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116.

32X

Prit

COLERIDGE'S

ANCIENT MARINER

AND SELECTED MINOR POEMS,

AND

MACAULAY'S

ESSAY ON V/ARREN HASTINGS,

EDITED. WITH NOTES. ETC.,

J. M. BUCHAN. M.A.,

Pnncipal Upper Ca.u.<la College; late Inspector of High SchooU for Ontario.

CANADA PUBLISHING CO.

(UMITKO.)

PM6I0/

I • i

- I 9 ^g 4y

Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year i88s, by the Cakada
Publishing Co. (Limited), iu the office of the Minister of Agriculture.

PREFACE.

It is recommended that the student should first read Tht Aneunt
Marintr rapidly in order to grasp its general meaning. He should next
read the critical analysis. The same course having been pursued with
the other poems, the life of Coleridge should be studied with the
special view of discovering what light the poems and the life throw
on each other. After this selected portions sh'^uld be committed to
memory and the versification and notes studied. It is suggested that
the following passages should be learnt by heart : —

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

Part i.

51-62.

•• ii.

31-48.

" iii.

48-52. 57-<o.

•• iv.

40-64.

• V.

22-35. 59-81.

• vi.

33-42. 59-70.

- vii.

84-ZZ3.

PRANCB.

The first and last stansas.

DEJECTION.

Stanzas 4, 5, and 6*

TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Lines 45-50. 61-91, zoi-zit.

VOUTH AND AGS.

The whoUb

LIFE OF

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

A.D. 1772-1834.

The Coleridge* family, for reasons which do credit to the fineness ol
their feelings, have never deemed it wise to place at the disposal of the
public the biographical material they possess, and the consequence is
that no full life of this great man has yet been written. The results of
their reticence and caution have been both good and bad. If, on the
one hand, a prurient public has not, as in some instances, been per-
mitted to

" Peer,
Spy, smirk, scofif, snap, snort, snivel, snarl, and sneer,"

on the other, the compiler of a biographical notice is reduced to the
necessity of filling up important gaps by inference and conjecture.

The chief reason for studying the lives of great men is to gain insight
into their characters. Character is formed in youth and is the result
of the development and repression of inherited tendencies and aptitudes
utider the moulding ''nfluences of training and surroundings. The
source of his great powers has not inMts Uftse of Cult^ldge, any more
than in that of most other nien 0rge^'\i^>^ynr^ktfefjlctoriIy traced ;
but the records of his family since hi^ time attest' a tendecfe^y to produce
I men of conspicuous ability, of which thf, fONl A IrOf d Chief Justice of
i England is a living example. The name Colendge, according to De
Quincy, has been immemorially associated with .the<lK3i;lg)k^f Devon^
shire. Before the poet's time, however, it ixaid ngi been borne by any
I famous man.

He was born on the 2xst of October, 1772, at Ottery St. Mary in
[Devonshire, and was the youngest of his father's thirteen and his
mother's ten children. His father, the Rev. John Coleridge, was vicar
jof Ottery St. Mary and headmaster of Henry VIH's Free Grammar
I School in that town. He had been educated at Cambridge, and " was
|a country clergyman and schoolmaster of no ordinary kind. He was

* The pronunciation of this name is indicated by Coleridge himself in the follow*
ling couplet :

" Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from its whole ridge
$ee a man who so loves yqu as your foad S. T. Coleridgt."

ir.

LIFB OF SAIfUBL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

a good Greek and Latin scholar, a profound Hebraist, and, according
to the measure of his day, an accomplished mathematician. He was
on terms of literary friendship with Samuel Babcock, and, by his know-
ledge of Hebrew, rendered material assistance to Dr. Kennicott in his
well-known criiical works. Some curious papers on theological and
antiquarian subjects appear with his signature in the early numbers oi
The Gentleman's Magasine between the years 1745 and 1780.
In 1768 he published Miscellaneous Dissertations, arising from the
17th and z8th cha^ ers of the Book of Judges: in which a very learned
and ingenious attempt is made to relieve the character of Micah from
the charge of idolatry ordinarily brought against it : and in 1772
appeared a critical Latin Grammar which his son called his best work,
and which is not wholly unknown even now to the inquisitive by the
proposed substituf'on of the terms prior, possessive, attributive, post&*
rior, interjective and quale-quare-quidditive for the vulgar names ol
the cases. ... He also published a Latin Exercise book and a
sermon," and his school was celebrated. He had the amusing habit of
quoting Hebrew in his sermons to his rustic parishioners as the
*' immediate language of the Holy Ghost," a practice which rendered
it difficult for his successor, who was not given to citing the Old Testa-
ment in the original, to establish a reputation for attainments. In
learning, good-heartedness, absentness of mind and excessive ignorance
of the world, he was, according to his son, a perfect Parson Adams.

Coleridge's mother, Ann Bowdon, was a member of a family that
had resided in Devonshire for many generations. She was, we are
told, an admirable economist, and had naturally a strong mind, but
was uneducated. " Possessing none even of the most common female
accomplishments of her day, she had neither love nor sympathy for the
display of them in others. She disliked, as she would say, 'your
harpsichord ladies,' and strongly tried to impress on her sons their
little value in their choice of wives." She was a very good woman.
very ambitious for her sons, and like Martha over careful in many
things; but lacked "perhaps that flow of heart which her husband
possessed so largely."

From what we know of his parents it is clear that the poet very
strongly resembled his father. Whether he did so physically we are
not told, but it is noteworthy that both died at the same age, namely
about sixty-two. Mentally and morally they were obviously very
similar. The father's learning, good-heartedness, and absentness of
mind were all reproduced in the son. In both there was the same
tendency to stray into remote nooks and corners of the fields of know-
ledge ; in both the same tendency to digress from their subject and

'Ui

LIFE OP SAMUEL TAY' OR COLERIDGB.

rding
i was
enow
in his
il and
lers ol
• •
m the
earned
i from

n 177a

t work,

by the

, postfc-

imes ol

k and a

habit of
as the

endered

d Testa-

nts. In

norance

lams.
lily that
we are

|ind, but
female
y for the
'your
,ns their
woman,
,n many
[husband

set very
ly we are
j, namely
Isly very
litness of
the same
lof know-
Iject and

discourse de omnibus rebus. The father's Miscellaneous Dissertation
arising from the 17th and iSth Chapters of the Book of yudges begins
with a well written preface on the Bible, and ends with an advertise^
ment of his school and his method of teaching Latin. The sou's Friend
purports to be a methodical series of essays having for its object to
assist the mind in the formation for itself of sound principles in regard
to the investigation, perception, and retention of truth ; yet it contains
besides essays joined to the main dissertation by the slenderest connect-
ing links, matter so utterly foreign to the purpose as a description of
Christmas within and out of doors in North Germany and the life o!
Sir Alexander Ball. The same discursiveness appeared in his conver-
sation. Hazlitt said that " his talk was excellent if you let him start
from no premises and come to no conclusion."

Like nearly all youngest children Coleridge was petted and s x>iled,
and the more so on account of the early development of his great
abilities. To the unwise over-kindness of his mother whose favourite
he was, and the injudicious praise of his abilities by admiring friends,
we may safely attribute in part at least his unmanly abnegation of his
duty to his family and his general moral weakness in his later life.
His precocity was indeed very marked, and it was accompanied by an
indisposition to bodily activity, which probably weakened his health
and reacted upon his temper.

In his second year he went to a dame's school. In his third he was
inoculated, and at its close could read a chapter in the Bible. He
remained at the dame's school till he was six, and describes himself as
very unhappy during this period, being hated, and thumped, and
! called ill-names by his brother Frank and his nurse Molly for beii.g
his mother's favourite.

So I became fretful and timorous and a tell-tale, and the school-

[boys drove me from play and were always tormenting me. And hence

[l took no pleasure in boyish sports, but read incessantly. I read

through all the gilt-covered little books that could be had at that time,

tnd all the uncovered tales of Tom Nickathrift, Jack the Giant-killer

ind the like. And I used to lie by the wall and mope ; and my spirits

ised to come upon me suddenly and in a flood ; and then I was accus-

)med to run up and down the churchyard , and act all that I had

sen reading on the docks, the nettles, and the rank grass. At six

fears of age I remember to have read Belisarius, Robinson Crusoe and

'hilip Quarles ; and then I found the Arabian Nights' Entertainments,

^ne tale of which (the tale of a man who was compelled to seek for a

ire virgin) made so deep an impression on me (I had read it in the

irenin^ while my mother was at her needle) that I was haunted by

VI.

LIFF OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COIERIDGB.

'!(

ipectrm whenever I was in the dark ; and I distinctly recollect the
anxious and fearful eagerness with which I used to watch the wiiulow
where the book lay, and when the sun cainu upon it, I would seizti it,
carry it by the wall, and bask, and read. My father found out the
effect which these books had produced, and burned them.

" So I became a dreamer and acquired an indisposition to all bodily
activity ; and I was fretful and inordinately passionate ; and as I could
not play at anything, and was slothful, I was despised and hated by
the boys: and because I could read and spell, and had, 1 may truly
say, a memory and understanding forced into almost unnatural ripe-
ness, I was flattered and wondered at by all the old women. And so
I became very vain and despised most of the boys that were at all near
my own age, and before 1 was eight years old I was a character.
Sensibility, imagination, vanity, sloth, and feelings of deep and bitter
contempt for almost all who traversed the orbit of my understanding,
were even then prominent and manifest."

During the next three years, or until he was nine, he was a pupil in
his father's school. His principal reminiscence of this period is con-
cerned with a quarrel with his brother Frank, which resulted in
Samuel's running away and sleeping out of doors one stormy October
night, When he was nearly nine years of age his father suddenly and
unexpectedly died, and the poet's home training was brought to a close.
During this period his father's influence had been much more potent
than his mother'f.. In fact the latter seems to have impressed herself
less upon her famous son than is usually the case with mothers of men
of genius. But of his father he writes, thirty years after his death :
"The image of my Father, my revered, kind, learned, simple-hearted
Father is a religion to me. "

In his tenth year, that is in 1782, the influence of a friend and
former pupil of his father procured for Coleridge admission to Christ's
Hospital, an old and famous school in London. Here he remained for
eight years, and here began what was destined to prove a life-long
friendship with Charles Lamb, the humorous author of the Essays of
Elia. The diet of the boys was not satisfactory, and Coleridge after-
wards thought that its scantiness had injured his health. They had
" every morning a bit of dry bread and some bad small beer ; every
evening a larger piece of bread and cheese or butter, whichever we
liked ; for dinner — on Sunday, boiled beef and broth ; Monday, bread
and butter, and milk and water ; Tuesday, roast mutton ; Wednesday,
bread and butter, and rice and milk; Thursday, boiled beef and broth '
Friday, boiled mutton and broth ; Saturday, bread and butter, and
pease-porridge. Our food was portioned, and, excepting on Wednes-

LIFE OP SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

V«.

I bodily
I could
lated by
ay truly
ral ripe-
And so
; all near
haractcr.
ad bitter
standing,

a pupil in

od is con-

isulted in

y October

|denly and

to a close.

ore potent
ed her sell
rs of men
lis death :
e-hearted

riend and
to Christ's
tnained for
a life-long

Essays of
idge after-

They had
eer ; every
ichever we
^day, bread

ednesday,
land broth •

lUtter, and

in Wednes-

days, I never had a belly full. Our appetites were dampod, never
s.itisficd ; and we had no vegetables."

Their faro was by no means Sybaritic; " yet it must n»t be supposed
that Coleridge vas an unhappy boy. He was naturally of a joyous
temperament, and in one amusement, swimming, he excelled and took
singular delight. Indeed he believed, and probably with truth, that
his health was seriously injured by his excess in bathing, coupled with
such tricks as swimming across the New River in his clothes, and
drying them on his back, and the like. But reading was a perpetual
feast to him," and he was afforded the means of indulging in it by a
singular incident. Going down the Strand, in one of his day-dreams,
he fancied himself Leander swimming across the Hellespont, and as he
thrust out his hands before him, as if in the act of swimming, one of them
came into contact with a gentleman's pocket. The owner of the pocket
seized him and charged him with an attempt at theft, and, the fright-
ened boy having sobbed out a denial and the explanation of what had
occurred, was so struck with his appearance and conversation that he
made him free of a circulating library in King Sireet, Cheapside.
•• Here," Coleridge says, " I read the catalogue, folios and all, whether
I understood them or did not understand them, running all the risks
in skulking out to get the two volumes which I was entitled to have
daily."

Coleridge's talents kept him continually at the head of his classes,
unspurred by either ambition or emulation, to both which infli.ences,
he, like his father, was singularly insensible. No attention seems to
*»ave been paid to the moral or spiritual culture of the boys ; but the
Uead master, the Rev. James Bowyer, was a good scholar and teacher,
and possessed of sound literary judgment. Coleridge's faculty for
writing verse rapidly developed itself here, and, when he had reached
his fifteenth year, he had already produced two or three English poems
which were somewhat above mediocrity. But such precocity is not
nearly so unusual as the early indication of his taste for metaphysics.
Fo»" about two years, namely from his fifteenth to his seventeenth
year, he almost abandoned poetry, and plunged headlong into meta-
physical and theological speculations. It is to this period evidently
that Charles Lamb's glowing description of Coleridge as a boy applies.
" Come back into memory, like as thou wert in the dayspring of
thy fancies, with hope, like a fiery column before thee, — the dark
pillar not yet turned, — Samuel Taylor Coleridge, — Logician, Meta-
physician, Bardl — How have I seen the casual passer through the
cloisters stand still, entranced with admiration (while he weighed th«
disproportioo between the speech and the garb of this young Miraadula).

vin.

LIFE OP SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

to hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of
lamblichus or Plotinus (for even in those years thou waxedst not pale
at such philosophic draughts), or reciting Horner in his Greek or
Pindar, — while the walls of the old Grey Friars reechoed with the
accents of the inspired charity boy I "

A reaction in favour of poetry took place in his seventeenth year
under the influence of what are now considered the mediocre sonnets
of William Lisle Bowles,* and to poetry he mainly devoted himself
until he fell under the Influence of opium in z8oi, or thereabouts.

So devoid of ordinary ambition was Coleridge, and so much did he
desire to escape from school that he attempted to get himself apprenticed
to a shoemaker. To this the head master would not consent, but put
him in the University Class. He left school in 1790, and proceeded to
Cambridge in 1791. Here he is reported to have been studious, but
withal ever ready to talk ; his room being a constant rendezvous of
conversation-loving friends. He won the Brown Medal for a Greek
Ode on the Slave Trade, and competed unsuccessfully for other similar
prizes ; but his reading was for the most part desultory and capricious*
He here became an avowed democrat and admirer of the French
Revolution like Wordswoith, Southey, and many other youthful con-
temporaries. Here he also became a Unitarian under the influence of
one Frend, a fellow of his college, who was deprived of his fellowship
for sedition and defamation of the Church of England by printing
Unitarian doctrines.

In the latter part of 1793 a singular episode occurred in his college
career. On account of a disappointment in love or the pressure of
debt, or of both combined, Coleridge suddenly left Cambridge for
London and, after exhausting his slender stock of money, enlisted as a
private in the Fifteenth Light Dragoons under the name ot Silas Titus
Comberback, thus preserving the initials S. T. C. As his assumed
surname denotes (Comberback = cumber back), a more unpromising
recruit has seldom entered a cavalry regiment. Here he remained for
some months, but not long enough to receive the benefits, moral, mental,
and physical, of a thorough course of drill and discipline — a course
which Mr. Traill appears to be right in thinking would have assisted in
remedying some of the weaknesses and defects of Coleridge's nature.
His discovery is said to have been due to his attracting the attention
of his captain by having written a Latin quotation on a wall of the
stables. The officer interested himself forthwith to procure a dis-

* Delightful Bowles 1 still blessing and still blest ;
^1 like thy strains, but children like them best.— B^row,

LIFE OP SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGl.

ix.

charge, which was obtained in April, 1794, and the ex*dragoon returned
to Cambridge.

In the summar of this year he met for the first time Robert Southey,
the poet, and Sarah Fricker, who afterwards became his wife, Lovell,
who had married Mary Fricker, one of her sisters, Southey, who was
engaged to another, and Coleridge at this time evolved a project of
emigrating to America and founding a socialist community on the
banks of the Susquehanna. This community was to be a pantiso':racy,
that is, an organization all the members of which have equal powers.
This poetical scheme came to nothing for the most prosaic of reasons
— the inability of its projectors to pay their passage to the Western
World. In September Coleridge returned to Cambridge to keep what
proved to be his last term there. He left the university without taking
a degree, and as no explanation of this termination of his Cambridge
career has been given by him, it has been conjectured that the escapade
of the preceding winter, his zeal for the French Revolution, and the
fervour of his pantisocratic sentiments may have combined to render a
longer residence there disagreeable to him, and possibly distasteful to
the authorities. It may be suggested as an additional and cogent
reason that the Unitarian views which he had adopted rendered it
impossible for him to carry out his father's wish and enter the Church,
or even to express a belief in the Thirty-Nine Articles which it was
then necessary to do in order to obtain a degree.

At any rate towards the end of 1794 Coleridge launched out into
the world with great and highly cultivated faculties and a memory
richly stored for his age with various knowledge. His appearance was
striking. He was five feet nine and a-half inches in height and strongly
built. Though the lower part of his face was weak, his eyes and fore-
head redeemed it. Wordsworth speaks of him as

and again as.

" The rapt one of the god-like forehead,
The heaven-eyed creature,"

'• A noticeable man with large grey eyes."

Carlyle says his eyes were light hazel, which is probably the more
accurate description. His hair was black, or nearly so, and half-curl-
ing, his mouth wide, his lips thick, his teeth not very good, his forehead
overhanging, and his skin fair. His voice was musical, deep, and
powerful. According to Wordsworth, whom we quote again, he had

" A pale face that seemed undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be ;

Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear,
Deprest by weight of musing phantasy ;
Profound his forehead was, though not severe«'*

LIFE OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLBRIDGB.

ill

With these advantages, mental and physical, our hero set out on
his career as a man, and earned for about three years a precarious
living as a lecturer, poet, editor, and preacher in Unitarian pulpits.
The faults in his character soon became manifest, an anconquerabla
dilatoriness ^vhich rendered it impossible to rely on his promise to da
anything, an unmanly disposition to allow his wants to be provided for
by others, and a tendency to make and announce plans and projects,
and to imagine that when he had done so they were nearly executed ,
In 1795 he married, and his married lifs was for some years a happy
one. In politics he was at this time strongly opposed to Pitt and the
war against France, and his views were very forcibly expressed in his
lectures and in The Watchman, a weekly newspaper, of which he pub-
lished ten numbers. The year 1797 may be termed the Annus Mira-
bilis of his life as in it he wrote his finest and most characteristic
poems — The Ancient Mariner, the first part of Chnstabel, and Kuhla
Khan, as well as his best tragedy. Remorse, the Ode to France, and the
beautiful little poem entitled Love. In this year, too, he formed the
acquaintance of Wordsworth and his sister whom he impressed as no
other contemporary seems to have impressed them. This was the
beginning of a life-long friendship, of which one of the first fruits was
the production of a joint volume of verse, the Lyrical Ballads, among
which The Ancient Mariner was included.

In the year in which the volume was published, namely 1798,
Coleridge made up his mind to accept and did accept a call from the
Unitarian congregation at Shrewsbury to act as their pastor, but was
induced to reconsider his acceptance at the instance of the Messrs.
Wedgewood, sons of the famous manufacturer of porcelain, and
engaged in the same business, who had formed a high opinion of his
talents and thought it a pity that his life should be wasted in the per-
formance of duties which would prevent him from carrying out the great
literary projects he was understood to have in view. They accordingly
offered him an annuity of £iyi a year for an indefinite period, pro-
vided he would abandon his intention of becoming a minister and
devote himself to literature, and the offer was accepted. One cannot
help feeling that it is a pity that this proposal was ever made or acceded
10. If Coleridge had been compelled to earn his bread like most other
mortals, under the pmalty of starvation, the stern discipline might
have corrected the defects which proved the ruin of his lavishly
endowed nature.

The immediate result of his being set free from ordinary cares in
this way wc.s a trip to Germany undertaken i 1 company with tho
Wprdsworths. Here be acquired the language, gained an acquaint*

LIPB OV SAMUEL TAYLOR C0LERID6B.

xi.

ance w?th much of what was best i^ German literature, and became
unbued with the philosophy of Kant. Returning to England, in 1799,
ue made a translation of Schiller's Wallenstein, which is held by critics
to be unique among translations, as being a finei' poem than the
original. He then occupied himself in writing leading articles for Ths
Morning Post, in which walk of literature he was successful, and by
which he could easily have earned a considerable income, had it been
possible for him to acquire habits of punctuality and regularity.

In 1800 he removed from Nether Stowey, near Bristol, where he
had resided since shortly after his marriage, to Keswick, in Cumber-
land, about twelve miles from Grasmere, where the Wordsworths had
settled a few months previously. Here he wrote the second part of
Christabel in the latter months of the same year, and with this effort
his literary activity suddenly slackened. He became the slave of
opium, and from this time his history is that of a mental and physical
vrreck. The story 'i the steps by which he fell under the influence of
this fatal drug has never been fully recorded ; but it seems clear that,
though he had gained relief from an acute rheumatic attack by the use of
laudanum in 1796, and had possibly been experimenting with it for the
same purpose when he composed Kuhla Khan in his sleep in 1797, yet
he did not form the habit of using it regularly until after an illness at
Keswick which had been cured by the use of the Kendal Black Drop.
It is clear that he used it first to relieve pain, not to produce pleasure,
and it has been suggested that a permanent lowering of the vigour of
his apparently good, but never really healthy, constitution, caused by
the dampness of the Keswick climate, or by the maturing of previously
sown seeds of disease, may have helped to fasten the habit upon him,
or, in other words, that it was due as well to physical as to moral
weakness. Be that as it may, it is certain that at this time that great
change in his mental constitution took place which he bewails in the
beautiful ode entitled Dejection, He became conscious of the extinction
of his creative poetical faculty, his "shaping spirit of Imagination,"
and thenceforth devoted his e£forts mainly to criticism, and political,
theological, and metaphysical speculations.

In 1804 Coleridge went to Malta, where he remained for more thaki
a year, and, aft-srwards visiting Italy, did not return to England all
August, 1806. In 1808 or 1809 he left his family. In 1809 and 1810,
while living with the Wordsworths, he published The Friend, a weekly
metaphysical journal. In 18x0 he left the Lake Country forever, and,
supporting himself by lecturing and writing for the newspapers, lived
an exceedingly miserable life in London and at the residences of
various friends in the country, interspersed with occasional attempts

Xll.

LIFE Of SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERtDGfi.

to reform, until x8i6. During this period his appetite for laudanum
rose to such a pitch that at one time he habitually consumed from four
to seven pints a week (on one occasion he drank a quart in twenty-four
hours), and his moral nature became so vitiated that, when in the house
of a friend who was endeavouring to cause him to break ofif the habit,
he stooped to all kinds of deceit in order to continue the indulgence.

In April, x8i6, Coleridge placed himself under the care of a physi-
cian named Gillman, residing at Highgate, in the vicinity of London,
and in his house he passed the remaining eighteen years of his exist*
ence, never completely gaining the mastery over his fatal habit, but
prevented from rushing into the excesses of former days, and leading a
regular and to a certain extent an active literary life. But his moral
weaknesses remained, and he still put forth appeals for money, based
on projected works which he deluded himself into believing were
nearly completed. Sad to say, he lived to see the same defects develop
themselves in the character of his brilliantly gifted eldest son. A
large part of his time during these last yeari? of his life was spent in
conversation with visitors whom his reputation attracted to Highgate.
Specimens of his Table Talk were published after his death by his
nephew and son-in-law, Henry Nelson Coleridge, He died on the 25th
of July, 1834, and was buried at Highgate. His bust has this year
(1885) ^cen placed in Westminster Abbey, in accordance with a provi-
sion in the will of the late Rev. D. Mercer, of Newport, Rhode Island.

From the year 1810 until his death it is certain that he never
visited his family. Southey said, in 1814, that he never wrote to them
or opened a letter from them. The estrangement, though neither
party ever explained its cause, was probably due to Coleridge's failure
through indulgence in opium to provide properly for his wife and
children. In 181 z one half of the Wedgewood annuity was withdrawn.
The remaining half Coleridge caused to be paid regularly to his wife.
It amounted, after the payment of the legacy duty, to £6y 10s, and this
was all that at one time, at any rate, he contributed to her support and
that of her three children. The chief burden of maintaining them and
the business of obtaining assistance from Coleridge's relations to pay for
educational expenses fell upon the shoulders of Southey, who was as
much superior to his brother-in-law in manliness as he was inferior in
genius. It does not appear that even after his partial reformation
through the influence of Mr. and Mrs. Gillman he ever assumed or
attempted to discharge any greater share of his pecuniary duties to his
family.

From the account of these serious delinquencies towards himself
And those dependent on him deduction is to be made for an imperfect

LtPB OP SAiituEL Taylor colbridgb.

Xlll.

physical and moral constitution. At no time of his life did he enjoy
perfect health of body ; at no time does ha ever appear to have been
morally capable of recognizing the wide gap that there is between
promising or projecting and performing, and of governing himself
accordingly. Some allowance must undoubtedly be made for the
defects of nature ; some allowance, too, for the special temptation to a
man possessed of extraordinary capacities, conscious of being endowed
with the very widest range of thought, and ambitious of making all
knowledge bis province and solving the riddle of the universe, to shun
contact with and to overlook what would appear to him to be the
pettier duties of life, But, every o£fset being made, one cannot coin-
cide with his nephew, H. N. Coleridge, in thinking him " sinned against
a thousand times more than sinning," though one can in the view that
"he himself sufiered an almost life-long punishment for his errors,
while the world at large has the unwithering fruits of his labours, his
genius, and his sacrifice."

