

woodland. iim

With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the branches
Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible wliisj)ers.
Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's heart, but a

secret,
Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror,
As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of the
swallow. 1100

It was no earthly fear. A breath from the ivgion of spirits
Seemed to float in tlie air of night ; and she felt for a moment

ti \

250

EVANOKLINK.

That, like tlie Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a phantonj.
With this thought she slept, and the fear and the phantom had
vanished.

Early upon the morrow the march was resumed, and the

Shawnee ' '^ ' ii6r>

Said, as they journeyed along, — " On the western slope of these

mounk.ins
Dwells in his little village the Black Rol)e chief of the Mission.
Much he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary and Jesus ;
Loud lau<<h their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, as they

hear him."
Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline an-
swered, 1170
" Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings await us ! "
Thither they turned their steeds ; and l)ehind a spur of the

mountains.
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of voices.
And ill a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a river.
Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit
Mission. ii76

Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the village,
Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A crucifix

fastened
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by grapevines.
Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneeling be-
neath it.
This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intricate
arches 118O

Of its aevial roof, arose the chant of their vespers.
Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of the

branches. ' ' . " . -

Silent, with heads uacovered, the travellers nearer approaching.
Knelt on the swarded floor, "and joined in the evening devotions.

EVANORLINE.

251

But when the service was done, and the benediction had
£allen lisft

Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the hands
of the sower,

Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, and bade
them

Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled with benignant
expression,

Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in the
foiest,

And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his wig-
wam, iiuo

There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes of the
maize-ear

Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd of the
teacher.

Soon was their story told ; and the priest with solemnity
answered . — - ° - •

" Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriol, seated

On this mat by my side, where now the maiden repose.s, ii»6

Told me this same .sad tale ; then arose and continued his

journey !"
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an accent

of kindness ; -'
But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter tiie snow-
flakes
Fall into .some lone nest from which the birds hav(; departed.
*' Far to the north he has gone," oontinuod the prie.st : " but in
autumn, 1200

When the chase is done, will return agaiti to the Mission."
Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and submissive,
"Let me remain with thee, for my .soul is sad and afllicted."
So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and Ijctiraes on the morrow,

252

EVANOEMNE.

Mounting his Moxicun steed, with his Indian guides and com

paiiions,

1205

Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at the
Miasion.

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each other, —
Days and weeks and months; and the fields of maize that were

sprin,i,'ing
Green from the gi-ound when a stranger she came, row waving

about her,
Lifted their slender ; hafts, with leaves interlacing, and

fonuing 1210

Cloisters for medicant ci-ows and granaries pillaged by squirrels.
Then m the golden weather the maize was husked, and the

maidens
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a lover,
But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in the corn-
field.
Even the blood red ear to Evangeline brought not her lover. i2ir.
"Patience!" the priest would say; "have faith, and the prayer

will be answered !
Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from the meadow,
See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as the

magnet ;
It is the compass-flower, that the linger of God has planted
Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's journey 1220
Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the desert.
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of passion.
Gay and luxuriant Ho'vcrs, are brighter and fuller of fragrance.
But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their odor is deadly.
Only this humble plant can g..ide us here, and hereafter 122.')
Crown us with asphodel Uowers, that are wet with the dews of

nepenthe,"

UyANORLlNB.

2C»

So camr» the autunui, and passed, and tho winter, — yet

Gabriel came not ;
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the robin and

blu(?bird
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet (tabriel came not.
But on tho breath of the summer winds a rumor was wafted 1230
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or o<lor of V)l()ssom.
Far to the north find e;ist, it said, in th.f* Michigan forests,
Crabriel had his lodge by th(! banks of the Saginaw River.
And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of St.

Lawrence,
Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from th-? Mission. I2.i.'i
When over weary ways, by long and perilous marches,
She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan forests,
Found she the hunter's lodge deserte 1 and fallen to ruin !

r • I

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in seasons and
places
Divers and distant far was seen the v andering maiden ; — 1240
Now in the Tents of Grace of the n.cek Moravian Missions,
Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the army.
Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous cities.
Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremembered.
Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long jour-
ney ; 1245
Faded wjus she and old, when in disappointment it ended.
Each succeeding year stole something away fi'om her beauty,
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and the

shadow.
Then there ai)peared and spread faint streaks of gray o'er her

forehead,
Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly horizon, 126O
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the morning.

Iflff

I:!

IIMl

254

SVANGELINB.

In that delightful land which \h washed by the Delaware's

waters,
(luurdiiig in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle,
Stands on the banks of the beautiful stream the city he founded.
There all the air is bulni, and the peach is the emblem of

beauty, ' ' i26fi

And the streets still reecho the names of the trees of the forest,
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they

molested. •

There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, an exile.
Finding among the children of Penn a home and a country.
There old Uene Leblanc had died; aiul when lie departed, I2t50
Haw at his side only one of all his hundred descendants.
Something at least there was in the friendly streets of the

city.
Something that spake to her heart, and made her no longei a

stranger

And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou of the

Quakers,
For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, i2ef>

Where all men were equal, and all were bi'others and sisters.
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavour.
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncomplaining.
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and

her footsteps.
As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning 1270
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us,
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and handets,
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far

below lier.
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the pathway
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the

distance. ,v 1275

tar

EVANGKMKE.

255

(Jabriel wjis not forgotten. Within her heart was his image,
Clothed in the iK-auty of love and youth, as last she l)ehel(l

him,
Only nuu'e l)eautiful made l)y his deathlike silence and absence.
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not.
Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but

transfigured; ' ' ■ 1280

He had become to her heart as one who is d(34ul, and not

absent; * < ... . ;

Patience and abnegation of self, and dev(»tion to others,
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her.
So was her love diffused, but, like to some (nlorous spices,
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma, i-isfi
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow
Meekly with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour.
Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; fre(|uenting
Lonel}! and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of the city,
Where distress and want concealed themselves from the sun-

light.

1290

Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished nejrlected.
Night after night when the world was asleep, as the watchman

repeated
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in the city,
High at some lonely window he saw the light of her taper.
Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the

suburbs 120.)

Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits for the

market,
Met he that meek, pale face, returning l^nie from its watcli-

ings.