It now remains to consider what these fruits were, and to decide
Coleridge's place, as far as our imperfect judgment can decide it, in
the intellectual Pantheon. He was eminent as a poet, as a literary
critic, as a talker, as a publicist, and as a theological influence.

There can be little doubt that had Coleridge devoted his entire
intellectual energy to the writing of poetry, he would have produced a
body of verse unsurpassed by any writer since the days of Milton.
But his powerful critical and philosophical faculty, which had always
been at war with his poetical tendencies, finally gained the mastery over
him before he was thirty years of age, and, though his verse never till
the end of his life ceased to be marked by originality and power, he
never attempted a great work in metre. The poems on which his lame
depends are The Ancient Mariner and Christabel. The former of these
constitutes by itself a poetry separate and distinct from all others, for
which no suitable name has yet been found. Much as it has been
admired it has had no imitators, because no poet has since arisen with
a mind like Coleridge's, to which the inventions of the intellect were as
real as any perception of the senses. On the other hand the marvel-
lous and the supernatural have frequently played great parts ; but no
one else has used them in the same way for the very stu£f and body
of poetry independent of probable or possible human action. No
other writer has ever manipulated them with such delicacy of touch or
such distinctive perception of their operation on the human heart.
The same qualities are manifested also in Christabel, which, t'jough
unfinished, may rank as poetically superior to every other romantio
Cj^ic in the language. The fire of the authors of Uarmion and Ths

XIV.

LIFE OP SAMUEL TAYLOK COLERIDGE.

il:

■:|1
I ill

ConatV has always gained them more readers ; but the instruments the/
play on fall as far below that of Coleridge in range, flexibility, and
real power as the twanging piano of the drawing-room below the soul-
moving Cremona. This comparison is just in more respects than one.
Scott and Byron are deficient in melody. Swinburne, who on such a
subject is certainly no mean judge, calls Coleridge " the most sweet and
perfect harmonist among all our poets." This quality is seen in its
highest perfection in Kubla Khan and Christabel, which poems with
some others have markedly influenced succeeding poets, particularly
Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe.

Coleridge is often classed with Wordsworth as a Lake Poet, and
there is a certain found7.tion for this classification. For, though Th*
Ancient Mariner and Christabel are wide asunder as the poles from any-
thing Wordsworth ever wrote, yet the two poets resemble each other in
their minute and sympathetic observation of nature, in their revolt
against the school of Pope, and in their poetical theories. But, while
Wordsworth stands always master of himself and knows no intellec-
tual kin, Coleridge's more impressionable menta^ character rendeied
him susceptible to influences from all quarters, and his style shows in
some places resemblances to Bowles, in others to Cowper, in others
to Wordsworth, while in others it is distinctly his own. The same
flexibility of intellect produces great variety in his own peculiar modes
of thought and expression ; so that here and there we stumble on antici-
pations of the peculiarities of succeeding writers. Indeed, while not the
teacher of a new poetical method like Wordsworth, he has supplied many
suggestions which have borne fruit in other poets. To his Christabel
we owe the form of Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel and of many others
of his poems. To his metrical experiments, theories, and criticisms we
owe the great variety of melody in nineteenth century verse.

Coleridge is the first good English literary critic ; that is, he is the
first English writer who based his criticisms on a proper foundation.
Previous to his time all criticism had consisted in an examination of
the question how near the writers criticized had approached to a
standard set up in the critic's mind. Coleridge first set the example of
beginning by ascertaining the author's own ideal, enquiring how well
he had carried it into effect, and criticizing both ideal and execution
from a point of view which recognizes that an indefinite variety of
standards and methods are possible in literature. His best critical
work is to be found in his lectures on Shakespeare, of which unfortu-
pately only fragments have been preserved, and in his exposition of the
principles of Wordsworth's poetry in the Biographia Literaria.

As a talker, that is, as the uUcrer of a suslaiued monoiugue, Colo*

LIFE OP SAMUr.L TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

XV.

n any-

ther in
revolt

, while

ntellec-

ndeied

lows in

I others

e same
modes
antici-
not the
many
ristabel
others
sms we

e is the
idation.
ation of
!d to a
.mple of
ow well
:ecution
riety of
critical
mfortu-
n of the

Cole*

ridge, putting all accounts together, appears not to have had any equal
among his contemporaries. Carlyle, whose general account of him is
depreciatory, admits him to have been the most surprising talker then
living. Unfortunately we have no report of even one of the long con-
versations he was in the daily habit of indulging in to enable us to
judge for ourselves of their character and quality. Excerpts from them
we have, published under the title of Table Talk, which give a high
impression of their quality. Here is part of a description of Coleridge
as a talker by an admirer :

"Throughout a long-drawn summer's day would this man talk to
you in low, agreeable, but clear and musical tones, concerning things
luiman and divine; marshalling all history, harmonizing all experi.
ment, probing the depths of your consciousness, and revealing visions
of glory and terror to the imagination ; but pouring withal such floods
of lipht upon the mind that you might for a season, like Paul, become
blind in the very act of conversion."

Coleridge early became a supporter of the French Revolution and

an opponent of Pitt, the prime minister of the day, whom he vigorously

attacks in Fire, Famine, and Slaughter. The progress of events, as the

I OJe to France indicates, forced him into opposition to the policy of that

fCountry and into support of that of his own, and the ardent republican

in a few years became, what he ever afterwards remained, a Tory.

[Some of his poems are political, and he contributed largely to various

London daily papers. Selections from these contributions have been

republished under the titles of Essays. The Friend, two Lay Sermons,

land the Constitution of Church and State are also political works. Con-

[trary to what one would naturally have expected from the roundabout-

less of The Friend and much of Coleridge's prose, the leaders which he

/rote are marked by extreme directness and the careful avoidance of

iny thing likely to weaken the force of the impression he undertakes

|o make.

But Coleridge's influence as a political writer was small compared
nth that which he exercised as a philosophical and religious teacher.
[is early developed taste for metaphysical speculations had found
Ippropriate food during his visit to Germany in the theories of Kant
|nd his disciples. From that time forth he was a promulgator of some
these theories and of connected views of his own. Though he never
|aborated a system of philosophy he became the source of a tendency
oppose the then generally accepted experiential explanation of know-
Ige and utilitarian scheme of morals, which was early recognized as
iportant, and has since become powerful. Closely connected with his
lilosopbical were his religious belieis. His main position is that

xvi.

LIFE OP SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

"Christianity, rightly understood, in identical with the highest philoso-
phy, and that, apart from all questions of historical evidence, the essen-
tial doctrines of Christianity are necessary and eternal truths of reason
— truths which man, by the vouchsafed light of Nature and without aid
from documents or tradition, may always and anywhere discover for
himself." Coleridpje had, at Cambrid^'e, embraced Unitarianism under
the influence of Frend, a fellow of Jesus College, and frequently
preached in Unitarian pulpits for some years after leaving the univers-
ity. Some time between his visit to Germany and 1807 he returned to
the orthodox belief, and he died in the faith of the Church of England.
His views fragmentarily indicated, in conversations and otherwise, had
an extraordinary influence. He professed to be engaged, during the
latter years of his life, in elaborating a spiritual philosophy, but at his
death he was found to have made very little progress with it. His
disciple, Mr. Green, many years afterwards published a work founded
on his teachings.

The combination of so many and so various faculties in such per-
fection in one man constantly excited the wonder of his contemporaries,
and frequently caused the unstinted expression of admiration. For
instance, De Quincey speaks of him as " this illustrious man, the largest
and most spacious intellect, the subtlest and most comprehensive that
has yet existed among men." This estimate is probably extravagantly
high, but concurrent testimony from various quarters leaves no doubt
that Coleridge impressed almost all who met him as a genius of a very
lofty rank. Nevertheless, we can hardly place him in that list of "ever-
enduring men" in which he classes Wordsworth. Despite his extra-
ordinary powers, he has, for reasons which have been sufficiently
explained in the foregoing narrative of his life, left ao great finished
work of any length to testify of them to posterity. Yet it will be long
before be is altogether forgotten. Very many ages must elapse before
a generation can arise unfamiliar with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

CHlWHOfcdG^GAli^'tXB^^^

LIOWAur

^■;-

177a. Coleridge born at Ottery St. Maiy, tJevonshire, October 21.

1774. He begins to attend Dame Key's school.

1773. He is able to read a chapter in the Bible.

1778 or 9. He is admitted to the Grammar School at Ottery St. Mary.

1781. His father, the Rev. John Coleridge, dies, October 4.

1782. He enters Christ's Hospital.

1783. The Independence of the United States of America acknowledged.

1789. The French Revolution begins. Publication of the Sonnets of

William Lisle Bowles.

1790. Coleridge leaves Christ's Hospital. Begins Monocfy on the Death

of Chatterton. Ismail stormed by the Russians, December 22.

1791. He enters Jesus College, Cambridge, February 4. Gains Sir

William Brown's medal for a Greek Ode on the Slave Trade.

1792. Competes unsuccessfully for the Craven Scholarship. War

breaks out between France and the two leading German
powers, Austria and Prussia.

1793. Execution of Louis XVI., January 21. France declares war

against England, February 3. The Reigu of Terror begins,
May 31. Institution of the worship of the Goddess of Reason.
The second Partition of Poland. Trial of Frend at Cambridge
in May and June. Coleridge; competes unsuccessfully for the
prize for the best Greek Ode on Astronomy. He writes Songs
of the Pixies, etc. Enlists in the 15th Light Dragoons.

1794. Execution of Robespierre, July 29. The Republic of Poland
conquered by Suwarrow. Coleridge is discharged from the
Dragoons, April loth, and returns to Cambridge. Is intro-
duced to Southey, at Oxford, in June. Visits Bristol in August,
and there meets Sarah Fricker, and becomes a Pantiso-
crat. Leaves Cambridge towards the end of the year and
goes to London. Writes Religious Musings, The Destiny of
Nations, etc., and his share (one act) of The Fall of Robespierre.

I1795. End of the French Revolution. Coleridge lectures at Bristol.
Marries Sarah Fricker, October 4. Writes the Molian Harp,
etc.

• ••

XVlll.

CHRONOLOGICAL TAB1.E.

1796. Napoleon's first Italian Campaign. Coleridge publishes Thi

Watchman from March i to May 10. His Poems on Various
Subjects published in April. David Hartley Coleridge born,
September 19. Coleridge completes his Monody on the Death
of Chatterton. Writes Fire, Famine, and Slaughter, and the
Ode to the Departing Year.

1797. Removes from Bristol to Nether Stowey in January. NVrites

France: an Orf^, in February. A second edition of his poems
with additions appears in May. In June meets the Words-
worths for the first time. Writes The Ancient Mariner, Love,
Christabel, Part I., Kubla Khan, Remorse, etc.

1798. The Lyrical Ballads published. Writes Fears in Solitude, etc.

Pension of ;^i50 a year accepted from the Wedgewoods.
Leaves Yarmouth for Hamburg, September 16.

1799. Tour in Hartz Mountains in May. Farewell supper at Gotten-

gen, June 24. Returns to Engla »u. Visits the Lake Country
in company with Wordsworth, who settles there at Grasmere,
in Westmoreland. *

1800. Completes the translation of Wallenstein in January. Removes to

Keswick, in Cumberland, Writes the second part of Christabel.

1802. Writes Dejection, April 4.

1803. Southey takes up his residence at Keswick, September 7. ' - •'

1804. Coleridge sails for Malta, April 2.

1805. Leaves Malta, September 29. Reaches Naples, December 15.

1806. Spends several months in Rome. Arrives in England in August.

Writes the poem entitled 3'o William Wordsworth either in
this or the following year.

1807. Meets De Quincey, who gives him /300 in November.
i8o8. Lectures in London.

1809. While living at Grasmere with the Wordsworths Coleridge
begins publishing The Friend, August.

The Friend expires in March. Coleridge leaves the Lake Country
never to return.

Lectures in London and writes for The Courier. Josiah Wedge-
wood withdraws his share of the annuity.

1812. Coleridge contributes Aphorisms to Southey 's OmM/owa. Steam-

boats first used in Great Britain.

1813. Remorse is produced at Drury Lane, through Byron's influence,

and runs 20 nights.

1814. Is consuming laudanum at the rate of from two quarts a week to

a pint a day.

1815. Writes Zapolya,

1810.

1811.

CHRONOLOGICAL TABLfi.

xix.

1816. Domiciles with the Gillmans. Publishes Christabel and Tht

Statesman's Manual.

1817. Publishes A Lay Sermon, the Biographia Literaria, Sibyllin*

Leaves, and Zapolya.

1818. Revises The Friend and reissues it in book form. Lectures ia

London.
1825. Publishes i4i</5 to Reflection. A pension of £10^ a year is granted
Jiim by George IV.

1827. Completes Youth and Age.

1828. Takes a tour up the Rhine with Wordsworth and Wordsworth's

daughter. Publishes a collection of his Poetical and Dramatic

Works.
1830. Publishes his Constitution of Church and State, His pension

expires on the death of George IV.
1834. Dies July 25.

Contemporary English Authors.

AND THEIR PRINCIPAL WORKS.

Percy, Thomas (1728-1811). Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.

Burke, Edmund (1730-1797). Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful,
the Vindication of Natural Society, Reflections on the Revolution in
France, Letters on a Regicide Peace, The State of the Nation.

Cowper, William (1731-1800). The Task, John Gilpin, Tirocinium.

Paley, William (1743-1805). Elements of Moral and Political Phil-
osophy, Horae Paulinae, Evidences of Christianity, Natural Theology.

Bentham, Jeremy (1747-1832). Usury, the Principles of Morals
and Politics, Civil and Penal Legislation.

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley (1751-1817). The Rivals, the School for
Scandal.

Stewart, Dugald (1753-1828). Philosophy of the Human Mind,
Moral Philosophy.

Crabbe, George (1754-1832). The Library, the Village, the Parish
Register, the Borough, the Tales of the Hall.

Burns, Robert (1759-1796). Tam O'Shanter, To a Daisy, To a
Mouse, The Cottar's Saturday Night.

Bowles, William Lisle (1762-1850). Sonnets, the Spirit of Discovery
by Sea.

Rogers, Samuel (1763-1855). The Pleasures of Memory, Italy.

Wordsworth, William (1770-1850). The Prelude, the Excursion,
Sonnets, Intimations of Immortality.

Hogg, James (1770-1835). The Queen's Wake, Ode to the Skylark.

Smith, Sydney (1771-1845). Letters on the Subject of the Catholics
by Peter Plymley.

Scott, Sir Walter (1771-1832). The Lay of the Last Minstrel,
Marmion, the Lady of the Lake, Waverley, Guy Mannering, the
Antiquary, the Heart of Mid Lothian, the Bride of Lammermoor.

Jeffrey, Francis (Lord Jeffrey) (1773-1850). Essays in Edinburgh
Rttviow.

CONTEMPORARY ENGLISH AUTHOifS.

xxi.

Southey, Rt)bert (1774-1843). Thalaba, the Curse of Kehama,
Lives of Wesley, Cowper, and Nelson.

Lamb, Charles (1775-1S35). Essays of Elia.

Austen, Jane (1775-1817). Pride and Prejudice.

Campbell, Thomas (1777-18 14). The Pleasures of Hope, Gertrude
of Wyoming.

Hazlitt, William (177S-1830). Characters of Shakspcares Plays,
Table Talk.

Davy, Sir Humphrey (1778-1829). Contributions to the Transac-
tions of the Royal Society.

Ilallam, Henry (1778-1859). The Middle Ages, Constitutional
History of England, Literature of Europe.

Moore, Thomas (1779-1852). Irish Melodies, Lalla Rookh.

Hunt, Leigh (1784-1859). The Story of Rimini.

Wilson, John (1785-1854). Noctes Ambrosianai.

Byron, George Gordon (Lord Byron) (1788-1824). Childe Harold,
the Giaour, Don Juan, the Siege of Corinth, the Prisoner of Chillon,
Manfred, the Bride of Abydos, the Corsair, Lara.

Shelley, Percy Bys.she (1792-1822). Alastor, the Revolt of Islam,
the Cenci, Adonais, Hymn to Intellectual Beauty, the Cloud, the
Skylark.

Keats, John (1795-1821). Endymion, Hyperion, the Eve of St. Agnea,

INTRODUCTION.

PART II.

LITERATURE.

LITERATURE AND ITS DEPARTMENTS.

1. Ijy Literature we mean the thoughts and feelings of intelligent men
and ^\onlen exi:)rcsscd in writing in such a way as to g'vo pleasure to the
reader, not merely by the things said, but by the artistic way in which
they are said.

When a writer describes whit is outside of his mind and is the object of
his attention, the mode of treatment is objective ; wlien he deals with the
thouj^hts and feelings suggested to his mind by outward objects, it is
subjective. When Golds:nith describes the appearance of the village of
Auburn, his writing is objective; when he gives his thoughts and feelings
caused by what he sees, it is subjective.

2. As regards Form, Literature is divided into two classes — Prose, and
Verse or Poetry. Poetry possesses a measured structure called Metro
(g. III.) ; Prose includes all literature not in metre.

3. As regards Matter, Literature is divided into five classes — Descrip*
tion, Narration, Exposition, Oratory, and Poetry. The same composition,
however, may exemplify two or more of these modes of expression.

I. Description is the delineation of the characteristics of any
object by means of words.

II. Narration is the statement of the particulars of any event of
of any series of events.

III. Exposition includes all means of explaining or representing
general propositions. The four leading methods of expounding
a general principle or proposition arc — Iteration, or repeating the
statement of the principle in the same or in different words;
Obverse Iteration, or the denial of the contrary; Examples, or Par-
ticular Instances ; and Illustrations, or Comparison.

IV. Oratory is composition which influences men's conduct or
belief. It may be intended simply to persuade; but this object may
bo combined with others. In criticising oratory, the chief points to

, consider are the orator's knowledge of, and power of adapting him-
self to, the persons he addresses, his happy turns of expression, his

rr-

XXIV

INTRODUCTION— LITERATURE.

[3, IV.

argumentative and expository powers, and his skill in playing upon
special emotionij.

V. Poetry is composition written to produce pleasure by means
of elevated or impassioned thought or feeling conveyed in a special
artistic form. In addition to the measured structure which con-
stitutes the difference in form, it differs from prose in possessing a
greater variety of /igaiative expressions, ani a peculiar and more
unusual diction. The term Poetry is, however, sometimes applied
to a composition prosaic in form, if the thoughts and language are
those of Poetry proper. The following are the leading peculiarities
of the language of Poetry : —

1. It is archaic and non-colloquial. The use of old and of unusual
words raises its language above the level of prose.

2. It presents vivid and striking pictures ; prefers images to the
dry enumeration of facts; avoids general terms; and uses epithets
instead of the names of things.

3. It is averse to lengthiness, and is euphonious. Poetry avoids
the use of conjunctions and relative pronouns, and substitutes
epithets for phrases; uses short words instead of long, common-
place ones ; and prefers words that have a pleasant sound to those
that are less euphonious. (See Abbott and Seeley'sjE«^/is/t Lessons
for English People.)

4. There are five principal varieties of poetry — Epic, Lyric, Dramatic,
Didactic, and Satiric.

I. Epic or Objective Poetry is a narration of outward events com-
bined for poetic interest by plo., scenery, etc. The leading varieties
of Epic Poetry arc. —

1. The Great Epic, in which supernatural beings are introduced
to control events. It has for its subject some great complex action —
e.g., Milton's Paradise Lost. (See Prim, of Eng. Lit., pp. 103-105.)

2. The Romance, which differs from the Great Epic in intro-
ducing events more under human control. Supernatural beings,
when introduced, perform a less important part. Love is one of its
main elements — e.g., Scott's Lady of the Lake. (See Prim, of Eng.
Lit., p. 157.)

3. The Tale, a complete story, love being predominant — e.g.,
Byron's Corsair. (See Prim, of Eng. Lit., pp. 159-160.)

4. The Ballad, generally made short and simple by rapidity in
the succession of incidents, and by leaving many things merely
suggested: hence it is less discursive than the tale — e.g., Scott's
Rosabelh'.

5. The Metrical History, a narrative poem with a didactic pur-
pose — e.g., Barbour's Bruce. (See Prim, of Eng. Lit., p. 53.)

6. The Mixed Epic, which possesses an epic character, with a
mixture of sentiment, satire, moralizing, and other reflections — e.g.,
Byron's Childe Harold. (See Prim, of Eng. Lit., pp. 159-160.)

4.1.]

INTRODUCTION— LITERA TURR.

XXV

7. The Pastoral, Idyll, etc. This division includes all other
poems which have enough traces of narrative to bring them under
the Epic class, and are distinguished by the predominance of poetic
descriptions of manners or of external nature.

II. Lyric or Subjective Poetry is the expression of some intense feeling,
passion, emotion, or sentiment. The leading varieties of lyric poetry
are as follows: : —

1. The Song, which is usually short, simple in measure, and
broken up into stanzas, each complete in meaning, yet occupying a
proper place in the development of the whole. There are many
varieties of the song — e.g., The Love Sung, The Drinking Song, etc.

2. The Ode, which is the loftiest utterance of intense feeling, and
is remarkable for its elaborate versification — e.g., Wordsworth's Ode
at'' ihc Intimations of Immortality.

3. The Elegy, now connected chiefly with the impassioned ex-
pression of regret for the departed — e.g., Gray's Elegy ami Milton's
Lycidas

4. The Sonnet, which is sometimes descriptive, but is generally
a concentrated expression of a single phase of feeling — e.g., Words-
worth's Sonnet on Westminster Bridge.

5. The Dramatic Lyric, in which a person is represented as ex-
pressing his thoughts and feelings in such a way as to develop his
own characteristics and occasionally even the characteristics of some
one else, and to indicate with dramatic effect (4, III.) his own or
another's actions and surroundings — e.g., Roberts' Brother Cuthbert.
For further explanations, see p. 236, 11. 76-85.

6. The Simple Lyric, which comprehends all other kinds of sub-
jective poetry.

III. Dramatic Poetry is a picture of life adapted to representation on
the stage, and consists of an impersonal representation by the author of
an animated conversation of various individuals, from whose speech the
movement of the story is to be gathered. Its two chief varieties are
Tragedy and Comedy.

1. Tragedy is defined by Aristotle as "the representation of a
completed action, commanding or illustrious in its character ; the
language being poetically pleasing; and with the moral effect of
purifying the passions, generally by means of the two special pas'
sions — pity and fear," — e.g., Heavysege's Said. But this definition
applies only to the highest form of tragedy. The more moderate
form, while retaining tragic elements, permits happy conclusions.

2. Comedy is the adaptation of the dramatic form to yield the
pleasures of the ludicrous (13, II., 3) in conjunction with as many
other pleasing effects as will harmonize with this quality. Comedy
endeavors to produce amusement mainly — e.g., Shakespeare's Af<?r-
chant of Vcnict.

XXVI

/NTRODOCTION—UTERA TUr£.

[4,1V.

TV. Didactic Poetry seeks to teach some moral, philosophical, or literary
truth. It aims to instruct rather than to please — e.g.. Goldsmith's Deserted
Viilngc.

V. Satiric Poetry holds up to ridicule, or rebukes with severity, the
weaknesses, follies, or wickedness of men — e.g., Pope's Epistle to Arbiithnot.

VERSIFICATION.

5. Verse is that species of composition in which the words are arranged
in lines, each of which contains a definite number and succession of
accented and unaccented syllables. In its restricted sense it signifies a
single line of poetry.

A stanza consists of a number of lines forming a division of a poem.
Sometimes, especially in the case of sacred music, the word verse is used
for stanza.

Verse is of two kinds — Rhymed and Blank Verse.

I. Rhyme is a similarity of sound at the end of words. The
rhyming syllables should be accented. The three essentials of a
perfect rhyme are: (i) That the vowels be alike in sound; (2) the
consonants before the vowels, unlike in sound; and (3) the conso-
nants after the vowels, alike in sound. When, however, the vowel
sounds merely resemble one another, the rhyme is Admissible, if
the other conditions of a perfect rhyme are satisfied. If the vowel
sounds only are alike, we have Assonance. When the rhyme
occurs at the end of two successive lines, they are called a Couplet;
when at the end of three, a Triplet.

II. Blank Verse consists of unrhymed lines, and is generally
Iambic Pentameter (9, III., i and 2). It is the most elevated of all
measures, and is the only form in which Epic poetry should appear.

0. Rhythm is the recurrence, at regular intervals of duration, of the stress
thrown on the pronunciation of a syllable. This stress is called Accent.
The Greeks and Romans used Quantity, or the length or shortness of a
vowel, as the basis of their verse. All modern European nations have based
theirs on accent. Quantity is used in English verse chiefly to produce
Imitative Harmony. (12, IV., 4, and 13, III., 2.)

*7. Alliteration is similarity of sound at or near the beginning of con-
secutive or closely connected words — e.g., " Up the high /till he /teaved a
//uge round stone." It adds to the pleasurable effect of poetry, but
should be used with skill and in moderation. In prose it is admis-
sible, if the language and thought are of a poetical character ; otherwise
its occurrence is a blemish, and should be carefully avoided^ Allitera-
tion is often subtly corfcealed owing to the separation of the words in
which it occurs, or to the use, not of the same letters, but of the same
order of letters. It may also occur, not in the initial, but in the middle;

,1V.

terary
'.scrtcd

■y, the
ithnot.

7.]

INTRODUCTION'— LITER A TURK,

xxvn

•ranged
sion of
nifics a

L poem,
is used

s. The
als of a
, (2) the
e conso-
le vowel
ssible, if
ic vowel
rhyme
ouplet;

'cnerally
[ed of all
appear.

the stress

Accent.

less of a

Ive based

produce

of con-

l/teaved a

;try. but

Is admis-

kherwise

AUitera-

irords in
the same

middle.

syllables of words. This is known as Concealed Alliteration. The fol-
lowing examples illustrate these methods:—

(i) Thu All! i/rcains /ecd on flower of rushes,
A'ipe ^w.issi.'s </;iiimu;l a ^A'avolliiij^/oot ;
Tlic/.iint /ri;sh//amu ot tho joimg ^'cary/ushcs
From /eat toyfower, amly/owcr to/ruit.

(2) From the/u//-y?owere(l Le/antian /)asturago
To wh.it of /niit/ii/ yield the son of Zeus
Won/>oui tho roariny river and /aioruig sea.

8. A Foot is a syllable, or a succession of two or more syllables, one of
which must be accented, assumed as the basis of a line of poetry. Mono-
syllabic feet, though rare, sometimes occur in English -f.^r, in Tennyson's
"Break, Break, Break." The feet commonly used in our verse are dis-
syllabic or trir.yllabic. The following are tho principal varieties in use,
X in the verse formula indicating the unaccented, and a the accented,
syllabU : —

Dissyllabie.

I. Iambus. Accent on the second syllable — r.^., Begone, xci.
11. Trochee. Accent on the first syllable — f.^., Dungeon, ax.
III. Spondee. Accent on both syllables — Sunbeam, aa.

Trisyllabic.

IV. Anapaest. .Vccent on the third syllable — ^.g'., Colonnade, xxa.

V. Dactyl, .\ccent on the first syllable — ^r.g'., Merrily, axx.

VI. Amphibrach. .Vccent on the second syllable— <r.g'., Receiving.
.xax.

9. I. A Line is a succession or combination of feet, generally contain-
ing a fixed number of syllables, and having, as a rule, a regular recur-
rence of accents.

II. A Hemistich is half a line.

III. Metre, or Measure, is applied to the structure of the lines which
form a poem or part of a poem, and their relation to one another as regards
rhyme, length and arrangement. English metres are very numerous.

The following classification includes the chief varieties: —

I. FROM KIND OF FOOT.

(rt) Iambic; [b) Trochaic; {c) Spondaic; (</) Anapaestic; {e)
Dactylic; (/) Amphibrachic.

2. FROM NUMBER OF FEET.

(fl) Monometer, one foot ; {b) Dimeter, two feet ; {c) Trimeter,
three; {d) Tetrameter, four; {e) Pentameter, five; (/) Hexameter,
•ix; {g) Heptamcter, seven; (A) Octometer, f *ght.

XXVlll

INTRODUCTION—LITERATURE.

[9, III.

In describing metre, these systems of nomenclature are combined :

" Shall burning JEtnn, if a sage requires,
Forget to thunder, and recall her tires ? "

This is described as " Rhyming Iambic Pentameter," or briefly as an
"Iambic Pentameter Couplet." The formula for each line is, therefore,
5xa.

10. Poetic Pauses. In addition to the pauses required by the sense
(Rhetorical), or marked by points (Punctuation), two suspensions of the
voice belong to verse — the Final and the Caesural.

I. The Final pause is a slight suspension of the voice at the end
of each line, even when the sense does not require it.

II. The Caesural pause is a slight suspension of the voice within,
and generally about the middle of, the line. Long lines may have
two or more pauses; some long lines may have none, but this is
generally compensated for by an additional or a longer pause in the
line Or lines following. Short lines may have none. The Caesural
pause must also be a Sense pause — e.g. :

Can storied urn || or animated bust

Back to its mansion || call the fleeting breath ?
Can Honor's voice || provoke the silent dust.

Or flattery || soothe the dull, cold ear of Death ?

A great many irregularities occur in English verse. Those in this
volume, not referred to above, are indicated in the notes to the selections
in which they occur.

STYLE AND ITS ANALYSIS.

11. Style is the peculiar mode in which a writer expresses himself; it
is the art of choosing words, setting them in sentences, and arranging sen-
tences in paragraphs.

Although every writer has his peculiarities, there are some general
distinctive features on which can be based a classification of styles.

I. On the Prevalence of Figurative Language.

The Dry style excludes literary ornament of every kind.

The Plain style, while it avoids embellishment, does not reject such
ornaments as are natural, and conducive to perspicuity.

The Neat style employs ornaments, but not those of an elevated or
brilliant character.

The Elegant style employs judiciously every ornament that conduces
to beauty.

The Florid, Ornate, or Flowery style is one which indulges in luxuri-
ance of ornament.

II. On the Structure of Sentences.

The Simple style bears no marks of art, but seems to be the language
everyone would naturally use.

11, II.l

INTRODUCTION^— LITERA TURE.

XXIX

elections

mself; it
ging sen-

The Labored style is the reverse of the Simple. It shows effort on
the part of the writer, and is characterizoJ by afTectation, a constrained
tone, and long, involved sentences.

III. O.v THE Number of Words.

The Concise or Terse stylo rejects as unnecessary everything not
material to the sense, and aims at the briefest possible mode of expression.

The Diffuse or Verbose style employs amplification, endeavors by
repetition to secure perspicuity, and attempts to make up by copiousnesj
for lack of strength.

IV. On Strength.

The Nervous style is that which produces a strong impression on the
reader. For other names for this species, see (13, II., i).

The Feeble style is the reverse of the preceding, and produces but a
slight impression upon the reader.

V. On the Prevailing Figures of Speech.

A composition which abounds in any one figure is often described by
that figure; thus we soeak of a style as being Sarcastic, Antithetical,
Ironical, etc.

For classification based on character of sentence, see ixz, II., i).

THE ELEMENTS AND QUALITIES OF STYLE.

12. The Elements of style are Vocabulary, Sentence, Paragraphs, and
Figures of Speech. Associated with these is the consideration of the
number and order of the words.

The Elements of Style.

I- Vocabulary.— The first requisite of an author is good command
of language. In criticising style under this head, the following are the
important considerations : —

a. Extent. — Authors differ greatly in copiousness. Few can
write freely and eloquently on all subjects. Most have one vein in
which they e.xcel. Frequent repetitions of the same words or phraser
is an unmistakable indication of poverty of language. Variety being
a source of pleasure, a good writer varies his language as far as is
consistent with elegance, simplicity and clearness.

h. Aptness. — Although many writers and speakers have a copious
vocabulary, they do not alwnys use the proper word to express their
meaning. Fitness of language is one of the best proofs of an author's
culture. Sec (13, L, i, c), and (u, V., i, a, i).
c. Purity.— S^'tf (13, I., i).

II ■ Sentence. — A knowledge of the proper mode of constructing sen-
jtences is one of the most important of a writer's qualifications. A great
Ijnany forms of sentences are possible; but there are certain chief types.

NXX

INTRODUCTION— LITERATURE.

tia n.

X. Special Artifices of Construc<:ion — \

a. A Periodic sentence is one in which the meaning remains in
suspense till the sentence is finished. If we stop anywhere before
the end, the preceding part does not form a sentence, and conse-
quently does not convey a completely intelligible meaning. The
effect of the Peri xlic sentence is to keep the mind in a state of
uniform or increasing tension until the end is reached — ci^.: "On
the rich and on the eloquent, on nobles and priests, the Puritans
looked down with contempt."

In a Loose sentence the predicate follows the subject, and qualify-
ing adjuncts follow what they qualify. Its parts may be separated
without destroying the sense. This is the natural structure of the
sentence in English — e.g. : " The Puritans looked down with con-
tempt on the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests,"

Very frequently a sentence combines the loose and the periodic
structure.

b. Sentences studiously long or short. — The adjustment of the
length of the sentence is an important element in a correct style;
but no definite limit can be assigned. An extended scries of either
long or short sentences should be avoided : a good writer uses as
much variety as possible. See (13, II., i, 9.)

The distinction between the Periodic style and the Abrupt style
depends to a great extent on the length of the sentences employed.

The Periodic style employs long periods elaborately constructed,
holding the meaning in suspense throughout a connected series of
clauses, and moving on with stateliness and dignity.

The Abrupt style employs short sentences, and is often used
when abruptness, or quickness of motion, is to be indicated. Some
writers, as Macaulay, systematically break up long, loose sentences
into their constituent parts, and punctuate fhem as separate sen-
tences. This artifice gives animation to their style. See (13, I., i).

c. The Balanced sentence. — 'When the different clauses of a
compound sentence are made similar in form, they are said to be
Balanced — e.g.: "Homer hurries us with a commanding impetu-
osity ; Virgil leads us with an attractive majesty."

The Pointed Style. — The proper use of the Balanced sentence,
in conjunction with Antithesis, Epigram, and Climax (12, IV., 8,
33 and 38), constitutes the Pointed style.

An author's style may be characterized according to the prepon-
derance of any of these types of sentence ; but the Periodic, Abrupt,
and Pointed structures are often used in the same paragraph.

d. The Condensed sentence is one shortened by a forced and
unusual construction — e.g.: " Brutus instituted liberty and the con
sulship." This was a favorite type of sentence with Gibbon, but it
is now generally used to produce a comic effect — e.g.: "Her con
duct drew tears from his eyes, and a handkerchief from his pocket."

3,11.

12. II.J

IXT/WD rC TIOX-L ITE . <\ 1 TO'A'£.

\\\i

ins in
before
conse-
The
:atc of 'i
; "On \
iritJins

ualify-

)arated

of the

h con-

)eriodic

t of the
;t style;
f either
uses as

ipt style
iployed.
tructed,
;encs cf

!n used
Some
;ntences
late sen-

,3.1-. !)•

tes of a
id to be
[impetu-

nitence,
IV.. 8,

I prepon-
I Abrupt,

:ed and
[the con
|n, but it

[er con-
>cket."

'^>.^ 2. General considerations—

a. Emphatic places in a Sentence.— When a writer desires to
give special prominence to a word, he places it at the beginning or
the end of his sentence. The furmcr position excites the attcniion,
and on the latter it rests.

b. Unity of a Sentence. — The effect of the main statement in a
sentence should ncjt bo lessened by the introduction of particulars
not immediately relevant. All parts of the sentence should be krpt
in connection with, and logically subordinate to, the princi;)al
thought. Hence the necessity to change the subject as little as
possible, to avoid crowding a sentence with too much matter, and
to Cochew the use of parenthetic clauses.

III. The Parcijraph is a connected series of sentences relating to tho
same subject and forming a constitucjit part of a composition. Betvcen
paragraphs there are greater breaks tlian between sentences. The follow-
ing arc the principles which govern t'.ie construction of paragraphs: —

1. Explicit reference. — The bearing of each sentence on what
precedes should be explicit and unmistakable.

2. Parallel constructions. — When several consecutive sentencfts
repeat or illustrate the same idea or make a contrast in reference
to the sa!"e subject, they should, as far as possible, be formed alike.

3. The opening sentence, unless so constructed as to be obviously
preparatory, should indicate with prominence the subject of the
paragraph.

4. Continuity. — The sentences in a paragraph should be so ar-
ranged as to carry the line of thought naturally and suggestively
from one to another.

5. Unity. — A paragraph should possess unity, which implies that
the sentences composing it should relate to one definite division of
the subject which they illustrate or explain. Unity forbids digres-
sions or the introduction of irrelevant matter.

6. Proportion. — It is a maxim in Style that every thought or
idea should have prominence and expansion according to its im-
portance: hence in a paragraph a due proportion should be main-
tained between the main subject and the subordinate parts.

7. Transition. — One of the most importa U arts in compositio:i
is the art of transition, that is, passing from o:ie paragraph t )
another. The modes used by different writers are various. Tho
thoughts in one paragraph should grow naturally out of those i.i
the preceding one. The association of ideas should be as perfect as
possible.

IV. Figures of Speech.— These are intentional deviations from*
lio ordinary spelling, form, construction, or application of words. The
1st class, which are known as Figures of Rhetoric, are the most impor-
mt. They dignify style, enrich it by increasing its facilities of expres-

XXXll

INTRODUCI ION— LITERATURE.

12, IV.

E'lll

.: ■>

:'if'

sion, f<ivo pleasure by employing the mind in detecting and tracing
rese.n'.jlances, an 1 frejueiuly conve'y the meaning more clearly and
forcibly than plain language.

1. Metonymy puts one word for another; as the cause for tho
effect, or the effect for the cause; tlu: container for the thing con-
tained ; the sign for the thing signified ; or the abstract for the
concrete.

Gray hairs for old Uf^c ; bottle for intoxicatinfi; drink ; sceptre for
royalty : beauty and chivalry for beautiful women and brave men.

2. Metaphor. —A comparison implied in the language used. It
is a transference of the relation between one set of objects to an-
other, for the purpose of brief explanation.

" He bridles his anger."

A Metaphor may be expanded into a Simile; thus, in the case of the
example given : —

" He restrains his anger, as a rider bridles his horse."

3. Vision. — A description in strong and lively colors, so that the
past, the distant, and the future are represented as present.

" Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
/ sec the rural virtues leave the land."

4. Onomatopoeia, or Imitative Harmony. — The use of a word or
phrase, the sound of which corresponds with, or resembles, the thing
signified.

" Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows.
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the soundin:^ shore.
The hoarse roui^h verse should like the torrent roar;
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line loo labors and the words move ' low ; '
Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain.
Flies o'er the unbending corn and skims along the main."

5. Pleonasm. — T'- j eoiployment of more words than are necessary
to express fhe sen .. A 1 enumeration of particulars, which might
be included in one --"--^ term, although not necessary to the
sense, is not objectionable, provided emphasis is desired. (Sec
No. 16, infra.)

" Ho went home full of a great many serious reflections."

G. Ellipsis. — The omission in a sentence of some word or word.i
necessary to a full and regular construction.

Homer was the greater genius; Virgil, the better artist: in the one we mo.;t
admire the man; in the other, tne work.

7. Hyjarbaton.— The tr;
and grammatical order.

position of words out of their natural

" What -hall v.

: lace silent now is he?'*

i2,r/.f

t.riRonuc TIC n-u r /•: r a t v r /•: .

XXX .\

8. Antithesis. —The statement of a contrast, or tin; f pnositio-i oi

ihouyhts a:ul i^lcis.

" In peace there's nothinv; so becomes a man
As milu Lc'.i.ivior ar.d lr.::nility ;
Ihit when tlie bl ist ot u Mr blows in our cars,
Let us be tigers in our fierce deportm. -."

}. Simile formally U.:ens one thing to another.

" Him, lik 'he v>orki.ii^ bee in blossom ilust,
Ulancbed with his mill they found."

to. Polysyndeton. — fhe repetition for effect, of conjuni:tions,
otherwise unnecessary. See (13, II., i, ij).

"An that is little and low and mean amon ; us."
II. Asyndeton. — The omission tor eflcct, of conjunctions, other-
wise necessary. Gee (13, II., 1, 13).

*' The wind passeth over it— it is gone."

I*. Anacoluthon. — A. want of harmony in the grammatical con-
struction of tho different parts ol a sentence.

•' What shall we say, since silont now i'^ he,
Who when he poke, all thin is until. I silent be?"

13. Irony expresses a meaning contrary to that conveyed by the
speaker's words.

"No doub: but ye are the people, and wisdom A'ill die with you."

14. Allusion occurs when a word or ^jhrase in a sentence, Ijy
means of s , 'j similitude, calls to mind something which is not
mentioned.

* It may be said of him that he came, he saw, he conquered."

15. Ecphonesis. — An animated or passionate exclamation. It is
generally indicated by the interjections O! Oh! Ah! Alas!

" O my soul's joy,
If after every to:iiMo;t co:ne such calms.
May the winds blow till they have wakened death."

16. Aparithraesis.— An enumeration of particulars for the sake ot
emphasis.

" Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bo^s, dens, and sh.adcs of death."

17. Transferred Epithet. — The removing of an epithet from its
proper subject to some allied subject or circumstance.

" Hence to his idle 'jcd."
iS, Erotesis. — An animated or passionate interrogation.

" What, Tubero, did that naked sword of yours me.an in the battle of Phar^alia?
At whose breast was it aimed ? "

19. Antonomasia puts a proper name for a common name, or a
common name for a proper name ; or an office, profession or science
instead of the true name of a person.

Solomon ror a wise man. Croesus for a rich man. Galileo, the Connnous ol the
tteavens.

XXXIV

IXTKOD UC TJOS L 1 TERATURE.

[12, IV.

20. Epizeuxis. ■ The i.iiiiu:cli:iti; repctitiuii of sdhio word or words
for ihc sake <»f cunphasis.

*'.\rm! Arm! it h—it is— the cannon's opcnln',' roar."

21. Personification represents in.-miin.itu objects and abstract
ideas as living.

"Tlio mountains sUv^ to>,'cthcr, tlio hills rejoice and cla{) haitdi."

22. Anadiplosis. Tlio use of the same word or words at the
fud of one sentence, or of oni; clanso of a sentence, and at thu
ijcKinnin},' of the nc-xt,

" 1 1.n he l.istc for blood ? lilood shall iill his nip."

2 ]. Anaphora. -TIu^ repetition of a word or plirase at the be;^in-
ning of several sentences, or of .sevctral clauses of a sentence. "

" Hy font ■(It haitds thy clyin>{ oycs were closed,

Ity /<iii-ii;ii hiiiich tliy deci iif liinhs coiiiposcd,

/{y fiucii^'H hiiiiih thy liiiinhh! t;r.ivt; aduriiccl,

Hy !<ti;iii ;i'/.? hniioicd, and by strtiii'(cis njourncd."

■^ |. Oxymoron. \ 1 antithesis arisinj,' from the opposition of two

contradictory terms.

" Thus idly busy rolls their lilo aw.iy."

25. Epiphora.— The repetition of a word or phrase at the end of
each of several sentences, or clauses of a sentence.

" Arc you delighted with litemtiirc, who hate the foundation of all litcnitiitc ?"

26. Paronomasia and Antanaclasis. — A play upon words. The
same word is used in different senses, or words similar in sound
are sjt in opposition to each other. Paronomasia is by some
restricted to proper nouns, and Antanaclasis to common nouns.

" And brought into this world a world of woe."

27. Antistrophe. — An alternate conversion of the same words in
different sentences.

" Your servant, sir." " Sir, your servant."

In a more extended sense it is appb'ed to the inversion in one sen-
tence, of the order of the words in that which precedes it.

28. Prosthesis. — An etymological figure by which a letter or
syllable is put at the beginning of a word.

".Idown."

29. Anacoenosis. — By this the speaker appeals to the judgment
of his audience on the point in debate, as if their feelings were
the same as his.

" Suppose, Piso, auyono had driven yoa from your house by violence, what
would yoa have done .'

30. Hyperbole expresses more than the literal truth. It consists

in magnifying objects beyond their natural bounds, so as to make

them more impressive or more intelligible.

" Beneath the lowest deep, a I ruterde ■'_'>,
Stlil ihreaieuiug to devour mc, cpe.is wide."

12. IV.]

I. XTRODUCTIOS— LITERATURE.

XXXV

; sen-

jr or

ment
\ were

what

isists
lake

31. Allegory. -A sentence or iliscourso ia which tho princifKil
snlijcct ii (Icscribcil by means of another subject reseniblinj ii. It
is nvido up of continui^d aUusicjus. Tenny:;on'H Idylls of the Kiiti^
or liuny.ia's Pih^rim's Progress, is an example of this figure.

?i. LitOwJS, by (lonyin;; the coiitr.iry, ini;)Iiri nioro tli.i;i i.i ex

prc.ijjcl.

" Itnmortiil n.uncs
Thit \V(f(< not born to die," —i.t\, tli.il uiUUive.

3',. Climxx. -An ascending series of iiKas or thoughts iiicreasinj^
i:i strength or importance until the last.

" It Is an o;itra.:c to bind a Koinan citizen , /o sfii./r ;c liiin is ;in atiocijir. ninu;;
to pill liim / 1 death is Jilniost a parriciiic;; but /i> iTi/c/Yv biin— wli.u shall I cill it t"

The f)pposite of this figure is Anti-Cr.:nzx, or the arrangement of
the terms or particulars of a sentience or other portion of a dis-
course, so that the ideas suddenly become less dignified at tlu close.
" A ;;()oil Christian, a yood citizen, ami a ;ooil ^,hot with a rifle."

31- Prolepsij. -The anticipatory use of.' word, or phrase.
"Tliiy b( at with their oars the hoary sea," instead of "They beat liie sea with
their oars and mido it hoary."

3"). Catachrcsis. -An abuse of a figure, by which a word is
wresti'd from its origiiial application, and made to express some-
thing at variance with its true meaniu;,'.

" Her v(jicc ..IS but the shadoij of a sound."

3O. ApOjlopesis. — The leaving of a sentence unfinished, in conse-
quence of some sudden emotion of the mind.

"What! d ) yo'.i— do yon charge me with this, a man who has never in hi, lite

pursued aiiythln.; but virtue? What you have pursued 15ut I am ;.ilent, lest

I should seem to have brought a charge a;^ainst a friend."

37. Apostrophe. — A turning away from the regular course of the
composition to address something absent, as if it were present.

" Death is swallowed up in victory, O death, whero is thy stin^,'? O i;ravo,
where is thy vic'.ory ? "

38. Epigram. — A short, point-'l, or witty saying, the true sense of
which is different from that which appears on the surface.

" Solitude soaetime:i is the best society."

30. Innuendo. — A form 01 .Vllusion. in wliich a thought, instead
of being plainly stated, is merely suggested or implied.

'" lie did his party all the h.irm in hi ; power — he sf)oke for it and voted a-;.iinst it.''

40. Euphemism. — A circumlocution used to soften a harsh or a
direct way of expressing a thought.

"Your conduct is hardly ia accordance with the principles of morality."

4X. Sarcasm. — A keen, reproachful, but at tlie same time witty,

expro'.ssion.

'' Ward ha;; no heart, they say: l>»t 1 deny it;
He has a heart, and i^ets his speeches by it t'-

.xxvi

INTRODUCTION— LITERATURE.

[12, ST.

;:,::■!

V. Number of Words—

I. Brevity, or Conciseness, consist,; iii ii.;ini; tho s.-nnllest number of
words for the complete expression of a thought. As a general rule, the
mjre briefly a thouglit is expressed, the more cleir'.y and forcibly is it
conveyed. Hence, no word, phrase, or clause should be used, if its
omission would impair neither the clearness nor the f^rce of the sentence.
Too great conciseness, however, produces obscurity and abruptness.

a. Sources of Brevity—

1. Apt Words. — A writer should in all cases use the word which
expresses the exact shade of his meaning. If he do not, he will fail
to mike his meaning cl«ar, or he will be forced to repeat his idea in
different forms.

2. Suitable Grammatical Constructions. — The following are
those most conducive to JJrevity : — Participles for clauses with finite
verbs; appositives instead of clauses with connectives; abstract
nouns; adjectives for adjective clauses; nouns for adjectives; pre-
positional phrases with cr without adjectives; and contracted and
condensed sentences.

3. Effective Figures of Speech. — Those most suitable for the
purposes of Brevity are Simile, Metaphor, Transferred Epithet,
Antithesis, Epigram, and Ellipsis.

Violations of Brevity —

I. Tautology, or the repetition of the same idea in different
words — t'.g-., "Everyone praised his magnanimity and greatness of
mind." " Magnanimity " and "greatness of mind " have the same
meaning: one of them is, therefore, unnecessary. Correct writers
avoid the use of Superfluous Particles, especially Prepositions and
Conjunctions — e.g., "They may be divided up into three component
parts; " — of Adverbs, Adjectives, or Qualifying phrases, the meanings
of which are already involved in the sentence — e.g., "The most
entire approval;" — of two or more nouns having nearly the same
meaning — e.g., "The investigation and inquiry." But the association
of words having nearly the same meaning is admissible under the
following circumstances: —

{(i) When one word would not express the full sense intended, or
when a word would admit of two meanings if used alone. Some
pairs of words, also, are linked together by established usage — e.g.,
"Use and wont," "To all intents and purposes."

{b) When under the influence of strong emotion, the mind is dis-
posed to dwell upon the exciting cause — e.g., "I am astonished, I am
shoeked, to hear such principles confessed; to hear them avowed in
this house and in this country."

{c) When an idea requires emphatic expression — e.g., "The^wrfand
design," "The head aud/ront," "means and substance."

2. Pleonasm, or Redundancy, consists of additions not necessary
to express the sense — e.g., "It was the privilege and birthright oi
every citizen and poet to rail aloud and in public."

12, ^.

iber of
ulc, the
!y is it
, if its
ntcnce.

G33.

1 which
will fail
i idea it

.-ing are
ith finite
abstract
'es; prc-
:ted and

for the
Epithet,

different
atness of
he same
t writers
ions and
)mponcnt
meanings
'he most
the same
sociation
ndcr the

ended, or
e. Some
^ge—c.g.,

nd is dis-
hcd, I am
ivowed in

12, V.l

INTRODUCTION—LITER ATURE.

xxxvu

J -sentence would
.:vvn."
etic or rhetorical

Pleonasm is permissible for rhetorical emphasis, for the clearer
expression of meaning, and in the language of poetry and passion —
r.^., "We have seen with our eyes; we have \\e:\.r(\ loith our ears."
The heavens above, the earth bcnca'Ji, and the waters under t'nc.
earth."

3. Verbosity, or Circumlocution, consist^ in a diffuse mode of e\-
pression, i-.jtf., "On receiving this information, he arose, went out,
saddled his horse, and went to tow." "'^riMs no Tautology or
Redundancy here; but, unless for somt ■":£-!;! - i'- nose, the details
are uninteresting and unimportant,
read, "On receiving this inform .•.-_.

Circumlocution is, however, , . .i :"; .

effect, or to avoid the disagreeable re":; • - ; of a word or phrase.
But unnecessary substitutions savor of aiuctation and confuse the
sense. The writer's first consideration shou.d be the perspicuity of
his sentence, and to ensure this, the repetition of a word or phrase
may be necessary.