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the city.
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of wild
J.: pigeons, ^^ .. - -. . ' / • ^

■1

2r»r,

EVANOKLINB.

l)jiik»'iiin;,' tlio sun in their flight, with naught in their craws

but an acorn. isoo

And, as tlit^ tideH of the sea arise in the month of September,

Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake in the

! leadow,
So (loath floodor] life, and, o'erflowing its natural margin,
Spread to a brackish lake the silver stream of existence.
Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the

oppresiior

1806

But all i)erished alike beneath the scourge of hia anger; —
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither frionds nor attendants,
Crept away to <lie in the almshouse, home of the homeless.
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and

woodlands ; —
Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway and

wicket - 1310

Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo
Softly the wordx of the Lord : — '^The poor ye always have with

you."
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The

dying
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold there
Gleams of celestiai light encircle her forehead with splen-

<1<M', 1315

Such as the artist paints o'er the })rows of saints and apostles.
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance.
Unto their eyes it seemed the lar.ips of the city c(!lestial.
Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would enter.

Mi .III

u '■

;

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and
silent, 1320

Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the alms-
house.

Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flower;; in the garden,

EVANaSLINE.

257

^d and

1320

alius-

And she paused ou her way to gathor the fairest among them,
That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and

beauty.
Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the

east-wind, 182g

Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of

Christ Church,
While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were

wafted

Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their
church at Wicaco.

Soft as (Icseending wing.; fell the culm of the hour on her
spirit;

Something within her said, "At length thy trials are

ended ; " 1330

And, with light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sick-
ness.

Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants.

Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in silence

Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their

faces.
Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the

roadside, 1338

Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered,
Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for her

presence
Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a

prison.
And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the consoler,
Tjaying his hand upon many a heart, had iiealed it forever. 1340
Many familiar forms had disappeared in tlie night time;
Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers.

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder,
Still she stood, with her colourless lips apart, while a shudder

': 1!

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258

UVANOKUNK

•,i'

Rail througli lior frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets dropped
froHi her fingers, 1348

And from her eyes and clieeks the light and bloom of the
morning.

Then there escajrul from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish.

That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.

On the pallet Ix'foie h(^r was stretched the form of an old man.

Long, and thin, and gray were tlie locks that shaded hia
temples ; i860

But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment

Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier manhood j

Ho are wont to ho changed the facfs of those who are dying.

Hot and red on his lij)s still burned the flush of the fever,

As if life, like tlie Hebrew, witli blood had besprinkled its
portals, 1866

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over.

Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted

Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the
darkness.

Darkness of 8lunil)er and death, forever sinking and sinking.

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverbera-
tions, 1360

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that suc-
ceeded

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,

" Gabriel ! O my beloved ! " and died away into silence.

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his child-
hood ; .

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, isee

Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, walking under
their shadow,

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.

Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.

KVANQBLINR.

259

Vainly lie Htrove tn whisj^or her name, for ihfi aci-otitH rni-

uttered i87o

Died on his lips, atid theit motion reveulod what his toiigue

would huvo spoken.
Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling l)Psidp him,
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his heivd on her Ixisimh.
Sweet was the ligl't of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into

darkness,
As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a caso-

ment. isrs

All was endetl now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied lofiging,
All the dull, deep pain, a^ (^ ' )nstant anguish of uatit'uce !
And, as she pressed once more the lift;lesH head to her lx)soni,
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, I thank
thee 1 " isbo

1360

suc-

Jhild-

1366

inder

side.

Still stands the forest primeval; but far uway from its

shadow.
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed.
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, isss
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and

forever.
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy.
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from

their labours.
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their

journev ! ' .

260

EVANOELIKE.

'lii

',1'

i:;

4i,

Still stands (Ik; foiost primeval ; but under tlie shade of its

branches 1390

1 )well8 another race, with other customs and language.
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers frt>m exile
Wandered back tx) their native land to die in its bosom.
Tn the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; 1395
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of

homespun,.
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story,
While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighbouring

ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the

forest.

[. It

SELECTIOJ^S FROM LONGFELLOW.

THE BUILDERS.

All are architects of Fate,

Working in these walls of Time ;

Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low ;

Each thing in its place is best ;
And what seems but idle show

Strengthens and supports the rest

For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled ;

Our to-days and yesterdays

Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these ;

Leav* no yawning gaps between ;
Think not, because no man sees,

Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,

Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part ;

For the Gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen ;

Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Beautiful, entire, and clean.

[281]

; i

^Kll

ajHHBr ^t

olHIL r ! 'AS

^^K %

'■'t

202

SELECTIONS FROM LONGFELLOW.

Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these w alls of Time,

Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, tlipn, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base ;

And ascending and secure

Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain

To those turrets, where the eye

Sees the world as one vast plain,
And one boundless reach of sky.

THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE.

Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame

A ladder, if we will but tread

Beneath our feet each deed of shame !

All common things, each day's events.
That with the hour begin and end,

Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds b\ which we may ascend.

The low desire, the base design,
That makes another's virtues less ;

The revel of the ruddy wine.
And all occasions of excess ;

The longing for ignoble things ;

The strife for triumph more than truth ;

THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE.

The hardening of the heart, that I

)riiigs

Irreverence for the dreams of youth ;

All thoughts of ill ; all evil <leetls,

That have their root in thoughts of ill ;

Whatever hinders or impedes
The action of the nobler will ;

All these must first be trampled down
Beneath our feet, if we would gain

In the bright fields of fair renown
The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar ;

But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,

The cloudy summits of our time.

The mighty pyramids of stone

That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,

When nearer seen, and better known,
Are but gigantic fiights of stairs.

The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions to the skies.

Are crossed by pathways, that appear
As we to higher levels rise.

The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden tlight,

But they, while their cornpanions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too l(jng we hore

With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,

We may discern — unseen before —
A path to higher destinies,

2G3
15

.'()

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264 SELECTIONS FROM LONGFELLOW.

Nor deem the irrevocable Past
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,

If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THB HEART OP TUB YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

" Life is but an empty dream ! "
For the soul is dead that slumbers.

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real ! Life is eai nest ! 5

And the grave is not its goal ;
" Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way ;
But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle !

Be a hero in the strife 1

THE DAY IS Done.

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Act — act in the livin«,' Present !

Heart within, and (iod o'erhead !

Lives of great men all remind us
We oan make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;-

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doin
With a heart for any fate ;

Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

2(55

THE DAY IS DONE.

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,

That my soul cannot resist :

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,

\ '.

ll I

f 1

f ^

4^^

■

260 BELECJTIONS FROM LONGFELLOW.

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,

That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime.

Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavour ;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

"Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer.
Or tears from the eyelids start ;

Who, through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,
And end to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice,

THE PIRE OP DRIFT-WOOD,

onr

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day,

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD.

Wo sat within the farm-house old,
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,
An easy entrance, night and day.

Not far away we saw the port, —

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, —

The light-house, the dismantled fort, —
The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

We sat and talked until the nig'it.
Descending, filled the little room ;

Our faces faded from the sight.
Our voices only broke the gloom.