2. Diffuseness. — Sometimes a writer produces by diffuseness the de-
sired effect of style. To the examples of allowable diffuseness given under
(12, v., I, b, I, 2, and 3,) the following may be added: —

a. An example or illustration used by a writer must be suited in
length to the state of mind of the person addressed. If what the
writer says is well known, a brief reference is all that is necessary ;
but if it is unknown, or if he desires to work up the feelings of his
readers, he must emphasize by expansion.

b. To produce harmony of sound and sense, a long word or clause
may be necessary to suit the dignity of the thought or the intensity
of the emotion — e.g., To express giv-^at amazement, "stupendous" is
better than "vast" or "great." in poetic embellishment, "The
glorious orb of day" is more suitable than "The sun."

VI. Order of Words—

1. As the Grammatical order of words is not always the best for effect,
this order is departed from frequently in poetry and sometimes in prose.
As a general rule we should endeavor to arrange the parts of a proposi-
tion in the order in which the ideas they express naturally present them-
selves to the mind. The arrangement of the words in a sentence should
resemble the arrangement of the figures in a picture — the most important
should occupy the chief places.

In English, the natural order of the parts of a sentence is — Subject,
predicate, obj^"-t But this order may be varied: —

a. Wlicin the subject is less important than the predicate or the
object, either may precede it. Any special emphasis may justify
inversion — e.g., "Great is Diana of the Ephesians," — emphasizes
the predicate ; " Look upon it, I dare not," — emphasizes the object.
6. The emphatic places in a sentence are the beginning and the
end. Hence emphasis will be secured by placing a word in either

xxwm

INTRODUCTION— LITERATURE.

tl2, VI.

m
n

of these places, if this be not its natural position — c.f;., "Silver and
gold have I none." Sec also (12, 11., 2, a.) It follows then as a
general rule that —

c. A sentence should not end with a werik or an insignificant word,
as a pronoun, adverb, or preposition. Tlie exceptio...; t j tliis state-
ment are —

(i) Whc.'n the otherwise wtvik word is made stron,^ by emphasis —
f.j,'-., "In their prosperity my friunds sh. ill never hear of m-j; in
their advur-Uly, nlwuys."

(2) When a particle is att.ached to the verb so as practically to
form a compound with it — e.g., "It is this I wir.h to clsar up."

(3) ^\'hen v.e wish to avoid a broken con:;tru::tion, or what is
called "splitting particles," as when we write — ^"Thou;,h virtue bor-
rows no assist.'ince from the advantages of fortune, yet it may often
be accompanied by them," instcid of the brokea c jn .truction in
"Though virtue b.'rrows no assistance from, yet it may often be
accompanied by, the advantages of fortune."

2. la c implex statements, the qu.ilifying words should precede the
objoct (lualified; but words and exprc":;ions most nearly related in thought
should be placed closest together. Tliat arrangement shouM bo preferred
which entails the fewest and shortest suspensions of the meaning.

QUALITIES OF STYLE.

13. The Qualities of Style are Intellectual Qualities, Emotional Qual-
ities, a:;d Elegancies —

I. Intellectual Qualities. — The qualities of style, considered as an
object of t!ie ua.lerstanding, are Accuracy and Clearness.

To ensure Accuracy and Clearness, tli it is, the faithful presentation of
thought, style requires Purity and I'erspicuity.

I. Purity prescribes—

a. Correct Forms and Concords. — Every sentence of a composi-
tion must be constructed in accordance with the laws of grammar.
The common errors consist in the use of wrong single words or
forms, and cf false concords — that is, wrong cases, genders, num-
bers, and tenr.es.

b. Good English Words. — To be good, a word must be reput-
able (used by good writers or speakers), recent (used at present),
and national (used by a whole people). Violations of these princi-
ples constitute Barbarisms, the chief causes of which are:

(i) The unnecessary use of obsolete words.

(2) The use of provincial or slang expressions.

(3) The general and unnecessary use of technical terms.

(4) An affected use of foreign words.

(5) Coining words unnecessarily.

c. Proper Words — that is, words fit for the occasion. In a com-
position, every word or phrase shoull bear the meaning which
established usage lias assigned to it. The violation of this jrrlaciplc

i3. i.]

INTRODUCTION— LITERATURE.

XXXIX

.if., "Monarchy

constitutes an Impropriety. The chief causes of impropriety in the
use of English words are :

(i) Neglect to ob.sorve the proper sequence of particles—.-."'..
"He had no other intention but to deceive me," in which "but'
improperly follows "other."

(2) Neglect to distinguish between synonyms.

(3) Carelessness as to the real meaning of word.s-
stood prjstnitc- at the foot of the church."

2. Perspicuity, or Clearness. — "Care should be taken, not t!iat the
reader may understand if he will, but that he must understand whether
he will or not." I'erspicuity prescribes —

a. Simplicity.— This term covers not merely the choice of words,
but the arrangement of clauses, sentences, and paragraphs. The
violations of this principle are badly-arranged sentences, and pedan-
tic, roundabout, and inflated words and phrases.

b. Brevity.— Sft' (12, V., i, a and b).

c. Precision, or Definiteness of Meaning. — ^The violation of this
produces Aiiibigiiity or Obscurity, which may occur in words and
in sentences.

(i) In words. The Ambiguity may be one of meaning or of ref-
erence. The greatest source of ambiguity of reference is the care-
less use of pronouns, especially of the relative.

(2) In sentences. This arises from a disregard of the rules for
the arrangement of the parts of a sentence. See (12, VI., i and 2).
II. Emotional Qualities. — The Emotional Qualities of style, or those
that affect the emotions or feelings, are —

I. Streng^th, which consists in such a use and arrangement of words
as convey the author's meaning most impressively.

Under the general name of Strength are included such varieties as sub-
limity, loftiness, magnificence, grandeur, dignity, stateliness, and splendor;
fervor, energy, force, vigor, and nerve; brilliancy, rapidity, liveliness,
vivacity, and animation. In this list, those qualities that resemble one an-
Cylbt i ,1 e grouped together. In literary criticism, the terms are often used
ioor ..iv, but several of them have specific meanings. There is, for instance,
a wide difference between *^he extremes ; sublimity being secured by the
description of great and noble objects, which produce a sort of elevation
and expansion of our feelings; animation being the presentation of ideas
in rapid succession.
The following are the principal modes of securing Strength : —

(i) Important words should occupy the most prominent places.
Sec (12, VI., 1,) and (12, II., 2, a).

(2) The Periodic structure, by exciting and concentrating atten-
tion, often adds to the force of a sentence. See (12, II., i, b).

(3) When the members of a sentence differ in length, the shorter
should precede the longer; and, when they are of unequal force,
the weaker should precede the stronger. In all cases, however, the
order of time should bo observed.

INTRODUCTION— UTERATURB.

ti3, n.

■

{4) When in different members of a sentence two objects are con-
trasted, a resemblance in language and construction increases "the
effect. Sec (12, IV., 8), and (12, II., i, c).

(5) A sentence should not close with an adverb, a preposition, or
any small unaccented word. Sec (12, VI., i, c).

(6) Broken constructions, or Splitting particles, should bj avoided.
Sec (12, VI., i,c, 3).

(7) An accumulation of small words should be avoided.

(8) The language and the subject should harmonize with, and
support, each other. Different themes demand different treatment.

(g) Variety, or due alternation of effects, should be maintained in
all parts of composition, viz.: variety in sound (13, III., i), words,
subjects, and in the length and structure of sentencer. The occur-
rence of any unpleasing similarity of sound, the improper repetition
of a word, or a long series of sentences of the same type, enfeeble
style and should be avoided. Sec (12, II., i, b), and (12, III., 6).

(10) All superfluous words should be rejected. Sec (12, V., i).

(11) As far as is consistent with perspicuity and good grammar,
whatever may be readily supplied should be omitted. Sec (12,
IV. 6).

(12) The use of adjectives or adverbs in close sue ession enfeebles
style. When judiciously applied, these parts of speech hav3 a

powerful influence in animating, and heightening the effect of, an
expression; but, when used immoderately, they burden a sentence
without adding to its effect.

(13) The too frequent use of the conjunction "and" should be
avoided. When the author's object is to present a quick succession
of spirited images, the conjunction is often omitted with fine effect
(12, IV., 11). Whe:i, however, an enumeration is made in which it
is important that the transition from one object to another should
not be too rapid, but that each should attract attention for a
moment, the conjunction may be repeated (12. IV.. 10).

(14) Indirect or prefaced modes tit expression should be avoided,
unle^ to introduce important ideas — e.g., "It was I that did it,"
and "There was no one present.'' Better " I did it," and "No one
was present."

(15) Reduce, as far as possible, the number of auxiliaries, except
when they are emphatic. See also (13, II., i, 7). This principle is
more applicable to poetry than to prose, and occurs chiefly in the
subjunctive mood.

(16) The Specific and the Concrete are more effective than the
General and the Abstract. A statement is stronger when made
about an individual object than about a class.

(17) Strength is often promoted by the use of Figures of Speech
[12 IV.); but they should be used only when they convey the idea
in a shorter space and with greater vividness than ordinary lan-
guage.

13, II.j

ISTRODUCTlOyi—UTERATURE.

(iS) Orig.nality and boldness in combinations should be aimed
at, cspecinl'.y in the use of Fijijures of Speech. Frequent repetition
pills, cvca v.hcn what we repeat is itself of the highest merit.
Novelty and a,.,'reeable surprises conduce to strength.

(19) Every m::ins should bo taken to ensure Perspicuity. Sec
(13, I.. 2). Wc should write naturally, use definite, plain words, with
a preferencj for those of Anglo-Saxon origin, and avoid affectation ;
roundabout expressions (12, V., i, b, 3), remote allusions, frequent
qujt.\ti.);is — ^es;v^cia11y those that are hackneyed — exaggerated lan-
guage, harsh-sounding words, and whatever interrupts the easy flow
of our sentences.

(20) The Periodic, the Abrupt, and the Balanced and Pointed
style (12, II., I, h and c,) increase greatly the strength of a compo-
sition, ii the principle of Variety is duly recognized (13, II., t, 9\
The first keeps up the attention, and favors the Unity of the sen-
tences (13, II., I, 2); the second increases the rapidity of the
movement; and the last gives agreeable surprises and assists the
memory.

2. Pathos, or Tender Feeling, which touches the tender chord in our
n.iture. It is a sympathetic pain combined with pleasure.

The following are the chief means of stimulating the emotion : —

(i) Allusions to the strong affections of our nature — to love of
family, friends, or country.

(2) .Vccounts of acts of compassion, kindness, or humanity.

(3) The expression of kind and humane thoughts and feelings.

(4) Descriptions of any of the misfortunes to which human beings
are subject, n.-i death, sorrow, pain, misery.

(5) Many gentle pleasures, and even some intense ones, stimulate
the emotion of tenderness.

3. The Ludicrous, wliich excites laughter, and is caused by the degra-
dauon of any subject without the production of any other strong emotion,
such as anger or fear. Of this quality there are several varieties : — •

In Satire the Ludicrous is assocrated with malice without arousing
sympathy for the object — c.ir., Popes Epistle to Arbiithnot. Akin to this
quality is Ridicule, the object of which is to influence opinion.

Humor is the laughable degradation of an object, without malice, in a
genial, kindly, good-natured way — c.fr., many of Addison's papers in the
'ipi'ctator. The subject of Humor is character — not its graver fauits, but
its foibles, vanities, and weaknesses generally. Humor and Pathos often
relieve each other. (13, II., i, g.) This combination constitutes one of the
greatest charms of Dickens's works.

Wit is an ingenious and unexpected play upon words. See {12, IV., 26).
When we call a v/riter witty, we have reference merely to the clever-
ness of his mode of expression; he maybe also satiric or sarcastic, lil<e
Swift; or humorous, like Addison or Lamb.

III. Elegancies of Style.— The Elegancies of Style are:—

3. Melodyi which is agreeable sound or modulation. Under melody

xlii

INTRODUCTION— LITERATURE.

[13. in.

i 5,
'■ ,1

rill

we should consider — fir:.t, whether the author conforms to the general
requisites; and secondly, what is his prcvailin£ rhythm. The following
are the general requisites of Melody : —

(i) The avoiding of harsh effects. The abrupt consonants, as ^,
t, k,f, til, h, etc., are the liardest to pronounce; the vowels are the
easiest. "Barber," for instance, is easier to pronounce than " Prag-
matic."

(2) The alternation of long and short, emphatic and unemphatic
syllables.

(3) The alternations of consonants among themselves, and of
vowels among themselves.

(4) The avoiding of unpleasant alliterations. Sec p. 4 of " Wolfe
and Old Quebec," 11. 16, 17.

(5) The due observance, throughout a composition, of the prin-
ciple of variety. See (13, II., i, 9).

(6) The cadence at the close. The closing syllabic of a sentence
should allow the voice to fall. Avoid closing a sentence with a
short, unemphatic, abrupt syllable or word. Sa' (13, II., i, 5). When
we aim at dignity or elevation, the sound should swell to the last.
Sec (13, II., I, 3).

Many good writers have a characteristic and indescribable swing
to their language — a peculiar rhythmical movement by which the
trained ear may soon detect the authorship of a piece of com-
position.

2. Harmony is melody, so ordered as to be expressive of the sense.
Phis is desirable in prose, but occurs most markedly in poetry. See {12,
IV., 4). Sound, movement, and vast bulk may be easily represented.

3, Taste has two meanings: —

(i) The power 01 receiving pleasure from the beauties ot Nature
and Art. In this sense it is almost synonymous with Elegance,
Polish, and Refinement. Persons devoid of this power are said to
have no taste.

(2 That kind oi artistic excellence that gives the greatest amount
of pleasure to cultured minds. In this sense it is generally used in
literary criticism.

The rules of Taste are those which govern correct literary compo-
sition ; but variable elements also exist, for there are marked differ-
ences in the literary tastes of men, countries, and periods.

;S:

THE RIME OF

The Ancient Mariner

AND MINOR POEMS.

Samuicl Taylok Colekidgk.

" I expect neither profit nor general fame by my writings ; and I consider myself
as havin;ibeenaniply repaid without either. Poetry has been to me its own 'exceeding
great reward ; ' it has soothed my afflictions ; it has multiplied and refined my enjoy-
ments ; it has endeared solitude ; and it has given me the habit of wishinji to discover
the Good and the Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me." — Colend;;c's Pre/ace
to the 2 hird Edition of the "juvenile rocms."

Toronto:

CANADA PUBLISHING
(limitud.)

- I ,\ ;

liiii

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibilf.s )u laramuni-
versitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit, Ci gradus et
cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? (^uid agunt ? quae loca
habitant ? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingcnium hiimanum,
nui.quam attigit. Juvat, interea, nondiffiteor, quandoque inanim >, tan(]uam
in tabula, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari : iie mens
assuefacta hodiernae vitse minutiis se contrahat nimis, et lota subsidat in
pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, inodusque
servandus, ut certa ab incertis, diem anocte, distinguamus. — T. BURNET,
ARCIIAEOL. PHIL., p, 68.

f H

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARTNER.

IN SEVEN PARTS.

PART I.

It is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three,

" By thy long gray beard and glittering eye.

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ?

An ancient
Mariner meeteth
three gallants
bidden to a
wedding feast,
and detaineth
one.

The Bridegroom's doors are open wide,
And I am next of kin ;
The guests are met, the feast is set :
May'st hear the merry din."

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

He holds him with his glittering eye—
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a tliree years' child :
T'he Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding.
fJuept is vpell.
bound by the
eye of the old
se.t-faring man,
and constrained
to hear his tale,

6 The RiMr-: of tiik Ancicnt Mariner.

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

" The ship was cheered, the hirbour cleared,

JMcrrily did we drop

Below the kirk, below the hill,

2elo\v the light-house top.

Sishowihe'ship Tiie sun came up upon the left,
Sh L:::";d':ind out of the sea came he !
dinf Reached''''' ^"^ ^^ ^^^^^^ bright, and on the right
the Line. Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,

Till over the mast at noon — "

Thr V/cc'd'ngGuest here beat his breast.

For he heard 'the loud bassoon.

The Weddinc- The bridc hath paced into the hall,

(lucst heare n

the bridal hiumV; Red as a rose is she ;

hut the Mariner ^t i t i • i

o.iniuucth his Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrel-y.

ill

• ■li!

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear ;
And thus spake on that ancient man
The bright-eyed Ivlnr:i:::-.

Th« shio drawn "And now the storm-blast came, and he

by a stoim

toward the Was tyrannous and strong :

south pole. . . , , .

He struck with his o ertaking wmgs,
And chased us south along.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

:^-S-!'-

With sloping masts and dipping prow,

As who pursued with yell and blow

Still treads the shadow of his foe,

And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,

And southward aye we fled. %o

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

And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen :
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken —
The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around : e«

The land of ice^
and of fearful
sounds where
no living thing
was to be seen.

The lli.Mi: ov Tin: Anciknt Mahineh.

Till :i prcnt sca-
l)ir(l c.illeil tho
Alliaiross came
throiiL;li 11.^
simw-fog, and
«as recuived
with ureal joy
uud hui>ijitality.

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

At length did cross an Albatross,
Through the f(jg it came ;
As if it had hiicn a C'hristian 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 lo! the Ai- \n(] r^ v-Qod south wind si)rung ui) behind ;

batross provctha ° 101 ?

bird of -Dnd The Albatross did follow,

omen, and fol-

loweth the ship And evcrv day, for food or nlav,

as it returned •' . "'

northward Camc to the manners' hollo !

throuKh fog and
floating ice.

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 ancient ^ " God save thcc, ancient Mariner,

M.triner inhospi- , ,^11 1 1 1 <

t.-ibiy kiiieth the V iom the ucnds, that plague thee thus ! —
gSSdomen." Why look'st thou SO?" — " With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross."

PART II.

The Sun now rose upon the right
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Vent down into the sea.

And I had done a hellLsh thlny,
And it would work 'em woe :
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That iiiiuio the brcc/c to b'ow. '

The UiME OP THE Ancient Marinku.

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

lit

HU shipmates
ury out a>;aiiist
the ancitiit
Mariner, fo- kill-
ing the hir.i of
Rood llRK.
Hut when the
foK cleared off,
they justify the
same, and thus
make themselves
accomplices in
the crime.

And I had done a hellish thing,

And it would work 'em woe :

For all averred, I had killed the bird

That made the breeze lo blow.

Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay,

That made the breeze to blow !

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head

The glorious Sun 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 and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free ;

The fair breeze
continues ; the
sliip enteis the
I'acific Ocean,

.ind sails north- We Were the first that ever burst

ward, even till it

reaches the Line. IntO that Silent Sea.

The ship hath
been suddenly
becalmed.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
'Twas sad as sad could be ;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea !

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 ;

TiiK Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,
And ail 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 legs
Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night ;
The water, like a witch's oils.
Burnt green and blue and white.

And some in dreams as;iured were
Of the Spirit that plagued us so ;
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root ;
We could not speak, no morr than if
V/e had been choked with soot,

Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks
Had I from old and young !
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.

And the Alba-
tross beiijins lobe
avenged.

A Spirit followed
them ; or.t of the
^ invisible inhabi-
tants of this
planet, neither
departed souls
nor angels ; con-
cerning whom the
learned Jew,
Josephus, and
the Platonic
Constant inopoli-
tan, Michael
Pselliis, may be
consulted. They
are very iiumtr-
ous, and there
in no climate or
element without
one or more.

The ship-mates,
in their sore dis-
tress, would fain
ti row the whole
guilt on til'"
ancient Mari-
ner: in sign
whereof they
han;{ the dead
sea-bird round
his negk.

I li \,

The Rime of the Ancient Mariniui.

m- I:

r ..i -i IS

? 1

:■ ^ 1

ft '

> 1 1

|;|j i

, {■

i i

i ^

The ancient
Manner be-
holdeth a sign
in the element
afar off.'^

PART III.

There passed a weary time. Each throat

Was parched, and glazed each eye.

A weary time ! a weary time !

How glazed each weary eye,

When looking westward, I beheld

A something in the sky.

At first it seemed a little speck.
And then it seemed a mist ;
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 :
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged and tacked and veered.

apJroaTu With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

tobe a'lfc We could nor laugh nor wail ;

and at a dear Through uttcr drought all dumb we stood !

ransom he freetn o o

IheS^or"' ^ ^^^ ^^y ^'^"^' ^ sucked the blood,
thirst. /^nd cried, A sail ! a sail !

Aiiashofjoy; ^yjti^ throats unslakcd, with black lips baked
Agape they heard me call :
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin.
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.

And horror foi- gcc ! scc ! (I cricd) shc tacks no more!

lows. For can ^

it be a s/»/ that Hither to vvork us weal, —

comes onward

without wind Without a breczc, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel !

1:1

The Rimp: of the Anciext Mariner.

The western wave was all a-flame

The day was well nigh done !

Almost upon the western wave

Rested the broad bright Sun ;

When that strange shape drove suddenly

Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
(Heaven's Mother send us grace !)
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
With broad and burning face.

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fr.3t she nears and nears !
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
Like restless gossameres ?

Are those her ribs through which the Sun
Did peer, as through a grate ?
And is that Woman all her crew ?
Is that a Death ? and are there two ?
Is Death that woman's mate ?

Her lips were red, her looks wore 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.

The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice ;
'The game is done! I've won! I've won !"
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

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

It seemetli him
but the skcletya
of a ship.

And its ribs are
seep ns birs on
the face of the
settitig sun.
'I'heSpei-tre-
Womaii and her
De.ith-mate, and
no other on
board the skele-
ton-ship.
Like vessel, like
crew 1

.■50

Death and Life-
in- Death have

diced for the
ship's crew, .^nd
she (the hitter)
winnelh the
ancient Mariner.

No twilight
within the courts
of the Sun.

"^FE Rime of thf Ancient Marineu.

At the rising of
the Moon,

We listened and looked sideways up !

Fear at my heart, as at a cup,

My life-blood seemed to sip !

The stars were dim, and thick the night,

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white ;

From the sails the dew did drip —

Till clomb above the eastern bar

The horned Moon, with one bright star

Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 70

Too quick for groan or sigh,

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,

And cursed me with his eye.

His shipmates Four timcs fifty Hving men,

drop down dead. / . , t , , . ,

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.

But i,ife-in. The souls did from their bodies fly, —

Death begins her ™, n j . u r •

work on the 1 hey fled to buss or woe !

ancient Mariner. * j i '.^ j i_

And every soul, it passed me by, so

One after
another,

Like the whiz of my cross bow !"

PART IV.

The Wedding-
Guest feareth
that a Spirit is
talking to him.

" I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner !

I fear thy skinny hand !

And thou art long, and lank, and brown,

As is the ribbed sea-sand.*

* For the last two lines of this stanz.i, I am indebted to Mr. Wordsworth. It was on a
deligjitrul Walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton, with him and his sister, in th« autwiuu
q( 1797, that this poem was planned, and in part composed.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown." —
" F6ar not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest !
This body dropt not down.

But the ancient
Mariner assureth
him of his bodily
life, and pro-
ceedeth to relate
his horrible
penance.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea !
^nd never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.

The many men, so beautiful !

And they all dead did lie :

And a thousand thousand slimy things

Lived on ; and so did I.

He despiseth the
creatures of the
calm,

I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away ;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ;
But or ever a prayer had gusht,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.

And envieth that
they should live,
and so many lie
dead.

I closed my lids and kept them close,

And the balls like pulses beat :

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky

Lay like a load on my weary 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 mQ
Had never passed away.

3° But the curse ^
liveth for him in
the eye of the
dead ni^n^

: I ,

f^ir

IG The Rime of the Ancient Mai^inkr.

An orphan's curse would drag to hCii

A spirit from on high ;

But oh ! more horrible than that

Is the curse in a dead man's eye !

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,

And yet I could not die.

In his loneliness
and fixedness he
yearneth toward
the journeying
Moon, and the
stars that still
soiourn, yet still
move onward ;
and everywhere
the blue sky
belongs to them,
and is their
appointed rest,
and their native
country and their
own natural
homes, which
they enter unan-
nounced, as lords
that are certainly
expected, and yet
there is a silent
joy at their
arrival.

By the light of
the Moon he
beholdeth God's
creatures of the
great calm.

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

Her beams bemocked the sultry ni?;n
Like April hoar-frost spread ;
But where the ship's huge shadow lay,
The charmed water burnt alway
A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship

I watched the water-snakes :

They moved in tracks of shining whit?,

And when they reared, the elfish light

Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship

I watched their rich attire :

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,

They coiled and swam ; and every track

Was a flash of golden fire.

Sl!^h^a^^"i7es"*^ ^ happy living things ! no tongue
Their beauty might declare :

Hebiesseththem A Spring of love gushed from my heart.
And I blessed them unaware :
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware,

The iviMK OF THE Ancient Mariner.

The sehsame moment I could pray ;
And trom my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
L"i:e lead into the sea.

The spell begins
to break.

PART V.

Oii zlcep ! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole !
To M^-.ry Queen the praise be given I
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck
That had so long remained,

By grace of the
holy Mother, the
ancient Mariner

I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; rain.
And when 1 awoke, it rained.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, w
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.

And soon I heard a roaring wind :
It did not come anear ;
But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life !
And a hundred fire- flags sheen,

He hearoth
sounds and seeth
strange sights
and commotions
20 in the sky and
the element.

18 The Rime oi*' tiik Ancient Mariner.

To and fro they were hurried about t
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.

•»!<

And the coming wind did roar more loun.

And the sails did sigh like sedge ;

And the rain poured down from one black cloud ;

The Moon was at its edge. 30

The thick black cloud was cleft, and stil!
The moon was at its side :
Like waters shot from some high crag:
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.

The bodies of The loud wind never reached the ship,

the ship's crew , . • , .

are inspired, and Yct nOW the Ship mOVed On !

on ; Beneath the lightning and the Moon

The dead men gave a groan.

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 40

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 ;

Yet never a breeze up blew ;

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,

Where they were wont to do ;

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools —

We were a ghastly crew.

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,"

The iiiMi-: oi^ Tnic Ancient MAiUNr.n.