We spake of many a vanished scene.
Of what we once had thought and said,

Of what had been, and might have been,
And who was changed, and who was dead ;

And all that fills the hearts of friends,
When first they feel, with secret pain,

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
And never can be one again ;

268

SELECTIONS PROM LONGFELLOW.

* !

The first light, swerving of the heart,

Tliat words are powerless t«o express,
And leave it still unsaid in part,

Or sav it in too great excess.

The very tones in which we spake 25

Had something strange, I could but mark ;

The leaves of memory seem to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.

Oft died the words upon our lips,

As suddenly, from out the fire 30

Built of the wreck of stranded ships.

The flames would leap and then expire.

And, as their splendour flashed and failed.
We thought of wrecks upon the main, —

Of ships dismasted, thnt were hailed 35

And sent no answer back again.

The windows, rattling in their frames, —

The ocean, roaring up the beach, —
The gusty blast, — the bickering flames, —

All mingled vaguely in our speech ; 40

Until they made themselves a part

Of fancies floating through the brain, —

The long-lost ventures of the heart.
That send no answers back again.

O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned ! 45

They were indeed too mucji akin,
The drift-wood fire without that burned,

The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

RlialGNATION.

269

RESIGNATION.

There is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead larab is there !
There is no fireside, liowsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dyinf?, 5

And mournings for the dead ;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted !

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise, 10

But (jftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours ;

Amid these earthly damps,
What seem to us ])ut sad, funereal tapers 15

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no death ! What seems so is transition.

This life of mortal l)reath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death. 20

She is not dead, — the child of our affection, —

But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,

And Christ himself d(tth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 25

By guardian angels led.
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,

She lives, whom we call dead.

I'-iistm

270 SELECTIONS FKOM LONOFBLLOW.

Diiy after day we think what sIjo is doing

In those bri^^ht reahns of air; 30

Year after year lier tend«;r stojis ])ursuirig,

Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do wc walk with her, and keep unbroken

The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our renuMubrance, though unspoken, 35

May reach her where .she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her j

For when with rajttures wild,
In our embraces we again enfold her.

She will not be a child ; 40

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace ;
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion

Shall we behold her face.

And though at times, impetuous with emotion 45

And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,

That cannot be at rest, —

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay ; 60

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.

TUK OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

271

1, 35

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

Somewhat back from the villn<^e street
Stands thi; old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw ;
And from its station in the hall
An ancient timepiece says to all, —
" Forever — never !
Never — forever 1 "

Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,
Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas !
With sorrowful voice to all who pass, —
" Foiever — never !
Never — forover ! "

By day its voice is low and light ;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the lloor,
And seems to say, at each chamber-door, —
" Forever — never !
Never — forever ! "

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude
Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,
And as if, like God, it all things saw.

SELKCTIONS FROM LONGFELLOW.

It calmly ropcata those words of awe, —
*' Ko'over — never !
Novor — forever I "

In that mansion used to be
Free-heart<Ml Hospitality ;
Itis j^reat fires up the chimney roared ;
The stran^'er fcsistcd at his hftard ;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warnin*,' tinuipiece never ceased, —
" Forever — never !
Never — forev(!r ! "

There groups of merry children played,
There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ;
O precious hours ! O golden prime,
And affluence of love and time !
Even as a miser counts his gold,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told, —
" Forever — never !
Never — forever 1 "

From that chainher, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding night ;
There, in that silent room below,
The dead lay in his shroud of snow ;
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair, —
" Forever — never I
Never — forever 1 "

All are scattered now and fled,
Some are married, some are dead ;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
" Ah ! when, shall they all meet again 1 "

' i!

A OLHAM OP Sl'NHIIINB.

273

As in thn days long since gone by,
The ancient timopieco makes reply, —
" Forever — never I
Nrvci- — forever I "

Nev<;r here, forever there,
When* all parting, pain, and care,
Aiid death, and time shall disappear,—
Forever thei'o, hut never here!
The horologe c>f Eternity
Sayetli this incessantly, —
" Forever— neve; '
Never — forevei . *

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,

Let me review the scene.
And summori from the shadowy Past

The forms that once have been.

The Past and Present here unite

Beneath Time's flowing tide,
Lik(; footprints hidden by a brook,

But seen on either side.

Here runs tlif- hii'hwav to the town :

There the green lane descends.
Through which I walked to church with thee,

O gentlest of my friends !

The shadow of the linden-trees
Lay moving on the grass ;

274

SKr-KCrrOXS from LONOPELt.OW.

Between them and the moving boughs,
A shadow, thou didst pass.

Thy dress was like the lilies,
And thy heart as pure as they :

One of God's holy messengers
Did walk with me that day.

I saw the branches of the trees

Bend down thv touch to meet,
The clover-blossoms in the grass

Bise up to kiss thy feet.

" Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,
Of earth and folly born ! "
Solemnly sang the village choir
On that sweet Salibath morn.

Through the closed blinds the golden sun

Poured in a dusty beam.
Like the celestial ladder seen

By Jacob in his dream.

And ever and anon, the wind,

Sweet-scented with the hay.
Turned o'er the hyn- ii-book's fluttering leaves

That on the window lay.

Long was the good man's sermon.

Yet it seemed not so to me ;
For he spake of Ruth the beautiful.

And still I thought of thee.

Long was the prayer ho uttered,

Yet it seemed not ,so to rae ;
For in my heart I prayed with hiio,

^■l:

^^1'''^ i

•1

And still 1 thought of thee.

-■

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

But now, alas ! the place seems changed ;

Thou art no longer here :
Part of the sunshine of the scene

With thee did disappear.

Though thoughts, deep-rooted in my heart,
Like pine-trees dark and high,

Subdue the light of noon, and breathe
A low and ceaseless sigh ;

This memory brightens o'er the past.

As when the sun, concealed
Behind some cloud that near us hangs,

Shines on a distant field.

273

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE POUTS.

A mist was driving down the British Channel,

The day was just begun.
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,

Streamed the red autumn sun.

It glanced on flowing flag and ripph'ng pennon.

And the white sails of ships ;
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon,

Hailed it with feverish lips.

Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe and Dover

Were all alert that day,
To see the French war-steamers speed in<:y over

When the fog cleared away.

276

SELECTIONS PROM LONGFELLOW.

:5i

I'
ii

Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions,

Their cannon, through the night,
Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, 15

The sea- coast opposite.

A nd now they roared at drum-beat from their stations

On every citadel ;
Each answering each, with morning salutations,

That all was well. 20

And down the coast, all taking up the burdon.

Replied the distant forts,
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden

And Lord of the Cinque Ports.

Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 25

No d rum-beat from the wall,
No morning g in from the black fort's embrasure.

Awaken with its call !

No more, surveying with an eye impartial

The long line of the coast, 30

Shall the gaunt figure of th(* old Field Marsiial

Be seen upon his post !

For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,

In sombre harness mailed,
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, 35

The rampart wall had scaled.

He passed into the chamber of the sleeper.

The dark and silent room.
And as he entere<l, darker grew, and deeper,

The silence and the gloom. iO

THE WARDEN OP THE CINQUE PORTS.

He did not pause to parley or dissemble,

But smote the Warden hoar ;
Ah I what a blow I that made all England tremble

And groan from shore to shore.

Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,

The sun rose bright o'erhead ;
Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated

That a great man was dead.

277

■■•I-

rif

ipffl

Ik'

Ij ! i'

If;

■*Tf

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

EVANGELINE.

ORIGIN.

Hawthorne, the novelist, in liis American Note-Bcoks, writes:
" H. L. C. (Rev. Mr. Conolly) heard from a French-Canadian
a story of a young couple in Acadie. On their marriage day
all the men of the province were summoned to assemble in the
church to hear a proclamation. When assembled, they were
all seized and shipped off to be distributed through New
England — among them the new bridegroom. His bride set off
in search of him — wandered about New England all her life-
time, and at last, when she was old, she found her bridegroom
on his death bed. The shock was so great that it killed her
likewise.'

Hawthorne, despite Mr. Conolly's request, was disinclined
to make this story the basis of a romance, and gladly resigned
the tale to Longfellow, who at once saw in it spltMidid capal)il-
ities for a romantic idyll. Soon after the publication of The
Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems, Longfellow began the
poem, and in October, 1847, completed it.

In preparing for the work, the poet drew largely from
Haliburton's Historical Account oj Nova Scotia, with its fn;-
quent quotations from Abb^ liaynal's sketches (jf life among
the French settlers. He may have read also Winslow's narra-
tive of the expedition under his command, which, as yet
unprinted, was preserved among the archives of the Massa-
chusetts Historical Society. Grand-Pre and the Mississippi

[271)]

? r'r

280

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

It ■!•'■■*■

he did not visit. Descriptions in books and early Maine
associations gave him his conceptions of Nova Scotia and
Louisiana scenery.

VERSIFICATION.

Longfellow's genius was strongly assimilative rather than
creative. From Goethe's Hermann and Dorothea came to him
suggestions for the developing of his Acadian storj-^, and from
the same idyll he now chose his verse form. The hexameter
had long been an English measure, but unpopular and in disuse.
Though naturally more rapid in movement than the German
hexameter, the rhythmic license of English verse forms, the
monotony generally inseparable from long metrical cadences,
the comparative insignificance of quantity as a factor in Eng-
lish metre together with the great dearth of natural spondees,
made it a measure distasteful to poets. And yet in the hands
of a great master of melody it has splendid capabilities. No
verse form can better embody the epic simplicity of early
races, none, with greater naturalness, directness and plainness
of manner, reproduce Homeric thought. For free and uncon-
strained pictures of lite and incidents in the great external
world calling for no power of dramatic interpretation, it
possesses a rapidity of movement and a natural dignity that
repels the jaunty air and jog-trot of the ordinary ballad
measure.

Longfellow was confirmed in his selection of this verse form
by the striking effect of some hexameter lines published in
Mackwoods as models for translators of Homer, by the success
of his own pre--ic';s experiment with the same metrical instru-
ment in • i.ij Cloud, and subsequently to the comple-
tion oi ' ' i^ f the success of Clough's Long- Vacation
Pastoral. ' classical regularity than Clough, with
less force and passion, his verse reaches the ear of the reader
with a milder, more tenderly elegant and certainly more

(

NOTES ON LONGFKLLOW.

281

languid effect. At times, it is true, the poet errs ; the line
becomes non-rhythmical, prosaic, lunil)ors along unlightojietl
by shifting caesura or light spondee ; but on the whole no
measure could lend itself more readily to a faitliful interj)reta-
tion of that harmony between thought and form, and tliat lin-
gering melancholy which so strongly colours the whole poem.
The movement to the reader at first seems peculiar — a gradual
fall at the close of a verse precedes a sharp re(0\ ory at the
beginning of the next verse, whilst throughout the first half of
a line the thought seems to rise and swell in preparation for
the gradual subsidence in the second half.

As distinctive features of the hexameter verse, developed
and polished by Longfellow, note the epic simplicity, the
directness and plainness of manner in 11. 175-197; 555-560;
the lingering and, at times, rapid movement in 11. 160-170;
752-789 ; the sustained dignity of 11 .1-15 ; the rise and fall
of cadence in 790-805; the tender elegance of 11. 806-814;
864-882, 890-910.

The historical circumstances connected with and forming the basis of
the story of Evn»geline may be brioHy summarized.

In the year 1713 Acadia (now Nova Scotia) was ceded to Great
Britain by France. The inhabitants — a few French settlers along the
Annapolis Basin — were persuaded to take the oath of allegiance to the
British Crown only on the condition of l)eing regarded as "neutral.s"
in case of a war between the native land and their new mistress.
During the long dispute after the 'I'reaty of Aixda-Chapelle (174S) over
the northern boundary lines of Acadia the French settlers in Acadia
were suspected of conniving witli their fellow-Frenchmen and, in the
acute stages of the dispute, of aiding with provisions and aninniuition
at the siege of Beau-S^jour. Tlie English colonists determined to rid
themselves of such dangerous neighbours. Governor Lawrence, with
two English admirals, met in council (17o5) and decided to forcibly
remove the French settlers to various parts of the English colonial
possessions. By proclamation the French were assembled in church
at Grand -Pre, seized and deported — although without the ruthlesa
cruelty with which tradition forced Longfellow to dress bis Btory,

282

NOTES ON LONGFKLLOW.

ii "-f '*'

h 'J

1. forest primeval- A forest as yet never disturbed by the
axe.

3. Druids of eld. llecalk the simplicity of the distant past.

4. Compare with Scott's picture of the Bard in the introduction to

the Lay of the Last Minnlrel.

5. An accurate impression of the shores of the Bay of Fundy.

8. Does this comparison in the guise of a startled deer suggest
the tragedy of the story ? Or does it refer merely to the buoyant,
vigorous life of the settlers ?