" I fear thee, uiicient Mariner !"
" Be calm, thou Wedding-Oucst !
'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,
And ciusterea round the mast ; (*^

Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
And from thei** bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the Sun ;
Slowly ^V-e 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.

How they seemed to fill the sea and air 70

With their sweet jargoning !

UiU not by the
souIh of the men,
not hy (leiiiuiis
of earth f)r
middle nir, hut
hy a hlessed
troop ufHiii^elic
spirits, sent
down hy the
invoc.'itinn of tho
guardian saint.

And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute ;
And now it \\\ an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe ;

Till-: lliMB OF Tiiic Anciknt Maion-^r

Slowly and smoothly went the sh'p,
Moved onward from beneath.

Thr lonesome Under the keel nine fathom deep,

Spirit from the i , i /■ •

ioiith pole rrom the land of mist and snow,

carries on the r^ • • i- ,

Oiip as far as the I hc Spirit slid : and It was he

Line, in oh.'di- r- ^

ence to the 1 hat made the ship to go.

mcelic troop, „,, ., ,-._,.

but still requireth I he sails at noon left off their ture.

ven£.aHLe. ^^^ ^j^^ ^j^.^ stOOd Still alsO.

The Sun right up above the iiiasi,
Had fixed her to the ocean :
But in a minute she 'gan stir,
With a short uneasy motion —
Backwards and forwards half her iengiti,
With a short uneasy motion.

Then, like a pawing horse let go, ^
She made a sudden bound :
II- flung the blood into my head.
And I fell down in a s wound.

The Polar
Spirit's fellow
(lemons, the in-
vi;;ible inhabi-
tants of the
element, take
part in his
wronn ; and two
of them relate,
one to the other,
that penance
loiiK and heavy
for the ancient
Mariner hath
hcf n accorded to
the Polar Sjiirit,
who returneth
southward.

How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare ;
But ere my living life returned,
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
The harmless Albatross*

The Spirit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
He loved the bird that loved the man
Who shot him with his bow.'

110

T"**; KiMK OF THE Ancient Marineu.

The other was a softer voice,

As so^ .IF honey dew ;

Quoth ne, * The man hath penance done,

And penance more will do.'

PART VI.

FIRST VOICE.

' But tjll me, tell me ! speak again,
Thy soft response renewing —
What makes that ship drive on bo Jta'jt,
What is the ocean doing ?'

SECOND VOICE.

* Still as a slave before his lord.
The ocean hafh no blast ;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the Moon is cast —

If he may know which way to go :
For she cruid?s him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see ! how graciously
She looketh down on him.'

FIRST VCICB.

' But why drives on that shij) so fast,
Without iji wave or wind ?'

hi,}

SECOND VCICT'.

' The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high !
Or we shall be beUted :
For slow and slow that ship will go,
When the Mariner's trance is abated.'

The Mariner
hath been cast
into a trance ;
for the angelic
power causeth
the vessel to
drive northward
faster than
human Hfe
could endure.

f^%

TiiK Rime op the Ancient MauiN"i

Thcsi.pcrnarurai J wokc, and wc wcrc sallins on
ed ; ihe Mariner As in a gentle wcathcr :

awakes and his ^

penance begins Twas night, calm night, the moon wis nign ;
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, with which they died.
Had nevt r passed away :
I could not draw my eyes from their^j
Nor turn them up to pray.

i^.n^iiy"cxpiated. '^"^ "^^ ^^^^ ^P^^^ ^^^ snapt '. ottcc morc
I viewed the ocean green,
And looked far forth, yet little saw
Of what had else been seen —

Like one, that on a lonesome road
Djth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks o.i.
And turns no more his head ;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

pip
<■ ■■■

But soon there breathed a wind on me.
Nor sound nor motion made:
Its path was not upon the Si^a,
In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of sprmg —
it mingled strangely with my lear^.
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

ffi

The Rimk of the ancient lUAiuisfii;.

2.i«

Swiftly, swiftly flew the s't p
Yet she sailed softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the bree/e *
On me alone it blew.

Oh ! dteam of joy ! is this indeed
The light-house top I see ?
Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ?
Is this mine own countree ?

We drifted o'er the harbour- bar,
And I with sobs did pray —
O let me be awake, my God I
Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glasSj
So smoothly it was strewn !
And on the bay the moonlight lay.
And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less^
That stands above the rock :
The moonlight steeped in silentness
The steady weathercock.

And the bay was v/hite with silent light.
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows v/ere,
In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were :
I turned my eyes upon the deck —
Oh, Christ 1 what saw I there !

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
And, by the holy rood !
A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood*

^nd the ancient
Mariner hcliold'
•sth his native
country.

• »

The antjelic
spirits leave the
{lead bodies;

And appear in
their own forms
of light.

\i:]

2^<

Thk Bime of the Ancient Mariner.

U; t

III'

This seraph-band each waved his hand :
It was a heavenly sighi; !
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light;

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 I heard the dash of oars,
1 heard the Pilot's cheer ;
My head was turned perforce away,
And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and tlie Pilot's boy,
I heard them coming fast :
Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third — I herrd his voice :

It is the Hermit good !

He singeth loud his godly hymns

That he makes in the wood.

He'll shrieve my so'^1, he'll wash away

The Albatross's blood.

PART VII.

100

The Hermit oi
the wood

This Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears I
He loves to talk with mariners
That come from a far countree.

Tub Rime of the Ancient Marinel?.

;'iio

»0

He kneels at morn, and neon, and e/e- •■

He hath a cushion plump :

It is the moss that wholly hides

The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk,
' Why, this is strange, I trow !
Where are those lights so many and fair.
That signal made but now ?'

' Strange, by my faith !' the Hermit said —

' And they answered not our cheer !

The planks looked warped ! and see those sails,

How thin they are and sere I

I never saw aught like to them,

Unless perchance it were

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag =°

My forest-brook along ;

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,

And the ov;let whoops to the wolf below,

That eats the she- wolf's young.'

' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look —
(The Pilot made reply)
I am a-feared ' — * Push on, push on I'
Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship,

But I nor spake nor stirred ; 3a

The boat came close beneath the ship

And straight a sound was heard.

Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread :
It reached the ship, it split the bay ;
The ship went down like lead.

Approacheth
the ship with
wonder.

1. lie ship siuV
denly sinkcitv

?.6

Tiri'. EiMF*. OF THE Ancient Marineii.

V 1

i *

MaHner'trsaved Stunnsd hv that loud and dreadful sound,
bolt," ^^'°* ^ Which sky and ocean smote,

Like one that hath been seven days drowned

My body lay afloat ;

But swift as dreams, myself I found
iV^ithin :hc Pilot's boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round ;
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.

1 moved my lips — the pilot shrieked
And fell down in a fit ;
The holy hermit raised his eyes,
And prayed where he did sit.

I took the oars : the Pilot's boy,

Who now doth crazy go,

Laughed loud and long, and all ihe while

His eyes went to and fro.

* Ha ! ha !' quoth he, ' full plain I see.

The Devil knows how to row.'

And now, all in my own countree,

I stood on the firm land !

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,

And scarcely he could stand.

The ancient Q shricve mc, shrieve me, holy man !

Manner earnest- . j i • i

lyeiitreateih The Hcrmit crosscd his brow.

ihe Hermit to ^ ^ ■ i , , i . t i • i i

shrieve him ; and 'Say quick, quoth he, ' 1 bid thee say —

the penance of ,,,, - ^ ^i -,>

life falls on him. What manner of man art thou ?

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
VV^ith a woful agony.
Which forced me to begin my tale ;
And then it left me free.

5°

The Rime o/ the Ancient Mariner

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns :
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have a strange power of speech i
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me :
To him my tale I teach.

What ioud uproar bursts from that door '
The wedding-gues*' are there :
But in the garden-bower the bride
And bride-maids singing are :
And hark the little vesper bell.
Which biddeth me to prayer !

O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea :
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.

O s -"^eter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweetei far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company !- -

To walk together to the kirk,

And all together pray.

While each to his great Father bends.

Old men, and babes, and loving friends,

And youths and maidens gay !

Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding- Guest !
He prayeth well, who lovcth well
Both man and bird and beast.

And e\'er and
anon thioir. hotjt
1 his future lite :iii
agony const rniii-
eth liini to nave
from land to
land.

And to teach hy
his own example
love and rever-
ence to all things
that Go<l made
and loveth.

ife'.i

so.

'I'

\. I

' „

The Rime of the Ancient Maiunek.

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small ;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all."

The Mariner, whose eye is bright.
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest
Turned from the Bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned,
And IS of sense i^riorn :
A sadder and a wiser man,
rie rose the morrow morn.

^797-

■i

Critical analysis

— OF —

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER,

The Ancient Mariner was revised by its author after publication, and
consequently does not now appear in exactly the same form as in 1798,
the original archaic spelling having been abandoned, many words
changed, a number of lines and stanzas remodelled, and some ghastly
details omitted. The gloss or marginal commentary was also an after-
thought; but in the early editions the poem was introduced by the
following

" ARGUMENT.

" How a ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the
cold country towards the South Pole ; and how from thence she made
her course to the Tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean ; and of
the strange things that befell ; and in what manner the Ancyent Mari-
nere came back to his own country."

It was composed in the autumn of 1797 when the poet was residing
at Nether Stowey, near Bristol. The following is Wordsworth's account
of its origin :

" Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself started from Alfoxden pretty
late in the afternoon with a view to visit Linton and the Valley of
Stones near to it ; and, as our united funds were very small, we agreed
to defray the expense of the tour by writing a poem to be sent to the
Nciv Monthly Magazine. Accordingly we set off and proceeded along
the Quantock Hills to Watchet, and in the course of this walk was
planned the poem of The Ancient Mariner , founded on a dream, as Mr.
Coleridge said, of his friend Mr. Cruikshank. Much the greatest part
of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention, but certain parts I suggested ;
for example, some crime was to be committed which would bring upon
the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to call him, the
spectral persecution, as a consequence of that crime and his own wan-
dermgs. I had been reading in Shelvocke's Voyages, a day or two
before, that while doubling Cape Horn they frequently saw albatrosses
in that latitude, the largest sort of sea-fowl, some extending their wings

4 CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF THE

twelve .or thirteen feet. ' Suppose." said I, ' you represent him as
havincf killed one of these birds on entering the South Sea, and that
the tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the
crime.' The incident was thought fit for the purpose and adopted
accordingly. I also suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead
men, but do not recollect that I had anything more to do with the
scheme of the poem. The gloss with which it was subsequently accom-
panied was not thought of by either of us at the time, at least not a
hmt of it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous
afterthought. We began the composition together on that to me
memorable evening. I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of
the poem, in particular —

•And listened like a three years' child
The Mariner had his will.'

These trifling contributions, all but one,* which Mr. C. has with
unnecessary scrupulosity recorded, slipped out of his mind, as well
they might. As we endeavoured to proceed conjointly (I speak of the
same evening) our respective manners proved so widely different that it
would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate
from an iinderiaking upon which I could only have been a clog. . .
The Ancient Afa finer grew and grew till it became too important for our
first object, which was limited to our expectation of five pounds."

Such we'-e the prosaic circumstances in which originated this singu-
larly great imaginative poem. The author had no intention of bidding
for immortality, what he wanted was five pounds. Surely, as Mr. H.
D. Traill says, it is the most sublime of pot-boilers.

Coleridge classified The Ancient Mariner, Christabel, Kuhln Khan,
and The Wanderings of Cain as Poems Written in Early Manhood and
Middle Life. To them he prefixed the very appropriate and suggestive
Latin quotation which, in this edition, immediately precedes the first
of these productions, and of which, as it is their keynote, a free trans*
lation is here given : —

" I have no difficulty in believing that there are more invisible than
visible beings in the world. But who shall tell us the story of their
whole family and the rank, relationship, characteristics and duties of
each ? How do they act ? Where do they dwell ? The mind of man
has always striven for, but never attained a knowledge of these things.
Meanwhile, I shall not deny that sometimes it is useful to view in a
mental picture the image of a greater and better world, so that the

• The lines—

** And thou art long, and lank, and biown,
As is the ribbed sea-sand."

RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

intellei^t may not, through occupation with the petty concerns of daily
life, become too narrow and be wholly absorbed in the consideration of
trifles. But nevertheless we must watch over the truth, and keep our-
selves within bounds, in order to distinguish the certain from the
doubtful, and day from night."

This quotation, applicable as it is to all four of the poems we have
named, is especially so to the first-mentioned. The Ancient Mariner,
as its author himself has told us, owes its marvellous character to an
agreement between him and his friend Wordsworth that they should
produce a series of poems illustrative of what they considered the two
cardinal points of poetry. In the Biographia Literaria he thus
describes the origin of the plan : —

" During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbours
our conversation turned frequently on the two cardinal points of poetry,
the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence
to the truth of nature, and the power of giving the interest of novelty
by the modifying colours of the imagination. The sudden charm
which accidents of light and shade, vhich moonlight or sunset diffused
over a known and familiar landscape appeared to represent the prac-
ticability of combining both. These are the poetry of nature. The
thought suggested itself (to which of us I do not recollect) that a series
of poems might be composed of two sorts. In one the incidents and
agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural ; and the interest aimed
at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic
truth of such emotions as would naturally accompany such situations,
supposing them real. . . . For the second class, subjects
were to be chosen from ordinary life : the characters and incidents were
to be such as will be found in every village and its vicinity where there
is a meditative and feeling mind to seek after them or to notice them
when they present themselves.

" In this idea originated the plan of the Lyrical Ballads ; in which it
was agreed, that my endeavours should be directed to persons and
characters supernatural, or at least romantic ; yet, so as to transfer
from our own inward nature a human interest and a semblance of
truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing
suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.
Mr. Wordsworth, on the other hand, was to propose to himself as his
object, to give the charm of novelty to the things of every day, and to
excite a feeling analogous to the supernatural, by awakening the
mind's attention to the lethargy of custom, and directing it to the
loveliness and wonders of the world before us : an inexhaustible trea-
sure, but for which, in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfist^

fell

jja"

1 ,;

1 j(l

4 CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF THE

solicitude we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that
neither feel nor understand. With this view I wrote The Ancient
Mariner."

The result showed that the division of the work coincided with the
natural tendencies of the two poets. To both alike the things seen
with the eye of the mind were the chief realities. But these are in
Wordsworth's case almost always viewed as suggested by and con-
nected with the external world. His " primary function is to interpret
nature to man : the interpretation of man to himself is with him a
secondary process only — the response, in almost every instance, to
impressions from without." He " can nobly brace the human heart to
fortitude ; but he must first have seen the leech-gatherer on the lonely
moor. The * presence and the spirit interfused ' throughout creation
is revealed to us in moving and majestic words, yet the poet requires
to have felt it ' in the light of setting suns and the round ocean and the
living air' before he feels it 'in the mind of man.' But what Words-
worth grants only to the reader who wanders with him in imagination
by lake and mountain, the Muse of Coleridge" bestows "upon the man
who has entered his inner chamber and shut the door." Coleridge
abode "by preference in the world of self-originating emotion and intro-
spective thought." It would be a mistake to credit him with that pro-
found feeling for nature which marked Wordsworth. Nature never
was to him the all in all that she was to Wordsworth, who recognizes

in her,

" The anchor of" his "purest thoughts, the nurse.
The guide, the guardian of" his "heart and soul
Of all " his " moral being. ' '

Wordsworth looks at and listens to Nature as one spirit might look at
and listen to another ; Coleridge sees in her, as he very fully explains
in Dejection, merely the reflection of himself.

Nevertheless he was a sensitive observer of her aspects. Take, by
way of example, the simile of the hidden brook in Part v., the descrip-
tion of the bay and its surroundings in Part vi., and the comparison in
Part vii., 20-24. Probably much of the imagery of The Ancient Mariner
was suggested by what the poet saw from the Quantock Hills over-
looking the Bristol Channel. He may actually there, as Mrs. Oliphant
points out, have seen the sun flecked with bars when a ship passed
between him and it.

The Quantock Hills are in Somersetshire looking out on the Bristol
Channel and the ocean beyond. The poet, in his walks from his home
at Nether Stowey to Alfoxden on their western slope where Words-
worth was residing, and in other walks came in sight of the great deep.
••\V« can almost," says Mrs. Oliphant, " perceive the mariner's mystic

RIMR OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

progress shaping itself, as in all moods and tempers the poet looks forth
upon the sea, and beholds in imagination not only the light-house tower,
the kirk, and the bay, but all the wide-spreading wastes of water beyond
the firmament, and the wonders that may be passing there. Perhaps
some white gull winging across the darkness of a storm-cloud suggested
to him the bird 'that makes the winds to blow' — the friendly wild
companion of the seaman's course that

' Every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner's hollo.'

Perhaps to himself, straying along with his head in the clouds, the sight
of it was like that of 'a Christian soul,' whom he hailed in God's name ;
perhaps the crack of some heartless rifle, the sudden drop through the
gloomy air of the innocent winged-brother thus met in the way, sent
his indignant imagination forth to conceive what punishment he should
deserve who thus sent out of happy life a fellow-creature who meant
him nothing but friendship. And thus day by day as he went and
came, the seas would render up their secrets, and Nature's revenge for
her child extend into all the weird and mysterious consequences of a
man's breach of faith with the subject creation."

It is noteworthy in this connexion that of the pictures in which The
Ancient Mariner abounds, those for which the poet has drawn most
largely upon his imagination are as vivid, as suggestive, and as real as
those which he has painted from memory. He touches in it on many
aspects of the ocean: "the ship scudding before the stormy wind
towards the south, with sloping masts and dippiig prow; the iceberg-
covered sea; the great snow fog over the sea, dark by day, glimmering
white by night in the moonshine; the belt of calms with its dreadful
rolling swell, and water that, ' like a witch's oils, burnt green and blue
and white'; the sea in the tornado; the gentle weather of the tem-
perate seas; and the quiet English harbour"; and he pours upon all,
whether within or beyond his experience, "a light, a glory, a fair,
luminous cloud from the soul itself."

But perhaps the most remarkable characteristic of The Ancient
Mariner is " the simple realistic force of its narrative." To endow it
with this was, of course, Coleridge's main object; but it is much easier
to plan than to perform, and it is wonderful how closely, in this in-
stance, the execution treads on the heels of the flighty purpose. He
has succeeded in overcoming the difficulties in the way "by sheer
vividness of imagery and terse vigour of descriptive phrase.' What
he imagines, he sees and makes his readers see ; so that we go through
the marvellous story as oblivious of incongruities and inconse(^uence9
«s we are in our dreamy

fe?1

CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF THE

N 'I

It is singular in the face of all the evidence we have as to the origin
and purpose of this poem that any one should be found to say, as Mr.
W. M. Rossetti has said, that " the informing idea of the poem is to
incul t^ a love of all the works of creation, especially all living beings."
Nor can we believe with a recent ingenious contributor to The Speculative
Review that Coleridge built up in The Ancient Mariner a system of
Christian philosophy, and that it was his intention in writing it " to
present the Fall from the innocence of ignorance, from the immediacy
of natural faith, and the return, through the medium of sin and doubt,
to conscious virtue and belief." The object of the poem is neither
ethical nor instructive ; its author aimed neither at pointing a moral
nor at revealing the ways of God with man ; it is a work of pure
imagination, like Midsummer Night's Dream. His purpose was to excite
our sense of the marvellous and to carry us out of the clear radiance of
the sun into a world coloured by the weird, lurid and gorgeous hues of
that faculty which can give to airy nothings a local habitation and a
name, and by the " peculiar, visionary, not wholly natural light of his
own spiritual interior." It is true that he touches on certain moral
issues ; but this was done in pursuance of his object of transferring
"from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth
sufficient to procure for these shadows of . .agination that willing
suspension of disbelief for the moment .vhich constitutes poetic faith."
Coleridge, then, neither embodied a system of Christian {ftilosophy, nor
specially aimed at inculcating a love of living beings in The Ancient
Mariner', what he set himself to do was to devise a tale, as full of
fantastic improbabilities as any ever engendered by the wildest credu-
lity of superstition, and tell it in such a way that his delighted readers
would for the time close the eyes of their reason and submit themselves
in blind joyousness to be conducted through whatever realms the
enchanter might be able to open before them by the sweet power of his
magic wand.

He himself indicates this very plainly in his reply to Mrs. Barbauld,
who had urged that the story of The Ancient Mariner was improbable,
and that it had no moral.

" As for the probability, I owned that that might admit some ques-
tion ; but as to the want of a moral, I told her that, in my judgment,
the poem had too much and that the only or chief fault, if I might say
so, was the obtrusion r f the moral sentiment so openly on the reader
as a principle or cau? j of iction in a work of such pure imagination.
It ought to have had no more moral than the Arabian Nights' tale of
the merchant's sitting down to eat dates by the side of a well, and
throwi ig the shells aside, and lol a genie starts up, and says he mu^t

fttKte OP THB A^CIE^T MARtNBtl. ^

kill the aforesaid merchant, because one of the date shells had, it seems,
put out the eye of the genie's son."

But some student may say, "What valuable purpose does the poem
serve if it enforces no moral ? " He will discover for himself the reply
to this objection if he will "read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest **
the quotation from Coleridge's preface which appears on the title page
of this poem. That which ennobles, elevates, and refines, that which
appeals directly to the spiritual element in man, is not to be called to
account because it teaches i > specific moral. Such an attitude of mind,
the product of a too exclusive devotion to material interests, would
include in one sweeping condemnation Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare,
Don Quixote, Robinson Crusoe, and Gulliver's Travels, Raphael,
Michael Angelo, and all the host of great painters and sculptors, and
all the joys that spring from the sublimities or the beauties of Nature,
the cataract, the storm, the glacier, or the manifold glories of field,
forest and mountain, or of the rising and setting sun. Man must have
pleasures ; he strives that he may enjoy ; and the character of the
desires that he seeks to gratify is a measure of the distance at which he
stands from the cramped sympathies oi the utilitarian or the vulgar
appetites of the sava<_ •. A love for literature enlarges the heart and
refines enjoyment ; and if The Ancient Mariner preaches no sermon, it
at least indirectly aids one to " abstain from thai which is evil and
follow after that which is good."

Such, then, were the purpose and plan, and never were purpose and
plan more successfully carried out. " The very form of the poem is an
emblem of its meaning and effect. Wild and weird and full of majesty
is the first note of that jreat song chanted into the air of common day
and startling and charming the listener into sudden interest :

• It is an Ancient Mariner
And he stoppeth one of three.' "

Not to all men is it given to have spiritual realities forced upon their
attention so that they cannot avoid thinking of them. " Many are called
but few chosen." The chosen man in this case, as in all others,
becomes the scene of a struggle. The wedding feast, that is, the well-
understood pleasure and profit to be derived from the exercise of lae
lower faculties, calls him on the one hand, and on the other, the unseen,
the incomprehensible, the spiritual solicit him, at first by the actual
urging of some hard fact of life, the skinny hand of the Mariner, and
afterwards with the magic of mystery. His higher nature prevails and

•• He cannot choose but hear "
the strange experiences of one who has roamed far and wide over vast

*-ti

CRITICAL ANALYSIS OP THtt

spiritual seas. Then " the wild tale proceeds," " It is an unconscious
allegory," says Mrs. Oliphant, " suggested not by any artificial plan,
but by that poetic judgment which works by instinct. What the poet
himself was in the world, his Mariner is in the poem. Life calls, and
pleasure, and even a certain duty ; but the power of the invisible has
come in and caught the soul out of the real, out of the palpable. Here
are a hundred things not dreamt of in any philosophy : good and evil,
cursing and blessing, close to, brushing against your commonest strain
of existence. In the market-place, at the bridegroom's door, in the
midst of your busiest occupations, your social engagements, at a
moment's notice the Interpreter may stand before you and your mind
be hurried away to the unseen. This is the first lesson it bears,
unsuspected, unfathomed for the moment : for that sudden invitation
perplexes the soul, as the Mariner's story does the wedding guest.

' Wherefore stopp'st thou me ?
Hold off I unhand me, grey-beard loon 1 '

cries i 3 fascinated but unwilling listener. Thus the form of the poem
throws its deeper meaning into a bold and simple parable ; it discrim<
inates between the shining surface and'the depths below, and shows that
whatever may be the smiling face of things — the merry minstrelsy
sounding out from the hall, or even that glad vision of the bride in hei
blushes, crossing within sight of us— events strange and wonderful, sad
and awful, are going on elsewhere, the powers of good and evil are
carrying on their everlasting struggle, and a hundred tiny germs of
spiritual power springing into life about us. ' There is more of the
invisible than of the visible in the world around us ' — ' piiires esse Naturas
invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum universitate ' — is the poet's motto ; and
strangely, splendidly, with a picturesque force of form which equals its
wondrous soul of meaning does he enforce his text."

•• ' There was a ship,' quoth he,"

and in comes mystery. "The ship sails in upon the changed scene
under the wondering gazer's unwilling eyes. Its shadow comes be-
tween him and the board which he knows is spread so near; " between
him, too, and the bridal procession which he can see passing. •' The
mind grows giddy, the imagination trembles and wavers." " Which
is the real ? which the vision ? " " Our senses become confused," unable
to "distinguish what we see from what we hear; and finally, trium-
phantly, the unseen sweeps in and holds possession, more real, more
true, more unquestionable than anything that eye can see."