Compare Tintern Abbey, where Wordsworth speaks of his youth as
the time

When like a roe
He bounded o'er the mountains, by the aidea
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led.

16. The refrain of the poem. Nature remains — man, with his joys,
his sorrows, " his enduring affections," passes away.

16-19. Characteristic iterations in Longfellow's verse — even in his
hexameters.

Part the First.

21. Compare Goldsmith's Traveller:

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po.

22. Vast meadows. Grand-Pr6.

29. Blomidon rose, etc. See a sonnet by the Canadian poet,
Roberts :

This is that black rock bastion, based in surge,
Pregnant with ajrate and with amethyst.

Whose top austere withdraws into the mist.
This is that ancient cape of tears and storm,
Whose towering front inviolable frowns
O'er vales Evangeline and love keep waru^

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

283

34. Henry II., III., IV. reigned between 1547 anil IGIO. Acailia
was Hrot settled early in the 17th century.

35, etc. Norman scenes, not altf>gether Acadian.
39. kirtles = jacket and skirt.

43. Compare with the Preacher in Goldsmith's Dt-mrkd Villaijr.

49. AngeluS Domini is the name given to tlie hell, rung morn-
ing, noon, and niglit, to summon the people to prayer, in commemoration
of the visit of the angel to the Virgin. Introduced into France in the
16th century.

63. The similes met with in Evanijeline have about them a strained
air of simplicity and naturalness. They are subject to tiie liniitationti
of all Longfellow's figures of speech. Examine carefully 11. 2U9, 329,
352, 444, (JOI 671-2, 771, 781-2, U2.% 10.32-:i3, etc.

69-80. 'angeline is represented to us herein three distinct scenes,
each scene m lis order throwing more into relief her l)eauty of soul.

87 9. Borrowed from memories of travels in ICurope.

96. What purpose is served by these freciiient references to Biblical
personages or incidents? Discuss the appropriateness of such refer-
ences -11. 153, 381, 48(), 507, 597, 620, 821.

118. Longfellow certaiidy honoured the craft of the blacksmith l)y
frequent references to the forge and anvil :

In Nurimherg :

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too tlie nij'stio rhyme,
And the smith his iron measures hanimercd to the anvil's chime ;
Thanking Ood, whose houndless wisdom makeg the flowers of poesy bloom
In the forjje's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.

or in To a Child

As fjreat Pythafjoras of yore,
Standing beside the l)lacksmith's door.
And hearing the hanuners as they smote
The anvils with a different note,
Stole from the \arying tones that hung
Vibrant on every ifon tongue.
The secret of the sounding wire,
And fonned the seven-chorded lyre.

or in The Village Blacksmith.

■ ^

284

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

r 11 u
It If" ■

pi
i a.

122. plain-SOngf = an old ecclesiastical chant or recitation of the
collectB.

130, 1. Compare The Village Blacksmith :

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door ;

They love to see the flaming forge

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burnint^ sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

133. Or, as the French saying expresses it, they were guests going
in to the wedding.

137. In Pluquet's Cont-es Populairea we are told that the mother-
swallow seeks on the shore of the ocean a certain small stone wherewith
to remove blindness in her offspring.

144. Pluquet's proverb reads :

Si le soleil rit le Joar Sainte-Eulalie
II y aura pommes et ddre ^ folie.

(If the sun smiles on Saint Eulalie's day, there will be plenty of apples
and cider enough.) — Saint Eulalio's day, February 12.

159. Our Indian Summer, All Saints Day being Nov. 1.

170. Herodotus states that Xexes was so enamoured of a beautifnl
plane-tree, met with in his Grecian expedition, that he dressed it as one
might a woman and placed it un<ler the care of a guardsman. /Eliau
adds that he adorned it with necklace and bracelets.

193, 4. Compare the cadence of the milkmaid's song in Tennyson's
Queen Mary, ra. , 5.

231. Meaning of " jest " here ?

240. Proclamation of Governor Lawrence, to be read by Col.
Winslow, the ofiBcer in command.

249. Louisl)urg in Cape Breton, a strongly fortified French naval
station, built early in the 18th century, was taken in 1745 by an
expedition from Massachusetts under General Pepperell. llestored to
France against the wishes of the New England colonists by the treaty
of Aix-la-Chapelle, it was recaptured in 1757. Beau-S^jour was a
French fort upon the neck of laud connecting Acadia with the main*

NOTFS ON T-ONOPELLOW.

285

land, which had just been captured by Winslow's forces, despite tho
secret assistance given by the French settlers. Port Ivoyal (iifterwardB
Annapolis Itoyal) at the outlet of tho Annapolis River into the Bay of
Fundy, was attacked by an exi)edition from New England in 1710, cap-
tured and retained as a fortified place.

252. Arms were surrendered as a condition of their being treated av
" neutrals " in the wars with New France.

267. A "notary" is an oiEcer authorized to attest contracts or
writings of any kind.

275. King George's war, 1744-48, or Queen Anne's, 1702-1713.

280. The " Lonp-garou," or were-wolf, is, according to a well-
known French superstition, a man with power to turn himself into a
wolf, which he does that he may devour children. Compare "bug-
bear."

282. Possibly, says Pluquet, the appearance and motion of the
white fleet ermine gave rise to this superstition.

284. On the Continent and. among the English peasantry lingered
long the belief that on Christmas Eve the cattle in the stables fall down
on their knees in adoration of the infant Saviour, as was done — accord-
ing to an old legend — in the stable at Bethlehem.

302. An old Florentine story which has served as the basis of an
opera by Rossini (1817).

376. Premonitions of coming calamities.

rson 3

Col.

IV.

385 398. This somewhat highly-coloured picture of Acadian life is
drawn largely from Abb6 Raynal'a account of these early settlers.

413. Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres was a song written

in Henry IV.'s time by Ducauroi :

Vous connaissez Cybfele,
Qui 8ut fixer le Temps ;
On la disait fort belle,
Mcme dans ses vieux ans.

Chori'S—

Ct'tte divinite, quoique dijA j^randintre
Avait les yeux doux, le teint frais,
Avail ineme certains attruits
Fermes oomme la terre.

286

NOTKS ON LONnKKLtOW.

r >n

i^j

Le Carillon de Dunkerque wjw a popular 8oii>; to a tune played
on the Dunkirk chimeii :

Impnidcnt, tdm^ralre

A riimtant, Je I'espfcre

DariH inon juste coiirroiix

Tu vftH toml)or sous iiioh coups I

— lie lirave ta iiieriacc.

— Ktrc moi I (^upIIc audace !

Avance dotui, poltroti !

Tu truinblcs? non, tion, non.

— J'ctonffe (le ooR-re !

— Je ris de ta col6re.

432. This is substantially the atldruss made by Winalow.

442, etc. This remiiitls one, in thought and form, of Virgil.

466. tocsin's alarm = an alarm bell. More distinct is the
Cilouk's stroke after the uproar of the alarm.

▼.

554. The key-note of Evaiigeline's character.

570. Poetical exaggeration.

579- leaguer. Gc ma.ii Lager. The camp of a besieged army,

605. Benedicite. Bless ye !

615- The Titans were giant deities in Greek mythology, who, in an
efTort to deprive Saturn of the sovereignty of heaven, were thei'i:^t?lvea
subdued by the thunderbolts of Jupiter and driven into 'I'arl/ariis.
Briareus, the hundi'ed-handed giant, was of the same parentag- ar, the
Titans, though not classed with them.

619- Colonel Winslow was commanded to deprive those who might
escape of all shelter and support.

621. gleeds. Hot, burning coals. A Chaucerian word.

653> Many did subsequently return.

657- The tolling of the bell and the reading of the service book.

I70TB8 ON LONOFRLLOW.

28:

e played

Part the Skcond.

; is the

rmy.

>, in ati
'i^elvea

af, the

might

6*76. The Missisaippi.

707- VOyagfeur = a river boatman.

713. St. Catherine, of Alexandria, wan celehrateil for her vows of
virginity. Hence the saying "tobraiil St. Catherine's tresses " of cue
devoted to a single life.

720. Compare Tennyson :

I hold it truth, whate'er befall,
Tis better to have loved and lost.
Than never to have lovud at all.

741. Beautiful River = Ohio, in the Iroquois dialect.

750. Louisiana though ceded by France in 1 762, did not actually
pass into the hands of Spain until 1709. Acadians attracted by the
presence of a French population, settled along the river Mississippi, from
the mouth about New Orleans, as far north as Baton Kouge and even
Point Couple, giving to one shore the name " Acadian coast." Many
were sent by the authorities to form settlements in Attakapas and
Opelousas.

765. chutes = rapid descents in a river.
768. wimplingr = rippling.

764. citron = a species of lemon-tree.

766. Bayou = a channel leading from a river.

782. mimosa = the sensitive plant.

873. Ijongfellow, in testing by various experiments the fitness of
the hexameter, was struck by the limitations of his pentameter verse iu
the description of the mocking-lnrd's song :

Upon a spray that overhung the stream,
The mocking-bird, awaking from his dream.
Poured such delicious muHJc from his throat,
That all the air seemed listening to his note.
Plaintive at first the song begun and slow ;
It breathed of sadness and of pain and woe ;
Then gathering all his notes, abroad he flung
The multitudinous music of his tongue ; -
As after showers, a sudden gust again.
Upon the leaves shakes dowt> the rattling rain.

288

NOTKS ON LONGFFLLOW.

878. Bacchantes = worshippers of the god Bacchus, who in
Greek mythology presided over the vine and its fruits. Such devotees
deUghted in all manner of excesses, in song, in dance and revelry.

M Hi

)1 i

iir.

889. mystic mistletoe. "Mystic," from Druldicassociauous.

970. ci devant = former.

1001. VV'hence came the astonishment of Father Felician?

1025, etc. Nature's moods act and react upon Evangeline, as with
sensitive, delicate, psychic power she felt the spirit in the universe
•bout lier.

1033. The Carthusians belong to an exceedingly strict monastic
order, founded in the 12th century. Almost perpetual silence is one of
the vows of the order.

1044. See Daniel, v„ 25

1049. See 1. 16.

IV.

1078. The exact situation of this "desert land " is very vaguely
defined — in Wyoming or Arliansas.

1091. amorphas. A leguminous plant.

1095. Ishmael's children. Who?

1114. Fata Morgana = a sort of mirage occasionally seen in the
Straits of Messina, and less frecpieiitly elsewhere. It consists in the
appearance in the air over the sea of the objects which are on the
neighbouring coasts. This mirage of terrestrial objects in the sky is
quite common in the south-west of the United States.

1139. These stories •. le poet drew from the same source as his
J/ittwdtha legends, viz.: Schoolcraft's A/yic Researches.

1182. 8U.SUrruS=whisper or murmur.

1199. Compaie Wordsworth's sonnet, To a Dit</a)it Friend.

1226. In early Oreek poetry, meadows of asphodel (lily) were
haunted by tiie shades of lieroes. Nepenthe was a magic potion of the
Homeric days, bringing forgetfuhiess of sorrow.

1241. A rendering of the Moravian Gnadcnhiitten.

1244. Compare 1. 1163.

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

289

ociauous.

1252. Hence the name of the state.

1253. Philadelphia, with its btreets, Chestnut, Walnut, Locust,
Spruce, Pine, etc.

1257. Dryads = Nymphs of the woods.

1298. The year 179.3 brought a terrible plague of yellow fever to
Philadelphia.

1308. almshouse. Longfellow said to a journalist in explaining
the position of Philadelphia in his tale: " I was passing down Spruce
street (in Philadelphia) one day towards my hotel after a walk, when my
attention was attracted to a large building with beautiful trees about it
inside of a high enclosure. I walked along until I came to the great
gate and then stepped inside and looke<l carefully over the place. The
charming picture of lawn, flower-beds and shade which it presented mode
an impression which has never left me, and when I came to write Evan-
geline I placed the final scene, the meeting between Evangeline and
Gabriel, and the death at the poor-house, and the burial in an old
Catholic graveyard not far away, which I found by chance in another
of my walks."

1328. This church still stands on the banks of the Delaware River,
within the city limits.

1381. Opening refrain repeated. Nature is persistent, man, the
individual, has gone.

1385. Mild pensiveness, so natural to Longfellow, runs throughout
this rinal requiem.

1399. How completely has nature become oblivious of the sad
memories of Evangeline.

THE BUILDERS— 1846.

This poem in form and tli ught is but a sermon in verse.
A simple text is given ; in various ways this text is presented
to the reader's mind, and the whole is concluded with an
exhortation. Such lifeless material could arouse no spiritual

290

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

ft ■

#1-1!

^ I

entluisiaam, could represent no poetic inspiration, and must
find expression in non-descript metrical form, in prosaic dic-
tion, and in trite, if not confused, figurative language.

3, 4. Have we a contrast presented in 11. 3 and 4 ?

5, 6. Compare with the Ladder of St. Augustine.

17, 18. This probably refers to the completeness and faithfulness
of Grecian art.