This, then, is the main secret of the fascination of the poem. The
effect of its melody, its verbal felicities, its weird surface story is inex-

RtMB OP TH& ANCIENT MARtN&R.

pressibly enhanced by the dumb feeling that there is something mora
in the poem than these. That something results from the attempt " to
transfer from our inward nature a human interest " to the supernatural
tale. In doing so the poet could not but draw upon his own experi-
ence, and, as his was a mind which always took more delight in intro«
spection than in observing the world of sense, he inevitably, though
unconsciously, put into it much of his spiritual history. The course
of the ship may or may not dimly symbolize his spiritual wanderings
from Christianity; the shooting of the albatross may or may not indi.
cate the wilful destruction of some good influence; the mariner's fellow-
sailors may or may not stand for various powers and faculties lost in
consequence; the Hermit may or may not represent Christianity, and
the moral may or may not be that religion has been created by the
same power that made us, and that, therefore, we shall do well to love
it. But as we read, we feel that the soul of the author has gone on
strange religious voyages. Else how is it that the stanza—

•' O Wedding-Guest I this soul hath been
Alone in a wide, wide sea :
So lonely 'twas that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be — "

unfailingly suggests two meanings ? We perceive, too, that he is one
who is familiar with rarely-trodden by-paths of thought, and that he
is at home in his waking hours in regions which most of us traverse
only when asleep.

The criticism that there is a disproportion between the crime and
its results is weak for the reason that similar incongruities are common
features in supernatural tales. The disproportion enhances the name-
less dread and terror caused by the narration : for, while the hearer or
reader may be certain that he has never committed a grave offence,
he cannot be sure that he has not done something as displeasing to the
spirits of air and sea as the shooting of an albatross.

•• We remember the time," says Christopher North, " when there
was an outcry among the common critics, ' What 1 all for shooting a
bird 1 ' We answered them as now — but now they are all dead and
buried, and blinder and deeper than when alive — that no one who will
submit himself to the magic that is around him, and suffer his senses
and his imagination to be blended together and exalted by the melody
of the charmed words and the splendour of the unnatural apparitions,
with which the mysterious scene is opened, will experience any revul-
sion towards the very centre and spirit of this haunted dream—' I shot

TUB ALBATROSS.' "

»f>^i

■Lnu

CfeltiCAt ANALYSIS OF TMtt

V ■

Mr. Swinburne has suggested the objection that " this great sea
piece might have had more in it of the air and flavour of the sea." We
cannot admit that this has any force. Coleridge's object was to write
a tale of wonder : anything, therefore, connected with the sea that
would excite wonder might be used, but any dilution of these materials
with ideas simply marine would weaken the effect.

" It has been said," we again quote Christopher North, "by the high-
est of all authorities— even Wordsworth himself — that in this wonderful
poem the imagery is somewhat too laboriously accumulated; but we
are glad not to feel that objection, and in due humility we venture to
say that it is not so. The Ancient Mariner had told his tale many a
time and oft to auditors seized on all on a sudden, when going about
their ordinary business, and certainly he never told it twice in the
self-same words. Each oral edition was finer and finer than all the
preceding editions, and the imagery in the polar winter of his imagina-
tion kept perpetually agglomerating and piling itself up into a more and
more magnificent multitude of strange shapes, like icebergs magnifying
themselves by the waves frozen as they dash against the crystal walls.

" Neither can we think with our master, reverent follower and aflfec>
tionate friend as we are, that it is a fault in the poem, that the Ancient
Mariner is throughout passive— always worked upon, never at work.
Were that a fault, it would indeed be a fatal one, for in that very
passiveness — which is powerlessness — lies the whole meaning of the
poem. He delivers himself up, or rather his own one wicked act has
delivered him up into the power of an unerring spirit, and he has no
more will of his own, than the ship which is in the hands of the wind.

• And some in dreams assured were
Of the spirit that plagued us so ;
Nine fathoms deep he had followed us
From the ?and of mist and snow.'

Death and Life-in-Death are dioers for his destiny, and he lies on deck
— the stake. All he has to do is suffer and endure ; and even after his
escape, when the ship goes down like lead, he continues all life long a

slave.

• God save thee, Ancient Mariner,

From the fiends that plague thee thus.' "

The ship is cheered, the haibour cleared, and the voyage begins—

*' Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top."

•• These are the last sweet images of the receding human world, and for
one day — and many more— happily sails the 'uaik away intc ihn uiaia.

IIME CP THE ANCIENT MA!^INER,

»T7ie son came np upon the left,
Out of the sea came he I

And he shone bright, and on the right '

Went down into the sea ! i

Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon.'

In a fav 'r- old's tvhal a length of voyage ! The ship is in another
world — and tve, too, ac not only out of sight, but out of memory of
Vand. vht wedding-guebt *o.;Ui fain join the music he yet hears-"
)ut he is lettered to the stone."

" The bride hath p.-H-#a into the hall,
Kod an a rose is A'.c ;
K'uuiiing their hoadfc tJefore her goes

TMc vvcao',:i^ ^p, •• i; he beat his breast,
Yet he caii.ji.i oose but hear;
And thus spa'.\i_ wn that ancient man.
The bright-eyed Mariner-"

Here the actual surface-life of the world is "brought close into contact
with the life of sentiment," with " the soul that is as much alive, and
enjoys and suffers as much, in dreams and visions of the night as by
dri) light. One feels with what a heavy eye the Mariner must look and
listen to the pomps, merry-makings — even to the innocent enjoyments
— of those whose experience has only been of things tangible. One
feels that to him another world — we do not mean a supernatural, but
a more exquisitely and deeply natural world — has been revealed, and
the repose of his spirit can only be in the contemplation of things that
are not to pass away. The sad and solemn indifference of his mood
is communicated to hii hearer, and we feel, even " after merely reading
what he heard, that "it were belter ' to turn from the bridegroom's
door.'"

All yoes merrily till the storm comes which drives the ship rapidly
tttRithward to the region of snow and " ice and of fearful sounds, where
lat. living thing is to be i£-en." At this stage the preternatural element
k in I reduced. An albatross joins the ship, circles about in the air,
M.i iij I the ice, as if att all-powerful incantation had been performed
over it, splits "with ft thunder-fit." The ship escapes thus from its
iiAprisonment, and is c^i'ried northward by a good south wind, which
springs up behind, into an unsailed sea, which proves to be the very
realm of Wonder. On the way thither the albatross is slain, and the
Ancient Mariner's comrades at fust condemn and afterwards approve
his act. No moral is intended by the poet to be drawn from his treat-
•nent of the crew. But several very fine ones mi^jht be drawn. The

■ml

i: v>

-•>■"■

kw.i

J*;

CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF THE

V.\

crime of one man frequently has consequences which deeply affct the
happiness of many others. Those who follow a leader often atone by
death for his sins while he lives on. Th vie who take an evil principle
for a guide suffer for it while the principle lives on.

In the unknown ocean the ship is beset by a calm, with horribl"
accompaniments of thirst, a stagnant and putrid sea, and strange light!
foreboding death. Some learn in dreams of the spirit that plagued
tliem so. Of the cause of his anger they require no information, and
try to designate the Ancient Mariner as the sole persou deserving
punishment by hanging the allxitross about his neck.

"The sufferings thai ensue," says Christojihe: North, "are painted
with a power far transcending that of any other poet who has adven-
tured on the horrors of thirst, inanition, and drop-by-drop wasting
away of clay bodies into corpses. They have tried by lux-iriating
among images of mi!;cry to exhaust the subject — by accumulation of
ghastly agonies — gath>„red from narratives of shipwrecked sailors,
huddled on purpose into boats for weeks on sun-siuitten seas — or of
shipfuls of sinu'^rs crazed and delirious, staviiig liquor-casks, and in
madness murdering or devouring one another, or witi. yelling laughter
leajing into the sea. Coleridge concentrated into a few words the
essence of torment — and showed soul made sense, and living but in
baked dust and blood." The whole mind and heart of the crew are
absorbed in the torture of thirst; reduced from rational beings to mere
sentient existences, and deprived of the speech which they, being
idealess, do not now need, they express their feelings iu rude paxito-
mime:

"And all at once their breath drew in
As they were drinking all."

Could anything picture to us the sufferings of the crew more vividly
than this grotesque conco^dion ?

Next comes the skeleton ship carrying Death and Life-in-Death.
A description of the former, which appeared in the first edition, was
omitted when the poem was revised, probably, as ISIr. Swinburne
suggests, on the principle of eliminating what added, not to the terrors,
but to the horrors of the tale. Though one cannot but consider the
author right in excising it, yet it is so remarkable and original as to
dosjrve reproduction here.

" His bones were black with many a crack,
All black anr bare I ween ;
J<^t black and bare, save where with rust
Of mouldy ilamps and charnel crurst,
They're patch'd with purple and green." v

RIME Of THE ANCIENT MARINER.

There have been few writers who would have had the literary courage
to throw away so effective a stanza.

With equally sound judgment the description of Life-in-Death was
retained, slightly altered. This is one of the most striking conceptions
in the poem. The very names "Night-mare Lifc-in-Dcath " have a
vague and weird suggestiveness. They appear first in the revised
edition and seem to have a certain connexion with the life in death
which the poet was leading under the nightmare of opium when he
made the revision. Life-in-Death wins the Ancient Mariner, Death
his comrades, and henceforth he is alone — not merely alone till the end
of the voyage — but isolated throughout life from all other men by the
memory of his strange experiences and by the penalty imposed on him
of travelling from land to land and telling his tale.

"In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth toward the journeying
moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still :nove onward," says
Coleridge, in what is, perhaps, the most beautiful of his glosses. Tlien
comes what one may call his conversion, using the term in its religious
sense; and certainly never was conversion more poetically effected.
He blesses the beauteous water-snakes and straightway the albatross
falls off like the load of sin in the Pilgrim's Progress.

Then comes the tropical storm with its portents, suggestive of magi-
cal or other strange influences. The loud wind docs not come anear ;
but its very sound shakes the spectral sails and mysteriously the ship
moves on. Here follows " tlie horror of the reanimated bodies, the
ghastly crew of dead alive." With this the tale reaches " its limit of
mystery and emotion ; a change ensues ; gradually the greater spell is
reversed, the spirits depart, the strain softens ; with a weird
progression, the ship comes . . . without a breeze, back
to the known and visible. As it approaches a conclusion, ordinary
instrumentalities come in once more ; there is first the rising of the soft
familiar wind, ' like a meadow-gale in spring' — then the blessed vision
of the light-house top, the hill, the kirk; all those well-known realities
which gradually loosen the absorbed excitement of the listener, and
favour his slow return to ordinary daylight." J3ut he is suddenly
recalled to the realm of the supernatural by the entrance of the seraph-
band on the scene and the disappearance of the ship. The wedding-
guest, who has been fascinated by the Ancient Mariner and "ca-inot
cliose but hear," learns how the appearance of the latter, chan!;od as
lie is by his awful experiences, affected others. The way in which we
are led to infer this uncaaniness of his louks is one of the beauties of
the poem. The Ancient Mariner, just rescued from the sea which
could aut drown him because he was too near being a pure spirit to be

ii\i)

Hi •'

irk:

11
m

CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF THB

i (

(

11 J

sinkable, moves his lips and "the Pilot shrieked and fell down \n a
fit ; " he takes the oars, and the Pilot's boy goes crazy ; they land, and
the Hermit can hardly stand, and when asked to confess his strange
companion, crosses his brow to test whether he really is a spirit from
hell. " And then comes the ineffable, half-childish, half-divine Simpli-
city of those soft moralizmgs at the end, so strangely different from the
tenor of the tale," too obtrusive for the sense of poetic fitness, too
beautiful to be expunged.

•' It was thus that Coleridge carried out his first great poetical theory
— the theory suggested to him in some celestial way by the flitting of the
shadows and gleams of light over the Somersetshire valleys as seen
from the heights of Quautock. There is nothing which the poetic eye
more loves to watch than that mystic voiceless rhythm of nature ; but
never eye yet watched it to such purpose, and never has its still solem-
nity, its wayward lights, the pathos and splendour of shade and sun-
shine been more wonderfully reflected in verse."

We subjoin as a pendant to the preceding analysis an abridgment
of that furnished by Mr. Walter H. Pater to Ward's English Poets.

"The Ancient Mariner ... is a 'romantic' poem, impressing
us by bold invention, and appealing to that tasfe for the supernatural,
that longing for a shudder, to which the ' romantic ' school in Germany
and its derivatives in England and France directly ministered. In
Coleridge, personally, this taste had been encoaraged by his odd and
out-of-the-way reading in the old-fashioned literature of the marvel-
lous — books like Purchas's Pilgrims, early voyages like Hakluyt's, old
naturalists and visionary moralists like Thomas Burnet.
Fancies of the strange things which may very well happen, even in
broad daylight to men shut up alone in ships far off on the sea, seem
to have arisen in the human mind in all ages with a peculiar readiness,
and often to have about them, from the story of the ^heft of Dionysus
downwards, the fascination of a certain dreamy grace, which distin-
guishes them from other kinds of marvellous inventions. This sort of
fascination The Ancient Mariner brings to its highest degree- it is the
delicacy, the dreamy grace in his presentation of the marvellous, which
makes Coleridge's work so remarkable. The too palpable intruders
from a spiritual world, in almost all ghost literature, in Scott and
Shakespeare even, have a kind of coarseness or crudeness. Coleridge's
power is in the very fineness with which, as with some really ghostly
finger, he brings home to our inmost sense his inventions, daring as
they are — the skeleton ship, the polar spirit, the inspiriting of the dead
bodies of the ship's crew: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner has K'r
plausibility, the perfect adaptation to reason and the general ao^icct of

rill

RIME OF IHR ANCIENT MARINER.

life, which belongs to the marvellous when actually presented as a part
of a credible experience in our dreams. . . .

'It is this finer, more delicately marvellous supernaturalism, the
fruit of his more delicate psychology, which Colericif^e infused into
romantic n^ /ative, itself also then a new or revived thing in English
literature; and with a fineness of weird effect in The Ancient Mariner,
unknown in those old, more simple, romantic legends and ballads. It
is a flower of mediaeval or later German romance, growing up in the
peculiarly compounded atmosphere of modern psychological specu-
lation, and putting forth in it wholly new qualities. The quaint prose
commentary, which runs side by side with the verse of The Ancient
Mariner, illustrates this— a composition of quite a different shade of
beauty and merit from that of the verse which it accompanies, con-
necting this, the chief poem of Coleridge, with his philosophy, and
emphasizing in it that psychological element of which I have spoken,
its curious soul-lore.

•'Completeness, the perfectly rounded unity and wholeness of the
impression it leaves on the mind of the reader who really gives himself
to it — that, too, is one of the characteristics of a really excellent work —
in the poetic as in every other kind of art; and by this completeness
The Ancient Mariner certainly gains upon Christabcl." This " pleasing
sense of unity" is produced by many touches of genius, and particu-
larly " by the skill with which the incidents of the marriage-feast " are
made to " break in dreamily from time to tine upon the main story,"
and by the calming and reassuring ending of the whole nightmare tale
among the wel!-';nown sounds and sights of the bay where it began,

while

" The moonlight steeped in silentness,
The steady weathercock."

The Ancient Mariner " is Coleridge's one great, complete work, the one
really finished thing in a life of many beginnings." " It is beyond
doubt one of the supreme triumphs of poetic art. Its marvellous
supernaturalism, in its thrilling invention and dreamy delicacy, con-
trasts strongly with the coarse and rude conceptions of previous [and
subL 'quent] writers; and its tender sentiment, its strange splendours
and wondrous beauties, and above all, the flower-like perfection of its
execution have secured for it the foremost place in the ranks of

' Young-eyed poesy
All deftly masked as hoar antiquity.' '*

VERSIFICATION OF THE

THE VERSIFICATION.

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II,

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Coleridge was a master of melody. One of his fragmentary poems,
Kiibla Khan, is pronounced by I\Ir. Swinburne, whose capacity for
judging in such a matter no one can question, " the supreme model of
music in our language, a model unapproachable except by Shelley.
All the elements that compose the perfect form of English metre were
more familiar, more subject, as it were, to this great poet than to any
other." The Ancient Mariner is an exemplification of this statement.
The stanza of the poem, which consists of two heptameters written x:\
four lines, is what is known in hymn books as common metre, or 8's
and 6's. It is the stanza employed in Clicvy Chase and many other
old English ballads. Like the b.allad-writer3, Coleridge frequently
varies its length and form, and he does this with wonderful success in
avoiding monotony and adding to and improving the harmony. The
quatrain becomes .sometimes a quintain, someUmes a sextain, and in
one place (in Part iii.) is expanded into nine lines. Middle rhyme is
frequently employed, at times in the first, but more often in the third
line of the quatrain. It occurs also in many of the sextains; and in
the first line of some of the quintains, but never in the third or fourth
line. The reason for the exception is not far to seek, the quintain
being in fact merely a quatrain with the rhyming halves of the third
line expanded into separate lines. The long stanza of nine lines in
Part iii. may be explained in the same way as a sextain, with the
rhyming halves of all the long lines lengthened into separate lines.
The long lines never rhyme except in the case of the third and fourth
in the quintains, which, for a reason just given, always do, and in that
of the first three lines in the sextain in Part i., which has been formed
by tripling the first line of the quatrain. It is interesting to note that
what is substantially the same measure is used to some extent, of
course without rhyme, by Ca;dmon, who died A.D. C8o. A vvfork of
the Michael Psellus, mentioned in the gloss on Part ii., is v/ritten in
similar unrhymed verses of seven accents. It became common lu the
hymns of the Greek Church, and in the twelfth century the famous
English poem called the Ormulum was written in it. About the saine
time or shortly after it began to be furnished with rhyme, so that it
would seem probable that our ballad stanza has not come down to 'ts
from the Anglo-Saxons, but was adopted into English about the end of
the twelf'h century from the songs of the church, and furnished with
jfhyme in imitation of many popular Latin reli|>,ious hymns.

RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

The feet are iambs, with occasional trocliecs, anap,rsts and amphi-
brachs: thai is to say, the accented syllable, which usually is preceded
by an unaccented one, is sometimes not so preceded, sometimes has
two unaccented before it, and occasionally, at the end of a line, one
before and one after it.

In addition to these devices for varyin^ the melorly Coleridge
employs many others — in particular onjm itopreia, alliteration and
assonance. All three are exemplifie 1 in the loUowing stanza:

"And the coming wind did roar more loud.
And the siils did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
The moon was at its edge."

In the first two lin:swehave onomitor)Ccia or imitative harmony; in
the second we have also alliteration; in down and cloud in the third
there is assonance, that is, a kind of defective rhyme in which the
vowel sounds match but the consonants following them do not. The
first three lines begin with anapxsts. In

Water, water, everywhere,

the first three feet are trochees. The final rhyme is sometimes dcjuble,
as in Part i , 11. 72 and 74.

Noteworthy, too, is the effect of making the rhyming words in the
fourth and sixth lines of the stanza the same in iii., 32 and 34. In ii.,
12 and 14, iv., 62 and 64, and in v., 95 and 97, the fourth and sixth
lines of the stanza are the same, and in some other cases they are
nearly the same. The effect of this is to superadd to a western melody
something of the peculiar effect of Hebrew poetry, of which, as is well
known, repetition of ideas is one of the distinguishing marks. This
artifice, invented by Coleridge, was much imitated by Edgar Allan
Poe, as, for example, in the following stanza:

*' Here once through an alley Titanic

Of cypress I roamed with my soul.

Of cypress with Psyche my soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic.

As the scoriae rivers that roll,

As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek

In the ultimate climes of the pole,
That groan, as they roll down Mount Yaanek,

In the realms of the boreal pole."

The following symbols and abbreviations are used in the Notes •

— = derived from.

A.S.= Anglo-Saxon or Old English.

F. = French.

L. = Latin.

cp. = compare.

I. = line. *

II. = linee.

NOTES

-ON-

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER,

Jilme. — This word has dMiinf,' the last three centuries honn usnnlly
Init improperly spelt rhyme, probably throuf^h contusion with
rhythm — A. S. r/;», number. It denotes something unknown in ear' .•
ICnglish literature,' namely, the consonance of the final syllables of
verses. This ornament of poetry, accordinj^ to Guest, originated with
the Celts, was adopted by the medi;>}val Lann poets, and was intro-
duced through the Latin into the vernaculars of Europe. Rime here
means poem. C p. Chaucer, who in The Canterbury Talcs calls The
Tale of Sir Thupas " a rym."

PART I.

1-40. "These stanzas record the struggle in the mind of the Wed-
ding-Guest until he succumbs under the influence of the Mariner's
glittering eye and the weirdness of his rime. The actual is then shut
out and the invisible asserts its sway."

I. "Observe the striking effect of this beginning. We ?re intro«
duced at once to the central figure of the poem."

It. — [Explain this use of it.]

Ancient usually means belonging to the remote past. The e.xpression,
an ancient mariner would ordinarily mean a mariner who lived long
ago. Here, however, ancient means simply advanced in years. For
this view we have the authority of Coleridge himself, who in conversing
with Wordsworth was accustomed to use Old Navigator as a synonym
for Ancient Mariner. The adjective was undoubtedly selected for
metrical reasons mainly, but it deserves to be noticed that its peculiar
use adds to the glamour of the tale. It serves as a sort of note of
warning to the mind to prepare to hear something strange. — F. ancien,
— L. ante, before.

The Mariner is described in the poem as " ancient," as having 'a

-M f 1

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i.

NOTES ON THE

;

, I

long grey beard and glittering eye " and a skinny and brown hand,

and as being

" Long and lank and brown
As is the ribbed sea-sand."

— F. viarini^r, — L. iiuin', sea.

2. stoppeth. — The use of this form of the verb is common in poetry.
This is due partly to metrical reasons ; partly, I suspect, to a feeling
that thoughts, which are elevated above the plane of ordinary discourse,
are more suitably expressed in language of a non-colloquial character.
Here, it being used in imitation of old ballad-writers, neither of these
reasons applies. Introduced into A. S. — L. stiipa, tow.

three. — This number was probably selected for the sake of the
rhyme, but, as it, like seven and twelve, has been widely regarded as
possessing mystical properties, the choice is a happy one. Compare

"And listens like a three years' child." — i. 15.
" (,}u()th slie, and whistles thrice." — iii. 56.
"Seven davs, seven nights, I saw that curse. "-

-iv. 38.

The following quotation illustrates the popular belief in the virtues of
this number :

" Many wells have been famous for the cure of sickly children.
The mothers generally plunged them three times into the water, as
they drew them three times through the cleft rowan or ash tree with a
siiiiilar object. In my youth I remember being solemnly informed, on
bathing for the first time at the cold bath below the Maudlands, on
Preston Marsh, that three distinct plunges into the fearfully cold liquid
was the orthodox number, especially if medical benefit was the object
sought." — Hardynge, Traditions, Superstitions and Folklore.

It is interesting to notice that, whether by accident or design. The
Ancient Mariner consists of seven parts. Coleridge also uses the
number nine, which, as the square of three, has been supposed likewise
to possess occult powers on the same principle as that by which the
seventh son of a seventh son is credited with a knowledge of the future.
— Cp. i., 76; ii., 51-

Compare also Dante Gabriel Rosetti's description of the BlesseJ

Damczel : —

" She had three lilies in her hand

And the stars in her hair were seven."

3 by. — [Parse].

gray. — Spelt also ^r^^.
beard. — [How pronounced ? ]
4. wherefore. — The first syllable is connected in derivation with
who the second is another form oifor.

ftlME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

5. bridegroom. — The second syllable is a corruption of the A.S,

fc'

nniKi, man.

•ful.

7 feast. — L.. f est us, ]oy

8. may'st. — Compare as to the omission of the pronoun —

"And out of heaven the sovran voice I heard,
•This is my Son beloved; in Him am pleased.'"

— Par. Rrg. i., 85.

"And wherefore stoppcst me?"

— Ancient Mariiur, First edition, I, 4.

It is unnecessary to insert tlie subject when the termination of the
verb indicates tlie number and person. In this case the <,udinj:,' 5^ is
really the second personal pronoun, thou^di its force as such is unfolt,
and we always, in consequence, use a pronoun before the verb.
Coleridge here again imitates the old ballad-writers.

9-12. [For what does each third personal pronoun in those lines
stand?] Note the alliteration.

11. loon means a base fellow, and is also the name of a bird.
Whether we are to hold that these are two words spelt alike, or one
word with two connected n:oanings, has not been settled. Compare
Shakespeare, Macbeth, V., iii., 11 —

" Thou cream-faced loon,"

and Dryden, The Cock and the Fox.

" But the false loon, who could not work his will
By open force, employed his flattering skill."

In the sense of a base fellow we also find the form lawn —

" He called the tailor lown."

— Shakespeare, Othello, II., iii., 95.

12. Eftsoons = soon after. Eft — aft, a word still used by sailors.
It is an abbreviation cf after, which is a comparative formed on the
same model as the Latin alter, and, like it, contains the comparative
ending ter. Other is a similarly formed word, titer and tcr being merely
different forms of the same ending. The 5 in eftsoons is of the same
origin as the sign of the possessive case. Compare unawares, needs.

dropt. — [Does dropt or dropped more correctly represent the
sound of the word ?]

13. There appears to be a certain amount of foundation in fact for
the universal belief in fascination by animals and human beings.
Among animals serpents have been most credited with the power.
Fascination was by the old law of England considered a branch of

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NOTES ON THE

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sorcery, and treated as a crime. A glittering eye is characteristic of
some forms of insanity. In the Ancient Mariner's case it is due to
his being under the influence of the agony which recurs at uncertain
intervals, and possesses him until he tells his ghastly tale once more.
See Part vii., 69-72.

14. Wedding.— A. S. 7ved, a pledge,

15, 16. By Wordsworth.

15. listens. — Listen and lurk are doublets, that is, they are different
forms of the same word.

18. Cp. vii., 76.

2C. Mariner. — As printed the rhyme is defective. In the original
edition the spelling is Marincre wherever the word occurs.

22. drop. — A vessel goes down literally when she leaves a harbour
with the ebbing tide. — drol>, a small particle of liquid, — drip.

23. kirk. — A Scotch and northern English form. Probably used
here in imitation of ballads with which Coleridge was acquainted
Bishop Percy directs attention in his Essay on the Ancient Minstrelsy,
prefixed to his Reliqnes of Ancient English Poetry, to the fact that most
of the ancient English minstrels are " represented to have br.en of the
north of England. There is scarce an old historical song or ballad
wherein a minstrel or harper appears but he is characterized by way
of eminence to have been *of the north countrye'; and indeed the
prevalence of the northern dialect in such compositions shews that
this representation is real. On the other hand, the scene of the finest
Scottish ballads is laid in the south of Scotland, which should seem to
have been peculiarly the nursery of Scottir.h minstrels.

" In the old song of Maggie Lawder a piper is asked, by way of
distinction, ' Come ze frae the Border ? * The martial spirit constantly
kept up and exercised near the frontier of the two kingdoms, as it
furnished continual subjects for their songs, so it inspired the inhabi-
tants of the adjacent counties on both sides with the powers of poetry.
Besides, as our southern metropolis must have been ever the scene of
novelty and refinement, the northern counties, as being most distant,
would preserve their ancient manners longest, and, of course, the old
poetry in which those manners are peculiarly described."

Hallam's opinion as to the position occupied by the Scotch and
northern English minstrels is of the same character. "There can, I
conceive, be no question as to the superiority of Scotland in new ballads.
Those of an historic or legendary character, especially the former, are
ardently poetical. The nameless minstrel is often inspired with an
Homeric power of rapid narration, bold description, lively or pathetic
touches of sentiment. The English ballads of the northern border, oc

RIME OP THE ANCIENT MARINER.

perhaps of the northern counties, come near in their general character
and cast of manners to the Scottish, but, as far as I have seen, with a
manifest inferiority. Those, again, which belong to the south, and
bear no trace either of the rude manners or of the wild superstitions
which the bards of Ettrick and Cheviot display, fall generally into a
creeping style." — Literature of Europe, ii., 323.

24. light-house top. — An expression which probably was suggested
by the exigencies of rhyme. Under the pressure of these " top " seems
to have been substituted for •• tower."

25-28. *' The sun comes up out of the sea and goes down into it —
grand image of the loneliness, the isolation from all other created
things, of that speck upon the noiseless, boundless waters. Throughout
ihe poem this sentiment of isolation is preserved with a magical and
most impressive reality — all the action is absolutely shut up within the
doomed ship. The storm and the mist and snow, the flitting vision of
the albatross, the spectre-ship against the sunset, the voices of the
spirits, all heighten the weird effect of that one human centre, driven
before the tyrannous wind, or motionless upon the still more terrible
calm. The meaning of all centres in the man who sees and hears, and
to whose fate everything refers — our interest in him, our self-identifi-
cation with him, is never allowed for a moment to waver. All human-
ity is there, shut up within those rotting bulwarks, beneath those sails
so thin and sear. The awful trance of silence in which his being is
lost — silence and awe and pain, and a dumb, enduring, unconquerable
force — descends upon us, and takes possession of us : no loud bassoon,
no festal procession can break the charm of that intense yet passive
consciousness." — Mrs. Oliphant.

Herodotus tells us that the' sun which at first rose upon the left
afterwards rose upon the right of the vessels sent out by Nechos, king
of Egypt, to explore the coast of Africa. This would seem to show that
they doubled the Cape of Good Hope.

26. Sun is generally masculine and moon feminine in poetry.

28. down. — From the Middle English a-down, which comes from
A.S. of-dune, i.e., off the down or hill.

30. noon.— L. nana, the ninth (hour). " Originally the ninth hour
of the day or 3 p.m. but afterwards the time of the church-service
called nones was altered, and the term came to be applied to midday."
[Where was the ship at this time? Throughout what follows trace
the ship's course.]

32. bassoon. — A deep-toned wind instrument of music. — Fr. basson,

33. paced. — Coleridge seems to have admired this motion in womeiu
Cp. Christabel, ii. 63 and 64.

TTT"

; t

24 NOTES ON THE

"The lovely maid and the lady tall
Are pacing both into the hall,
And pacing on throu<;h page and groom,
Enter the IBaron's presence room."

Pace and pass are doublets, both being derived from the Latin pasuts
a step.

34. Cp. Chaucer, The Tale 0/ Sir Tliopas.

' His lippcs reed as rose.'

35. goes. — [Why is a singular verb used?]

36. minstrelsy. — Formed on the model of French words in cie,
(Latin tia) — L. minister, a servant ; used here in its old meaning of a
number of musicians. [What is its present meaning?]

37. [Name and define the figure of speech that occurs in this line.]
beat. — " In Yorkshire, and perhaps elsewhere, the pret. of beat

is pronounced bet, which is the more effective pronunciation here.' —
H?..les.

But see iv., 26, where Coleridge makes beat rhyme with fret.

38 and 40. We here liave repetition after the manner of Homer and
the old ballad-writers. Cp., 11. 18 and 20.

41-44. [Name and define the figure.]

44. chased. — Chase is a doublet of catch, both being derived from
the Latin, capere, to take.

along. — A.S. andlang, compounded oi and, over against, and lav'^,
long. The original meaning therefore is over against m length.

45-50. " Note the quickened metrical movement which here, as
elsewhere in the poem, accompanies the increase in the number of lines
in the stanza."

45. prow, the Classical equivalent of the Teutonic bow, rimes with
blow only to the eye. Such are called printers' rhymes.

46. As. — An abbreviation oiaho. — who is used here as an indefinite
pronoun in the sense of one, any one, or some one, in accordance with
the old usage of the language. Cp.,

•* Sche was, as who seith, a goddesse."

-Gowcr.

•* As who should say, ' I am Sir Oracle.' "

— Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice, L, i.

' Suppose who enters now,
A king whose eyes are set in silver, one
That blusheth gold.'

—Decker, Satiro-Mastix.

RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

pursued. — L. p r.i-qui, — per, through, and seqtii, to follow.

47. treads the shadow of his foe. — [Explain the meaning]

4'j. roared. — [ Wli.it figure?] Notice how much more felicitious
louJ roared the bla':;t is tliaii, for example, Jiirce blnv the blast, or any
other set of wt)r(h that could have been selected.

50. [Distiiiguisii aye from ay in respect of both meaning and
pronunciation.]

52 and 5|. In the on,u,'iiial edition the rhyming words are printed
ffj»/(/ and il.nrr.rill. Tho former of these furnishes another [r.oof of
tiie northern influence which a!lc:lc I Coleridge's diction in this poem.
Co np are note o\\ 1. 23.

53. Observe the ahnost magical effect of the middle rhyme in this
line.

55. clifts = cliffs. — The meaning probably is that the snow-capped
cliffs of green ice sent a dismal light through the drifting mist and
snow. Or Coleridge may perhaps have imagined the sides of the ice-
bergs as covered with drifted sno^v and supposed it possible for the
underlying green ice to send a dismal sheen through it. Hales makes
clifts equivalent to clefts, but I have failed to discern any probable
meaning for the passage to accord with this view. Spenser uses clij'ls
m the sense of cliffs. Sec Faerie Quccne, W ., iv., 7.

" Tho having viewed awhile the surges hore
That gainst the craggy clifts did loudly rore."

See also Isaiah, Ivii., 5.
"Slaying the children in the valleys under the clifts of the rocks."

57. shapes of men. — A circumlocution for men.

ken- see.— Compare Henry VI., Part 2, III., ii.. loi.

"As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs."

It is now usually used as a noun.

58. all between. — The same sort of expression as a'l arowui. The
meaning is that the ice was everywhere between the ship and the outer
world, between is connected in derivation with two.

59. here. — Connected in derivation with he, as there with the, and
where with who.

Co. around = on round. — Round is from the Latin ro fundus.

61-62. — What could be more weirdly imagined of the cracks and
growls of the rending icebergs than that they sounded " like noises in
a s wound ?"

61. Note the startling effect of the middle rhyme in this line. Npte
also the onomatopobia.

:!ir

26 NOTES ON THB

— ■»

6i. [Name the figure. Explain the meaning of I his linfit

swound = 5«»oo».— This form was common .n i^.iUal. *hdn Enf«
lish, and is used now in Norfolk and Suffolk. Persous io 'i iwoon al*
said to hear loud and even terrl'. !^ noises.

63. cross. — L. crux, a cross.

Albatross.— A large aquatic bird belonging to the jr »»•
Anseres, that is, to the same order as the goose and the duck. It lives
chiefly on fish and small birds, and is distinguished by the great size oi
its wings and its remarkable powers of flight. It abounds r,v.n- Cape
Horn, the Cape of Good Hope and the north-eastern shores of Asia.

64. Through. — Thorough in the first edition. They are simpl>
different forms of the same word ; but thorough is generally used now
as an adjective. [Scan this line.]

65-G6. [Account for the welcome.]

67-68. Notice with how fine a touch the poet insinuates the notion
that some preternatural influence accompanies the Albatross.

69. thunder-fit =; loud peal. — fit, allied to foot, meant firstly, a step,
secondly, a part of a poem, thirdly, a bout of fighting, fourthly, a
sudden attack of pain, and lastly a sudden attack of anything.

71. This line indicates that the ship which had been going south had
turned norihwards,

74. hollo. — The interjection has the accent on the latter syllable,
the verb and the noun on the former or the latter.

75. cloud is, according to Mr. Skeat, allied to clot and clod.
shroud — rope. — The shrouds are ranges of ropes stretched from

the top of a mast to the right and left sides of the vessel to support the
mast and enable it to carry sail. Allied to shred.

76. perched. — This verb is derived (rom perch, rod.

vespers — evenings, not even-song. — L. tiespcr, the evoning itar.
Compare Antony and Cleopatra IV., xiv., 8.

" They are black vespar's pageants."

The meanings, evening and even-soag, come by metonymy from itia
original sense of evening star.

77. Whiles. — Possessive case of while, used as a conjunclive advoib,
and original form of whilst. Compare Matthew, v. 25 :

" Agree with thine adversary quickly whiles thou art \A ftiM

way with him."

fogf-smoke white. — In the original edition the reading U "fog
smoke-white," which seems to me the butter of the two. LWbat is the
diilcxence in meaning ? j

RIME OP THE ANCIENT MARINER.

«7

78. GMmi^dTtd. — Related to, but not derived from gleam. The er in
(his word is a frequentative suffix. " Observe here and throughout the
author's use of the moon in his descriptions. The weird effects of its
light have caught his fancy." See quotation from the Biographia
Literaria in the Critical Analysis.

moon. — From a root meaning to measure, because it is a chief
measurer of time.

79. God. — " Of unknown origin ; quite distinct and separate from
good."

save. — L. salvus, safe.

80. fiends. — This word, like friend, was originally a present parti-
ciple, ende being the termination of the Dresent participle ia Anglo-
Saxon.

thus.— Allied to this,

81. Why.— Originally the instrumental case of who.
80 and 82. [In what respect is the rhyme defective ?]

PART II.

I. [What does this line indicate as to the course of the ship ?] Cp. i.,
15-28.

rig^t. — Originally a passive participle, the ending of which it
•till retains. Its first meaning seems to have been ruled or directed ;
hence came in order straight, upright in its physical sense, upright in
its moral sense, true, just, and proper. The right hand probably at
first signified the proper hand. Note that in this and the following
stanza there are several repetitions of preceding lines, in imitation of
the simplicity of Homer and the old English ballad-writers.

3. mist. — ^The ending st in this word, as in blast, is a noun-forming
suffix.

left. — Of uncertain origin ; not connected with leave.

4. went. — Wend is the causal of wind.

5. wind.— Originally a present participle signifying blowing. Cp.
note on i., 80.

6. no. — A shortened form of none, as a is of an.

7. Nor. — For nother, a form of neither,
any. — Derived from an, the A. S. for one.

or. — An abbreviation of other, which is not our modern other, but
t form of either.

9. Sailors are even yet very superstitious regarding the killing of
o^batrosses, stormy petrels, and some other birds. An illustration of
this .Ceeling occurs in A Wonderful Ballad of the Seafaring Men. A

Motes on thk

i|:'

ship is becalmed, and the crew are reduced to such extremities for lack
of food that they kill one of their number. Their king, however,

•'Will much rather die than eat "

this food. Then

•' There came a dove from the heavens high ;
It sat down on the sailing tree,"

just as the albatross perched on mast or shroud.

•• Quoth the young king to his*boy so wee :
Shoot me that bird and cook it for me."

The bird replies :

*' I am no bird to be shot for food,
I am from heaven an angel good."

The king says :

The bird :

" If thou art a God's angel, as thou dost telL
In the name of Christ then help us well."

" Lay yourselves down to sleep and rest,
While I will sail the salt sea best."

They do so, and by-and-bye

••Up and awoke sailor the airest [first] •

• Now we have wind the fairest.'

*• Up and spoke another :

' I see the land of my mother.'

* Then was mirth and then was glee.

The seafaring men,
When father and sons each other did see.

The seafaring men,
In the greenwood grew their oars, oh 1"

Translated from the Danish in the Folk-Lore Record, Vol. III., Part II.

It will be noticed that there is a curious resemblance between the
rude plot of this ballad and that of The Ancient Mariner. In each the
ship is carried home by a spirit while its living freight is asleep. The
Wonderful Ballad of the Seafaring Men was in existence in the various
Scandinavian languages long before the time of Coleridge, and he may
possibly have become acquainted with it in some iovm,

10. Alliteration.

RIME OP THE ANCIENT MARINER.

*em.— Probably used In imitation of old writers in whom it does
not stand for them, but for hem, an old dative plural formed from hs,

XI. averred.— L. ad, to and uerum, a true thing.

X2. [What unnecessary word in this line ?]

13. wretch. — Allied to wreak, wrack, and wreck.

15. Note the repetition of preceding lines in this stanza. [What
had made the sun previously rise " dir^ and red?" With what word
is the phrase, "like God's own head," syntactically connected ? ]

x6. nprvit ^uprised, weak past tense of uprise, used instead of the
strong form uprose. "A common provincial form, in both England and
America, of the past tense of the simple verb is ris, shortened from
fist." " In America housekeepers sometimes talk about ' riz bread.' '*

20. bring^. — Connected with bear, carry.

ai-28. Note the examples of alliteration.

21-25. " I'he weird, mysterious character of the narrative is enforced
by these lines representing a rapid advance and a sudden breaking
into a charmed region where all motion at once ceases "

22. The furrow followed free. Supply the ship after "followed."
[What does this line mean ?]

free.— From the same Aryan root aa friend.

23. burst — Related to break.

25. the sails dropt down. As we learn from v., 20, that the sails
were not down, it is clear that this expression is not to be taken liter-
ally. I suppose Coleridge must have meant that the sails which, when
distended by the wind, tend to raise their lower edges, were now
relaxed.

26. sad. — The original meaning of this word is sated, from which,
through the sense of the indi£ference, which is one of the results of
satiety, the transition to the present signification is easy.

27. Either (x) the author knowingly used a defective rhyme in this
line, or (2) be pronounced speak, as many uneducated Irish do, so as to
rhyme with break, or (3) he pronounced break, as it is pronounced in
parts of England, so as to rhyme with speak. The combination ea once
invariably indicated the sound which it now does in break.

29, 30. " The peculiar haze of a hot atmosphere gives to the sun and
moon the appearance here described."

29. copper. — From Cyprus, the name of an island in the Mediter-
ranean, from which the Romans obtained copper.

30. bloody. — ^The word blood is derived from blow, to bloom or
flourish, and the thing seems to have been taken as the symbol, or
perhaps the effect or cause, of blooming, flourishing life. The ending
f I earlier ig, corresponds to m in rustic, and similar words, but is not

'T'I

■T

!•

NOTES ON TH8

\\i

derived from it, each having defended in a different line from the
original Aryi.n form.

31. Above — From an, on, be, by, u/an, upward.

32. Both the sun and moon seem larger when at the horizon than
when at the zenith. *' This is a pure illusion, as we become convinced
when we measuve " their discs " with accurate instruments, so as to
make the result independent of our ordinary way of judging. When
the sun or moon is near the horizon, it seems placed beyond all the
objects on the surface of the earth in that direction, and therefore
farther off than ai le zenith, where no intervening objects enable us
to judge of its distance. In any ca«e, an object which keeps the same
apparent magnitude seems to us, through the instinctive habits of the
eye, the larger in proportion as wo iudge it to be more distant."

than. — The same word as then, but differentiated by usage.
Closely allied to, and perhaps once identical with, the accusative
masculine of the, an A.S. demonstrative, which has become our
modern definite article.

34 and 36. Cp.

** Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean."

— Southey, The Inchcape Rock, written in 1802.

35 and 36. Cp.

** So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood."

• — Hamlet, II., i., 502.

But Coleridge's image is far finer than Shakespeare's, and has
seldom been approached in beauty and appropriateness.

35. idle. — A word which has degenerated in meaning. The original
sense seems to have been clear or bright; hence, pure, sheer, mere,
downright; and lastly, vain, unimportant, unemployed.

37. [Account for the ellipsis.]

38. Compare as to the force of and here —

** Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death,
And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave?"

— Richard III., II,, i., 102-3.

4X-48. ** Allowance must be made for poetical exaggeration in this
horrible description, but it is a well-known fact that winds and storms
are important agents in keeping the ocean pure. In the hot latitudes
a long period of dead calm gives opportunity for the development of
innumerable gelatinous marine animals, many of which are phosphor-
and tkeir frail suDstamce cannot resist the force of the waves.

RIME OF THB ANCIENT MARINER.

but Is broken in pieces." See note on iv., 50. The following passtf^e
may possibly have suggested some of the strokes in this wonderful
sea-picture.

" During a calm on the morning of the 2nd, some parts of the sea
seemed covered with a kind of slime, and some small sea animals were
swimming about, the most conspicuous of which were of the gelatinous
or Medusa kind, almost globular ; and another sort smaller, that had a
white or shining appearance, and were very numerous. Some of these
last were taken up and put into a glass cup with some salt water, in
which they appeared like small scales or bits of silver when at rest in
a prone situation. When they began to swim about, which they did
with equal ease upon the back, sides, or belly, they emitted the bright-
est colours of the most precious gems, according to their position with
respect to the light. Sometimes they appeared quite pr Pucid, at other
times assuming various tints of blue, from a pate sapphii ine to a deep
violet colour, which were frequently mixed with a ruby or opaline
redness, and glowed with a strength sufficient to illuminate the vessel
and water. These colours appeared most vivid when the glass was
held to a strong light, and mostly vanished on the subsiding of the
animals to the bottom, when they had a brownish cast. But with
candle light the colour was chiefly a beautiful pale green, tinged with a
burnished glass ; and in the dark it had a faint appearance of glowing

fire."

— Cook's Third Voyage, Bk. III., Chap. 13.

41. very. — L. uercx, truthful.

O Christ. — An offensive imitation of the old ballad- writers.
Cp., The more modern Ballad 0/ Chevy Chace in Percy's Rcllques.

43. Cp. " Gems

That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep."

— Richard III., I., iv., 32.

Yea originally meant in that way, or just so. The distinction
between it and yes in Middle English, that is, in the English of the
thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteen centuries "is commonly well marked;
the former is the simple affirmative, giving assent, whilst the latter is a
strong asseveration, often accompanied by an oath." A similar distinC'
tion obtained between nay and no. The more emphatic form has in
both cases supplanted the other since A.D. 1500. At present, on account
of its being so little used, yea is fully as strong an affirmative particle
OS yes.

45. About, about.— Cp.

" The weird sisters, hand in hand.
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus do go about, about."

^Moibtth, I., iii., 91-39.

f«

WOTBS ON THB

r 1

about =a», on, be, by, utan, outside = on (that which is) by (the)
outside.

rout = disordered troop. — L. rupta, broken.

46. death-fires. — " Among the superstitious this name, as also
corpse candles," dead men's candles, and fetch-lights, "was given to
certain phosphorescent lights that appeared to issue from houses or rise
from the ground. It was believed that they foretold death, and that
the course they took marked out the road that the dead body was to be
carried for burial."

" A much dreaded death-token in a West Sussex village where I
once resided was that remarkable appearance known by the names of
ignis fatuus. Will-o'-the-wisp and Jack o'lantern, which might be often
seen in that neighbourhood, flitting from place to place over a large
extent of marshy ground. The direction of its rapid undulating move-
ment was always carefully observed, not from any curious admiration
of the pheuomenon, but from an anxiety to ascertain where it would
disappear, as it was believed to be

' The hateful messenger of heavy things,
Of death and dolour telling ' ,

to the inhabitants of the house nearest that spot."

—Charlotte Latham, Folk Lore Record, Vol. I.

In the north-east of Scotland it was believed that " a death was
made known by the light called a 'dead can'le.' It was seen moving
about the house in vhich the death was to take place, and along the
road by which the corpse was to be carried to the grave. Its motion
was slow and even, wholly unlike any made by human art."

—Rev. W. McGregor, Folk Lore of North-east of Scotland.

47. witch's oils. — Oils burnt during incantations appear to have
been mixed with substances which coloured the flame, in order to
impress those seeking knowledge from demons. In the kindred art of
alchemy great importance was attached to the changes of colour which
the liquid underwent which was to be turned into the elixir of life.
See Ben Jonson, The Alchemist, II., i.

... " These blessed eyes

Have waked to read your several colours, sir,
Of the pale citron, the green lion, the crow.
The peacock's tail, the plumed swan."

witch -literally, seer, and is connected with wit. A witch is a
woman who has evil spirits under her command in virtue of a compact
with the powers of evili

RIME OP THE ANCir.P.T MAHINER.

oil meant first the juice of the olive, afterwards any Rreasy liquid.
48. blue meant originally the colour clue to a blow, with which word
it is connected in derivation.

4Q. dream. — In A. S. this word has two mcaninf::;s: a sueet sound,
and joy. The sense of vision arose from that of joy ; we still talk of a
dream of bliss.

assured. — [What is the meaning of this word? )

50. Spirit originally meant breath.

•• The spirit does but mean the breath."

— Tennyson, In Memoriam,

The transition from this sense to that of beings intangible as air
is easy.

51. fathom. — Originally the distance between the extremities of the
extended arms. [How do you account for the absence of the plural
inflexion ? Parse " fathom."]

53. tongue. — The spelling tung would be more in harmony with
both pronunciation and derivation, the A. S. being funge.

drought.— Connected with dry. As in height, etc., the ending /
stands for th.

54. wither. — Another form of weather.

55 and 56. We have here a familiar comparison introduced after the
manner of the old ballad-writers with the view of giving an air of reality
to the narrative.

57. well-a-day. — Found in this form in Shakespeare, but probably
a corruption of wellaway derived from the A.S. wala iva, literally woel
lo! woe! Hence it would be better to print it welladay,

59. Instead. — Stead is connected with stand.

GLOSS.

Josephus, born A.D. 37, was a commander of the Jews in their
revolt against the Romans at the end of Nero's reign. He wrote an
account of this war, and several other works on Jewish subjects, the
most important of which is The Antiquities of the Jews.

Michael Psellus flourished at Constantinople in the eleventh
century. He is the author of a dialogue on Ths Operation of Demons,

NOTES ON THE

PART III.

Notice in this part how the poet has overcome the extraordinary
difficulty of giving an aspect of reality to the conception of the skeleton
ship with the dicing demons on its deck '* by sheer vividness of imagery
and terso vigour of descriptive phrase." Everything seems to have
been actually seen.

2. glaze. — From glass.
•J. seem. — Related to same.

little originally meant deceitful. Hence the sense, mean, which
it still retams in certain cases.

9 last. — Superlative of late, which is connected with let.
lo. wist. — Pres. inf. wit, pres. ind. wot, past ind. wist, pp. wist.

13. dodged. — " This word was once considered dignified enough.
Johnson quotes from South ' This consideration should make men grow
weary of dodging and shewing tricks with God.' " — Hales.

Coleridge did not aim at using dignified language in this poem.
He was probably led to use familiar terms, both by the examples of the
old ballad-writers, and by the opinion that the vernacular is more
expressive than courtly speech. Wordsworth held the same view, and,
perhaps, indoctrinated Coleridge with it.
sprite. — A doublet of spirit.

14. plunged. — L. plumbum, lead.

tacked. — This verb is derived from the noun tack, which
primarily means a small nail. From this sense the transition is easy
to that of a fastening. "In nautical language a tack is the rope that
draws forward the lower corner of a square sail, and fastens it to the
vindward side of the ship in sailing transversely to the wind, the ship
being on the starboard or larboard tack according as it presents its
right or left side to the wind." A ship is said to tack when it turns
towards the wind, and changes the tack on which it is sailing.

veered. — A ship is said to veer when it turns from the wind and
changes the tack on which it is sailing. The nautical verb wear is
simply another form of veer. A ship tacks when, in changing its course,
its head is brought into the wind ; it veers or wears, when it turns the
opposite way.

15. Cp.—

" Our skin was black like an oven because of the terrible famine."
Lamentations of yeremiah, v. 10.

Lip originally meant lapper.

16. wail = originally, to cvy woe.

RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

17 and i8. A defective rhyme. [In which of the conditions of a
good rhyme is it lacking ?]

21. h%A^t-on gape.

22. Grainercy.— From two French words: grand, great, and merci,
thanks.

gjin. — A variant of groan. With regard to its use here see
note on I. 13.

" I took the thought of grinning for joy . . . from poor Burnett's
remark to me, when we had climbed to the top of Plinlimmon, and
were nearly dead with thirst. We could not speak from the constric-
tion, till we found a little puddle under a stone. He said to me, ' You
grinned like an idiot.' He had done the same."

— Coleridge, Table Talk, May 31, 1830.

23. drew. — Draw is a later spelling of drag.
26. [Explain the syntax of this line.]

Hither. — From the same root as he, with the comparative
suffix ther.

weal. — Derived from well.

28. steadies with uprig^ht keel = keeps steadily on her course with-
out any wind to lay her over on one side. Except when running
before the wind a sailing vessel lies more or less over on one side when
she moves.

29. V7estem = west-running, the suffix em being derived from run.
West is from a root WAS, which meant dwell, and furnishes our lan-
guage with the past tense of be. The west, then, was conceived by our
ancestors as the dwelling-place of the sun.

a-flame = on flame.
29-32. Note the alliterations.