23, 4. Compare Tintern Abbey:

Thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely fonns ;
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies.

27, 8, Compare with the Ladder of St. Augustine,

[,m

1 (

j'ljy

•^1

liW

;*^

II '>■

THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE— 1850.

The tliought of this poem, as with all Longfellow's sermons
in verse, is within the common experience of men. In the
great economy of natui'e's moral forces, nothing is lost, nothing
may return "(Mii])t3' to the void." Mighty influences may
shape the soul of Coleridge's Mariner ; but Wordsworth's
Milton draws his heroic greatness from the common duties of
common life. Evolution, that works amid the agents of the
external world, shapes as well the growth of the spirit, and
with Longfellow the soul's evolution means at first a blind,
almost unconscious, survival from the petty cares of life.
Growth brings clearer insight, the clouds roll away from the
goal and evolution finally becomes conscious efiort.

|f —

1. St. Augustine. One of the greatest of the early Christian
fathers (354 4:W A.b.). He has had a vast influence in shaping the

ruligious tliought of past ages.

KOtES ON LONGFELLOW.

291

2. of our vices, etc. In his sermon, De Asreusione, Augustine
says : "De vitiis nostris scalam nobis facimus, si vitia ipsa calcamus. "

3. Compare Tennyson's In Memoriam, L :

I held it truth with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones.
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.

5, etc. Compare 11. 12, 13, 14, Wordsworth's sonnet, To London,
1802.

16. Such irreverence, says Coleridge, is the basest egotism.

24. A legal phrase signifying sovereign ownership.

37. Is this the true conception of great men and their achievements ?

41. Christian in the Pilgrim's Progress has his burdens rolled from
his shoulders. Longfellow would have us share in the struggle to
overthrow the world of sense.

the

ling

may

n'th's

les of

the

and

|lind,

life.

the

atian
the

THE PSALM OF LIFE.

It is not difficult to account for the extraordinary popularity
of this poem. Vv ritten by an American for Americans in this
modern industrial age, it echoes in a detached aphoristic way
the underlying motifs of the average American life. The text
of the psalm is effort, work, growth- good living and good
working, and with a simple faith in the homely worth of his
sermon the poet abandons all hope of poetic inspiration,
descends among men into the prosaic world and in discon-
nected figures and lines encourages his fellow- workers.

The poem waf) written in Cambridge on a bright summer morning in
July, 1838. "I kept it some time in manuscript," says Longfellow,
•'unwilling to show it to anyone, it being a voice from my inmost
heart, at a time when I was rallying from depression." Before publish-
ing it in the Knickerbocker Magazine, October, 18;i8, the poet read it
to his college class after a lecture on Goethe. The title, though used

292

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

s'"-!

now exclusively for this poem, was orignally, in the poet's mind, a
generic one. He notes from time to time in his diary that he has
written a psalm, a psalm of death, or another psalm of life. The
psalmist was himself.

3. Spiritual lethargy is after all the greatest moral wrong. Com-
pare Browning's The Statue and the Bztst:

And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost
Is the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin.
Though the end in sight is a vice, I say.

4. Our conception of the world and its problems is a measure of
our own enlightenment. ** We receive but what we give."

5. The moral of life is a never-ceasing struggle — with Longfellow,
we cannot say, a cheerful struggle.

7. Compare Genesis, in., 19.

13. Point out the intended application of the first half of this
aphorism from Hippocrates.

22, Compare St. Luke, ix., 60. A. similar thought appears in the

poet's Hyperion :

Look not mournfully into the Past ! Wisely improve the Present. It is thine. Go
forth to meet the shadowy Future without fear and with a manly heart.

23-24. Discuss the value of this matter-of-fact philosophy of life.

27-28. Is this the noblest of purposes ? Compare The Builders,
11. 15, 16.

33-4. Compare with the spirit of Browning's Prospice or Crashawe's

Life that shall send

A challenge to its end

And when it oomes, say, Welcome, friend.

THE DAY IS DONE.

Longfellow's songs, coloured as they often are by the spirit
of Heine and Uhland, possess a more spontaneous, more

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

293

imaginative tone than such didactic lyrics as The Builders,
Resignation, Psalm of Life, etc.

The Day is Done was written in 1844 as a proem to The. Waif, a small
volume published by Longfellow at Christmas of that year.

1-6. Longfellow frequently, too frequently perhaps, refers to the
soothing influences of night, its calm, its voices of sorrow and joy, its
stars, but these references lack the delicate, aerial touch of Shelley in :

Swiftly walk over the western wave,

Spirit of night !
Out of the misty eastern cave.
Where all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear.

Swift be thy flight 1

7. A shade of sadness, dv.e perhaps to German influences, tinges
Longfellow's relations with nature and human life. Compare with
Wordsworth.

25-44. Wordsworth's purpose as a poet was "to console the
afflicted ; to add sunshine to daylight by making the happy, happier ;
to teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think and
feel, and therefore to become more actively and securely virtuous,"
And of Wordsworth it is said : "The more thoughtful of each genera-
tion will draw nearer and observe him more closely, will ascend his
imaginative heights and sit under the shadow of his profound medita-
tions, and in proportion as they do so, will become more noble and pure
in heart." Discuss Longfellow's views of the restorative influences of
the ' ' humbler poet " in. the light of these quotations.

THE FIRE OF DRIFTWOOD.

Longfellow's diary says t

"September 29th, 1846. A delicious drive with F. (his wife) through
Maiden and Lynn to Marblehead, to visit E. W. at the Devereux Farm
by the sea-side. Drove across the beautiful sand ; what a delicious
scene ! The ocean in the sunshine changing from the silvery hue of the

294

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

mi'

1 ■•■'

thin waves upon the beach, through the lighter and deeper green, to a
rich purple in the horizon. We recalled the times past, and the days
when we were at Nahant. The Devereux Farm is l)y the sea, some
miles from Lynn. An old fashioned farm-house, with low rooms and
narrow windows rattling in the sea breeze." From the drive sprang
this poem.

13, etc. Compare with the manner and pervading tone of More's

J risk Melodies.

17-24. Compare, in intensity of feeling, Clough's As Ships Be-
calmed at Eve.

RESIGN ATIOiSr.

This poem, the first in the group, eu, ''led /j.v tJie Fireside, was
written in 1848 after the death of his little daughter, Fanny. In the
poet's diary, Nov. 12, he writes : "1 feel very sad to-day. I miss very
much my dear little Fanny. An inappeasable longing to see her comes
over me at times which I can hardly control. "

7. Rciohel. See Jeremiah XXXI., 15; Matthew, ii., 18.

17. Compare Paalm of Life, 11. 7, 8.

19. elysian. Bllysium was the Paradise of the Greek poets.

33, 4. Compare The Education of Nature. With Wordsworth,
memory also " kept unbroken the bond which nature gives." Tenny-
son, In Memoriam, cxx.x., sings of his dead friend :

Far off thou art, but ever niyrh ;
I have thee still, and I rejoice ;
I prosper, circled with thy voice ;
I shall not lose thee tho' I die .

43. Compare Tennyson, In Menioriam, cxviii.:

Trust that those we call the dead
Are breathers of an ampler day
For ever nobler ends. "

61, 2. Compare Tennyson's In Menioriam, v.:

I Bomctinies hold it half a sin
To put in words the giiet I feel.

it <

NOTES ON LONGFELLOW.

295

, to a
days
some
I and
)rang

lore's
Be-

was
I the

very
iomes

arth,
nny.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

The house commemorated in this poem ia the Gold House, now
known as the Plunkett mansion in Pittsfield, Mass. , the homestead of
Mrs. Longfellow's maternal grandfather, whither the poet went after
his marriage in the summer of 1843. The poem was not written, how-
ever, till November, 1845, when, under date of the I'Jth of the month,
he wrote in his diary: "Began a poem on a clock with the words
' Forever, never,' as the burden, suggested by the words of Bridaine,
the old French missionary, who said of eternity : (fent une pendale. dont
le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seiilement dans le silence des
tomheamx, — Toujours, jamais! Jamais, toujours ! Et pendant ces
effrayahlea revolutions, un reprouv4 s^dcrle, ' Quelle heure est-il ?' et la voix
d' un autre miserable lui rdpond ' L' Eternitd.' "

1-5. Longfellow's scenic backgrounds are in harmony with the
popular reflections arising from them. He cannot often see into the
very life of his environment, nor can he portray the spiritual signifi-
cance of any " setting." As a study in " backgrounds " compare with
Ozyviandias, quoted elsewhere.

7, 8. A string from Poe's harp.

17-22. Recalls More's melodies.

2t*l. Origin of this figure ?

65, etc. Longfellow finds compensation for the sadness of this life
in the life to come ; Coleridge draws consolation from the permanence
of thought and mind in this life and its continuance hereafter, while
Wordswoi-th, rejoicing in the rounding of his manhood hereafter, seeks
comfort in natural and earthly joys.

60. horologe = a time-piece.

A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE.

In the poet's diary, Aug. 31, 1846, we find the following entry : "In
the afternoon a delicious drive with F. and 0. through Brookline, by the
church and * the green lane ' and homeward through a lovelier line,,
with barberries and wild vines clustering over the old stone walla." In
this drive lay the suggestion of the. poem..

296

NOTES ON LONOFELLOW.

Wf'

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS.

This poem was written in Oct. 1852, and published in Put-
nairHs Magazine, January, 1853. The warden was the Duke
of Wellington, who died in September, 1852.

A clear conception of the characteristic limitations of Long-
fellow's poetic genius might be derived from a comparison of
this poem with Tennyson's ode upon the same subject. The
most cursory reading impresses one with the fact that in plan
Tennyson's poem is moro spontaneously developed and more
natural. In it there is no elaborated framework or setting,
but a background of forms almost hidden from view by a
weight and richness of reflection. In lieu of the finished
climaxes and, in some way, picturesque climaxes of Long-
fellow, we have a constant ebb and flow of strong emotion.
The English poet is hopeful in his solution of the mystery of
death. Life in Wellington meant a noble fidelity to truth
and duty, and death meant, not utter loss, but growth :

Nothing can bereave him
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State,
And that he wears a truer crown
Than any wreath that man can weave him.

ti- -
It S

The world of man and the world of nature sympathize deeply
in his loss, and yet find solace and comfort in his departure.
Longfellow on the other hand draws but one lesson from his
death, and that a stern one. In her decrees, Nature is inexor-
able. She continues her course untouched by man's joys or
sorrows :

Nothing in nature's aspect intimated
That a great man was dead.

Again Tennyson — perhaps for particular reasons in this case —
is more sincere and consequently more vigorous. Longfellow

NOTES ON LONOFEI-LOW.

297

looks in a mild, pensive and general way upon the death of a
great man. Tennysion, an Englishman and a patriot, is stirred
to the heart by the death of the mightiest of Englishmen.

Compare the sweep of :

O fall'n at length that tower of strength

Which stood foursquare to all tie winds of heaven,

with 11. 31-32 of Longfellow's poem, or both in conception and
cadence, compare

Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest,

With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest.

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest t

Mighty seaman, this is he

Was great by land as thou by sea.

with the best lines in Longfellow's poem, say 11. 37-40, 45-8.

Cinque Ports are the five maritime ports of England lying oppo-
site the coast of France (1. 9). William the Oonfiueror placed these
seaports under the special jurisdiction of a warden with civil, military
and naval authority. The appointment, purely honorary since the
Stuart days, was abolished upon the death of the ]>uke of Wellington.

5. Enthusiastic commentatoiti have noted the precision and pic-
turesqueness of Longfellow's diction. Criticize such an estimate of his
manner by references to epithets like "rippling" (5), "feverish" (8),
"impartial" (29).

12. An invention of the poet. Why appropriate?

13. COUChant lions. Heraldic term— lying down with head
upraised.

riii^~*

x**^

BIBLIOGRAPHY.

[Only such works or editions are mentioned here as the
editors with tlieir limited purpose found suggestive or helpful.]

Wordsworth,—

Globe Edition.

Arnold's Selections from Wordsworth.

George's Editions of Prelude and of Prefaces.

Biography of Wordsworth by Myers, in "English Men of

Letters" Series.

Critiques or fugitive essays by De Quiucey, Shairp, Arnold,
Button, DeVere, Dowden, Stopford Brooke.

UOLERIDOK, —

Glol)e Edition (a scholarly volume).

Bohn's Library Edition of Biographia Literaria.

Biography of Coleridge by Traill, in *' English Men of Letters "
Series, by Caine and by Brandl.

Critiques and fugitive essays by Shairp, Dowden, Arnold,
Stopford Brooke, Campbell.

Campbell, —

Aldine Edition, with Memoir.

Dr. Beattie's Life of Campbell.

All editions of the works and biographical notices of Campbell are
unsatisfactory.

Longfellow, —

Cambridge Edition.

Biographies by Underwood and Robertson.

[299] ^ ..