32. Rested. — L. re, again, and stare, stand.

33. suddenly. — Sudden is derived from two Latin words : sub, under,
and ire, to go.

34. betwixt. — A.S. be, by, and twa, two.

32, 34. It is not usually considered allowable to match a word in
rhyme with itself; but, as Coleridge and Poe have shown that by
adopting this expedient they can add an unspeakable charm to the
melody of their verse, it must be agreed that the rule admits of impor-
tant exceptions. Here, as no advantage to the melody results from
the use of this artifice, I am inclined to suppose the rhyme a purposed
carelessness introduced in imitation of the old ballad-writers.

35-38. Mrs. Oliphant suggests that Coleridge may actually have
seen some such sight when lookin,'* westward from the Quantock Hills
over Bristol Channel.

m
m

i»

NOTBS ON THE

I y

35. sttaigfht. — Originally the passive participle of stretch.

36. An invocation of the Virgin Mary after the manner of the old
ballad-writers.

37. dungeon. — L. dominus, a master. The same word as donjon, a
keep-tower of a castle.

grate. — L. crates, a hurdle. A variant of crate, a wicker case
for crockery.

40. How. — Connected in derivation with who.

fast — The original meaning is firm, from which the transition
to speedy is through close and urgent.

42. gossan:sres= minute spider-threads seen in fine weather. An
antiquated spelling is used here for the sake of the rhyme. Said to be
a corruption of goose summer, from the downy appearance of the
threads— possibly, according to Mr. Skeat, a shortened form of goose
summer thread. A legend says that the gossamer is the remnant of the
Virgin Mary's nhroud that fell away in fragments as i:he was taken up
to heaven. According to Wedgwood's dictionary^ it is this divine
origin which is indicated by the first syllable of gossamer, i.e., God-
sunmer.

45. Woman.— A.S. wifman, literally wife-man; that is, a human
being who is a wife, man being of both genders in Anglo-Saxon.

47. mate. — Originally spelt make, and connected with the verb make.
A mate is one of like make.

49. yellow as gold. Yellow and gold come from the same Aryan
root.

50. leprosy.— An incurable disease, in which the entire body be-
comes covered with white scales. The idea, then, conveyed by the
line is that the skin of the Spectre-woman was hideously white.

51. Nightmare. — The second syllable of this word has nothing to
do with mare, a female horse, but means nightmare by itself. One
effect of prefixing ^i^ht is that we cannot name the phenomenon with-
out having our attention specially directed to the time at which it
occurs.

Life-in-Death. — In the original editions this and the next line

ran as follows : —

"And she is far liker Death than he;
Her flesh makes the still air cold."

There can be no doubt t^iat the change is an immense improvement.
As the passage now star is it is an excellent example of the power of
the vague. The words N ightmare Life-in-Death add nothing definitely
imaginable to our mental picture of the Spectre-woman ; but they give
(he impression of something vaguely horrible, and lea /e our fancy Crc(

RIME OP THE ANCIENT MARINER.

10 half suggest all manner of terrible appearances; and this impression
is heightened, without being in any way cleared up, by the statement
that she

" Thicks man's blood with cold."

The Ancient Mariner was not revised until Coleridge's health had
failed, and he had fallen under the influence of opium, and I am
inclined to suspect that the expression "Nightmare Life-in-Death " was
suggested to him by the kind of nightmare life-in-death existence he
had himself been leading, certain phases of which he so pathetically
describes in Dejection. In that ode he laments the decay of his respon-
siveness to the sounds and sights of nature, and wishes that a brewing
tempest were even now at hand in the hope that it

" Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live— >
A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief.
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief.
In word or sigh or tear."

This is a picture of life in death. He then goes on to grieve that the
beauty of the evening sky, at which he has been gazing, is seen but not
felt by him, and that it does not avail to free him from the nightmare
of his existence —

" To lift the smothering weight from oflf my breast."

His explanation of his state is that he has ceased to be joyous,
" But now afflictions bow me down to earth."

Then follows another expression of the life-in-death idea :—

" For not to think of what I needs must feel.

But to be still and patient, all I can; '

And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man—
This was my sole resource, my only plan ;
Till that which suits a pprt infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul."

It is worth noticing that the conceptions of the skeleton ship and
Life-in-Death exhibit what is very rare in poetry, successful attempts
to ally sublimity with terror.

53. naked. — The pp. of an obsolete verb meaning to strip.

54. twain. — From the masculine form of the A. S. numeral adjec-
tive meaning two, while two represent! the feminine and neuter for2Q«

4iQe« — L. datus, ^iven.

ill;:

J«

NOTES OH THB

I ;

56. whistles. — A whistling woman is regarded by many, and particn*
larly by sailors, as a bringer of ill-luck.

" A whistling woman and crowing hen
Are neither fit for God nor men."

thrice. — The ending ce stands for the adverbial suffix s, which is
the same in origin as the termination of the possessive case. But thrice
is a possessive case, not of three but of a word derived from three.

With regard to the supposed magical properties of the number
three consult the note on i., 2. Cp. also the charm for invoking the
supernatural character in Scott's Monastery : —

•• Thrice to the holly brake —
Thrice to the well —
I bid thee awake.

White Maid of Avenel !"

In the mythology of the ancient Greeks and Romans it plays a very
important part. There were three Graces, three Furies, three Fates ;
Cerberus had three heads. Diana is spoken of as triformis, that is, triple.
In the Eighth Eclogue of Virgil occurs an illustrative passage which I
find translated as follows :

" My charms, bring Daphnis from the town, bring him home. First
these three threads, with threefold colours varied, 1 round thee twine ;
and thrice lead thy image round these altars. The gods delight in the
uneven number. My charms, bring Daphnis from the town, bring him
home. Bind, Amaryllis, three charms in three knots, bind them."

57 and 58. Observe how carefully the actual is represented, and
how vivid and terse the description is. The execution could not have
been better.

57. dips. — From the same root as deep, dive, dove.

stars. — The original sense of star is strewn or spreader [i.e. of
light.]

59. whisper, like whistle to which it is allied is a word of imitative
character, and the terminations tr and le are frequentative in force in
these words.

60. Off.— A form of of. •

bark. — Of the same origin as barge. [Distinguish them in
meaning.]

61. looked sideways up. — [Account for this attitude.]

62. Fear. — Connected witii fare, to travel, and originally used of the
perils of vrayfaring.

63. sip.— Literally, to cause to snp, it being causative in form,

64. thiQlc— ^What is the meaning beie ?^

ftlMfi O* 1-HE AKclfiNt MARtNfift.

65. stttTsmaai=steer'5 man, that is, man of the rudder, from an
obsolete noun steer, a rudder.

gleam. — Derived from the noun gleam which contains the
suffix m.

66. From. — Connected with fare, to go or travel.

67. easttm=east-running. See note on 1. 29.

bar. — [Explain the sense in which this word is used here.]

69. nether. — In this word ther is a comparative suffix as in other.
Connected with beneath.

tip. — A weakened form of top.

70. after stands for o/ter, that is, more off, ter being a comparative

suffix.

star-dogfged=pursued by stars, as the moon may be imagined
to be.

71. Too. — The same word as the preposition to.

quick. — Original meaning, living, as in this clause from the
Apostles' Creed :

" From thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead."

72. turned. — L. tornus, a lathe.

pang.-^The same word as prong, an r having been lost.
74. fifty. — From^v^ and a form of the root of ten,
76. heavy — Literally, hard to heave.

78. fly. — Used here iovflee. Cp. Dryden :

•• Sleep flies the wretch."

When so used the past tense is fled. We cannot say — Sleep flew the
wretch. Accordingly, we hndfled in 1. 79.

79. bliss. — Derived from blithe. Not derived from, thouj^h con-
nected with bless.

80 and 81. Consequently, every death reminded the Ancient Mari-
ner of his crime. Cp. Tennyson, The Talking Oak, 55 and 56, as to the
mode in which souls take their departure :

•• The gloomy brewer's [Cromwell's] soul
Went by me like a stork."

The notion that the soul may be heard or seen when leaving the
body is very widely spread.

3i. whiz. — An imitative word allied to whistle.
bow. — Derived from the verb bow.

GLOSS.

element=air

seemed is followed, not by to with its regimen, but by an indi-
rect object.

.Mi^

NOTES ON THS

I I

PART IV.

This part relates the conversion of the Ancient Mariner from
hostility to friendship to living things. "The turning point of his
repentance is in the re-awakening of love, and is clearly marked. Left
all alone on the sea * he despiseth the creatures of the calm, and envieth
that they should live and so many lie dead,' and in that temper of con-
tempt and envy Coleridge suggests that no prayer can live. But when
seven days " have passed, he looks again on God's creatures of the great
calm, and seeing their beauty and their happiness, forgets his own
misery, and the curse, and himself in them, and blesses and loves them :
and in that temper of spirit prayer becomes possible."

1-6. An interruption of the narrative, which serves the double pur-
pose of preventing monotony and of indirectly telling us the effect
which his sufferings had produced on the Ancient Mariner.

3. brown. — closely connected with bum. Probably a contracted
form of an old pp. meaning burnt.

4. ribbed— marked with ripple marks.

7. not — A contracted form of naught or nought.

9-12. " Note the awful silence that now falls upon the Mariner.*'
Note also how his helpless agnoy and dumb endurance are dwelt upon
in 11. 9-39. With the grammatical structure of 11. 9-12, cp. that of
ii. 37-40.

9. Alone. — Derived from all and one.

XI. "This reference to the guardianship of saints is an element in
the weirdnessof the poem, as it carries us back to a remoter time whose
customs are indistinct to us now." Cp. 1. 63 and the gloss on Part v.
never a. — Never is an adverb modifying a. Cp.

** For, after the rain, when with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare."

—Shelley, The Cloud,

pity. — A doublet of piety.

In the early editions of this poem this line read

" And Christ would take no pity on,'*

and may, as has been argued by a writer in The Gentleman's Magazine,
CO ttain a reference to a story told by Paulinus, Bishop of Nola, in the
fourth century. He relates that a pagan sailor, the sole survior of the
crew of a disabled vessel, lived for many days alone in it in great peril
while it was driven hither and thither in the Mediterranean, and that
Christ did take pity on his soul in agony, and converted him. The

ftIMB OP THE ANCIBNT MARINER.

writer to whom I have just referred attempts to show that Coleridge

was largely indebted to Paulinus for the plot of The Ancient Mariner ;

but the contention is based on so slender a foundation as really to be a

testimony of the strongest kind to the poet's originality.

12. agony is a defeictive rhyme for sea, the vowel sounds not being

exactly the same. Similar rhymes are, however, so often used that this

may be considered admissible.

men. — The original sense of man is thinking animal.

beautiful. — A hybrid, beauty being of Latin, and/u/ of Teutonic
origin.

14. they. — Originally the nominative plural of an A.S. demonstra-
tive and not connected in derivation with he.

dead. —A pp., but not the pp. of die.

15. [To what is slimy antithetical ?]

18. away=o» way,

19. deck. — The same word as thatch.

21. tried. — Try is from terere, to rub, to thresh corn. " It would
appear that the meaning passed over from the threshing of corn to the
separation of the grain from the straw and thence to the notion of
selecting, culling, purifying. To try gold is to purify it : cp. ' tried
gold,' Merch. Ven., II., vii., 53."

22. or ever. — Or = before. Ere and or are doublets: that is, they
are variant forms of the same word. Early and erst come from the
same root. Ever in the expression or ever is thought by some to have
originally been ere, which was confounded with e'er, and in this way
came to be supposed to be a contraction of ever. Others hold that ert
in or ere stands for ever. On the former supposition or ere involves a
tautology ; but this is no objection to the explanation, as similar redu-
plicated expressions, in which the second word explains the first, are
not unconunou. Compare an if.

** These be fine things an if they be not sprites."

— The Tempest, II., ii., 120.

In the " Hymn on the Nativity " Milton uses or ere in a way which
shows that he regarded the two words as together equivalent to before.

** The shepherds on the lawn.
Or ere the point of dawn.
Sate simply chatting in a rustick row.** *

Wherever or ere occurs in Shakespeare it can be taken as meaning or
ever. In the Authorized Version of the Scriptures or ever is, I think,
liways used. See Eccles. xli. 6, Ps. xc. 2, Daniel vi. 24, etc

"~:^\

i'-'i. ..

l»i:;l

i;;'?i

4«

NOTES ON THB

Or is frequently used in the sense of before without either *ti ok
4V4r. See Cymbeline, II., iv. 14.

"And, I think.
He'll grant the tribute, send the arrearages, .
Or look upon our Romans."

gfusht. — An instance of phonetic spelling.

22, 24. [In what respect is the rhyme defective?]

23. wicked. — A pp., and connected with witch.

25. kept. — Keep is connected with cheap, which, in its A.S. form,
meant price. To keep originally meant to traffic: hence, to store up
for purposes of trade, whence the transition to its present use is easy.

30. The cold sweat. — One of the concomitants of death.

31. reek — give oflf vapour.

34' 35- " In the Bible oppression of • the fatherless and the widow '
is denounced as one of the greatest of sins."

38. Seven. — See notes on i., 2, and iii., 56.

40-48. The motion of the moon is almost heard in the verse, and
the beauty of the illustration of the frost is equalled by its truth.
Contrast this description of a tropical calm with that of a calm in the
temperate zone, vi., 63-70. [In which has Coleridge been most suc-
cesful? Give reasons for your opinion.] Contrast it also with the
description of a tropical storm in v. 27-35.

41. abide. — The prefix a here corresponds to the German er, and
meant originally from, away, out, back.

44-58. Note that these lines are devoted to developing the contrast
between the colours seen in and beyond the shadow of the ship.
According to Ruskin a high development of the sense of colour is a
distinguishing characteristic of recent poets. Note also the warm,
poetic joy in beauty shown in this passage. Consult for a possible
origin of some of the ideas in these lines the passage quoted in the
note on iil., 41-48.

44. sultry. — A shortened form of sweltery, an adjective derived from
swelter.

47. charmed. — L. carmen, a song. Charm, then, is a word that has
degenerated in meaning.

alway. — Derived from all and way.

47, 48. See for a possible origin of this fancy the end of the passage
Uom Cook's Third Voyage quoted in the note on ii., 41-48.

48. red is here an adverbial objective modifying " burnt."
' 49. Beyond. — From the old forms of by and yon. [Parse.]

49-53. Notice how like the story of a truthful eye-witness the
description of this singular conception is. You feel that the Marines

RIMB OP THB ANCIENT MARINER.

has seen the "hoary flakes" of "elfish light" fall from the rearing
snakes.

50. water-snakes.— "Captain Kingman, in lat. 8 deg. 46 min. S.,
long. 105 deg. 30 min. E., passed through a tract of water twenty-three
miles in breadth and of unknown length so full of minute (and some
not very minute) phosphorescent 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 length, of transparent, gela-
tinous consistency, and very luminous. . , . The phosphorescence of
the ocean prevails largely through the whole extent of the tropical
ijas, and proceeds from a great variety of aiariue organisms — some
soft and gelatinous, some minute Crustacea, etc. They shine mostly
when excited by a blow, or by ag!t ition of the water, or when a fish
darts along, or oar dashes, or in the wake of a ship when the water
closes on the track. In the latter case are often seen what appear to
be large lumps of light rising from under the keel and floating out to
the surface, apparently of many inches in diameter. . . . One of
the most remarkable of the luminous creatures is a tough, cartilaginous
bag or muff-shaped body of more than an inch in length, which, when
thrown down on the deck, bursts into a glow so strong as to appear
like a lump of white hot iron. One of the most curious phases of
phosphorescence ... is the appearance on the surface of calm or
but little agitated water of luminous spaces of several square feet in
area, shining fitfully, and bounded by rectilinear or nearly rectilinear
outlines, presenting angular forms, across which the light flashes as if
propagated rapidly along the surface." — HencheVs Physical Geography.

There are not, of course, any real snakes in the middle of an ocean,
watched. — Connected with wake.

snakes. — Connected with sneak, the literal sense of snake being
a creeping thing.

51. [Why were the tracks white ? ]

52. reared. — Rear is the causal of rise. Its doublet raise is Scandi-
navian in its immediate origin, but both words come from the same
Teutonic root.

elfish. — Of or belonging to elves or little sprites. These show
themselves only in moonlight, and the epithet happily suggests that the
light was such as is wont to accompany mysterious phenomena.

54. Within. — This word syntactically links "their "and "shadow."

56. Blue. — [Parse.]

57. coiled. — L. colligere, to collect.

" Observe the first touches of tenderness that break the numbness of
the trance, and their relation to the moral of the poem." See vii,«

■•*

NOTES ON THE

99-104. "The calamities that befel the Mariner were caused by his
indifference to animal life, and by his wanton cruelty ; the punishment
continues till he takes pleasure in animals and loves them."

59. happy— Derived from hap, luck.

62. unaware. — A.S. un, not, a.n(!L frcwcer, aware. Note the unusual
origin of the prefix a in the word aware.

67 and C8. "Tlie falling of the bird from the Mariner's neck, and
its sinking 'like lead into the sea' are emblematic of the forgiveness
granted to him. Henceforth his language changes : it is joyous often,
or in the solemn tones of one giving advice from dear-bought experience
— there is no longer anything horrible in it."

GLOSS.

Note the quaint beauty of the thought and language of the gloss
opposite 11. 40 et scqq.

PART V.

1. Oh. — Often spelt O, both forms being used indifferently.
sleep. — Connected with slip.

gentle. — Literally, belonging to a noble race : hence, docile, mild.

2. Beloved. — The prefix be, literally, by, is hi re intensive.

pole. — One end of the axis of the earth. It has no connection
with pole, a long thick rod.

3 and 4. A double rhyme. [What defect in it ?]

3. Mary Queen [of Heav n] .
Mary. — A word of Hebrew origin.

Queen originally meant woman, as did quean, which is simply
another form of the same word. The signification of the primitive
word has been narrowed and specialised : so that the two derivatives
together do not cover the original ground. Queen furnishes an example
of a social rise, and quean of a moral fall in meaning.

praise. — From the same Latin word as pnce, namely pretium, a
price.

4. gentle sleep. — Cp.

'* O gentle sleep I
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee ! "

— Shakespeare, Henry IV., Part IL, IIL, i. 5.

6. silly. — This word has travelled from its original signification,
timely, through lucky, happy, blessed, innocent, and simple, to its
present meaning, foolish. It, therefore, like coy, simple, and innocent,
has deteriorated. Probably introduced here in imitation of Spenser,
who uses the expression " My silly bark," the sense being weak or frail.

RIMB OP THE ANCIENT MARINER.

If this bo correct, silly in this place furnishes an instance of prolepsis,
or anticipation. The buckets are frail, because they have remained so
long on the deck.

9. awoke. — The prefix here is the same as in abidt and has the
same intensive force. See note on iv., 41.

10. cold - not heated by thirst.

11. dank. — Not another form of damp, but a Scandinavian word of
the same meaning.

12. drunken. — Usually an adjective, here a passive participle,
18-35. 'I'he strange sounds heard and the strange sights and com-
motions seen in the sky and the element are introductory to and
premonitory of the horror o." the reanimated bodies.

19. anear=o» near. — Still current in Somersetshire.
21. sere = withered. — Another spelling is sear.
22-35. Observe the vividness of the poet's conception of this wild,
weird picture, and his effective use of onomatopoeia and alliteration.

23. fLa.g. — the noun is derived from verb /lag, to droop,
sheen = fair. — Allied tp show : hence, literally, showy.

24. fro. — Scandinavian, /rom being native English,
hurried. — Of imitative origin, and the same word as whir.

28. sedg^e. — Sedges are plants growing mainly in marshy places,
similar in general appearance to grasses, but generally distinguished
by possessing a three-cornered stem.

29-30. The contrast between the one black thunder-cloud and the
bright moon beside it is exceedingly effective.

35. steep — Closely allied to stoop.

37 and 39. [In what respect is the rhyme defective ?]

38-53. The idea of navigating the ship by dead men was suggested
by Wordsworth. Notice what an appearance of reality is given to this
conception by the particularity of the statements in

and

" They raised their limbs like lifeless tools,"

" 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."

42. even. — The same word as the adjective even, level.

43. The strict grammarian will remark that " To have seen " should
be "To see," and that there is no necessity of versification to account
for this license.

4.^. uQlaisaiaui— helm's nian.

NOTES ON THB

56. 'gan.— Coleridge regarded 'gan as a contraction for begin, and
printed it with an apostrophe to indicate the aphaeresis ; but should
not have done so, gin being a good, though now obsolete, English word,
and the root of begin. In old ballads and other writings gin is often
followed by the infinitive, as here, without to. Cp.

••When by-and-by the din of war gan pierce
His ready sense : then straight his doubled spirit
Requickened what in flesh was fatigate."

— Coriolantts, II., ii., 119.

47. wont. — Properly the past tense and passive participle of an
obsolete verb won, to dwell, to be used to. Sometimes, however, it is
used as a present, but not inflected like one. Cp.

" I bear it on my shoulders, as a beggar wont her brat."

— Comedy 0/ Errors, IV., iv. 39.

From this present a new past tense, wonted, and passive participle,
wonted, were formed, the latter of which only is now in use, and merely
ill its adjective, not in its participial capacity.

53. nought. — Composed of ne, a, wiht,:=not a whit. .

57. which. — Derived from who and like.
corses. — L. corpus, a body.

again. — The prefix here stands for on.

58. The idea of navigating the ship by dead men was, we know,
suggested by Wordsworth, but that of revivifying them by a troop of
blest spirits may possibly have been borrowed from the tale of ship-
wreck told by Paulinus, bishop of Nola, to which reference has been
made in the note on iv., 11. According to him the solitary mariner was
assisted in managing the vessel by spirits who were generally, but not
always invisible. " Sometimes, indeed, it was vouchsafed to him to
behold an armed band — one may suppose of heavenly soldiers — who
kept their watches on the deck and acted in all points as seamen."

59. Spirits are believed to be able to leave the other wj>rld only
during the night. They invariably disappear with the first sign of the
approach of morning.

dawned.— Related to day.
61-62. Contrast with iii., 80-81. The belief that spirits appear and
vanish to the ^ound of music is wide-spread, and the dying sometimes
hear, or think they hear, celestial harmonies. One case, at least, is
recorded in which a dying man joined in the song which he thought
he heard spirits singing. For two instances of apparitions accom-
panied by music see Increase Mather's Rcmaikalle Providences,
chap, vii*

RIME OP THE ANCIENT MARINER.

63-81. "Observe the m.irvellous and delicate beauty of these
itanzas, emphasized by the ghastly picture in 11. 40-43. Even in his
horror the Mariner is not utterly bereft of joy."

64. to the sun. — That is, the sun is here made the locality of heaven.
67. a-dropping=on dropping.

69 and 70. A defective rhyme. A great many English-speaking
people incorrectly pronounce ' are' like ' air,' and the rhyme in vii.,79,
81 and 83, viewed in connection with the one before us, would seem to
indicate that this was Coleridge's pronunciation.

71. jargoning;. — Jargon now generally means confused talk, but in
mediaeval French and English was frequently used, asjarguning is used
here, to denote the chattering of birds.

73. lonely. —Lone is an abbreviation of alone.

76-81. Contrast the soft quiet beauty of this picture with the wild
character of that in 11. 27-35. " In both these descriptions, one of the
terror, the other of the softness of nature, a certain charm, of the
source of which we are not at once conscious, is given by the introduc-
tion into the lonely sea of images borrowed from the land, but which
e.xactly fit the sounds to be described at sea : such as the noise of the
brook and the sighing of the sedge. We are brought into closer
sympathy with the Mariner by this subtle suggestion of his longing for
the land and its peace. And we ourselves enjoy the travel of thought,
swept to and fro without any shock — on account of the fitness of illus-
tration and thing — from sea to land, from land to sea."

Notice how the prolongation of the stanza combines with the idea
of unceasingness suggested by the brook to impress the fact of the pro-
longation of the ship's motion. Observe also how, in the simile, the
ideas and the language correspond in simple beauty. Note, too, how
this passage, marked by aerial melody and serene loveliness, steals in,
as it were, upon the cessation of the spirits' song.

76. [What is the force of on here ?]

79. month.— Derived from moon.

80 woods.— On this side of the Atlantic wood is seldom used in
the sense of a collection of growing trees. We almost always say
woods, as Coleridge does here, and we have a tendency to use woods as
a singulai noun.

8z. tune. — A doublet of tone.

82. smoothly. — Smooth is connected with smith, and its original
sense is forged or flattened with the hammer.

90-118. At the magical hour of noon, the middle point of the day,
the ship reaches the equator, the middle line on the earth's surface.
This is the limit to which the lonesome Spirit from the south pole can

1:^

NOTES ON TMB

go, and so far he takes the ship in obedience to the angelic troop that
had entered into the bodies of the dead mariners. The sun fixes her
here for a minute, then she begins to move

•• Backwards forwards and half her length
With a short uneasy motion,"

under the influence of the "lonesome spirit's" demand for further
vengeance, and the angelic troop's determination to save the Ancient
Mariner. Finally a compromise is effected, and the polar spirit releas-
ing the ship it bounds northward

•' Like a pawing horse let go."

This throws him into a swoon, and while in that state be learns from
two spirits the general nature of the agreement which has been made.

91. [What poetic license here ?]

94. minute. — The same word as min/ttc. Minutes are min/iie parts
of an hour.

95 and 97. See iv., 62 and 64, iii., 32 and 34, ii., 11, 12 and 14, and
17, 18, and 20.

loi. [Scan.]

103. I have not = I am unable.

104. living = conscious.

106. two voices. — "Possibly intended to represent justice and
mercy — the one speaking angrily, the other soothingly."

11X-114. This stanza furnishes an instance of spiritual imagination*
that is, " the perception and expression of the spiritual influences oJ
nature as they work upon man."

Z13-Z14. Here the idea is very clearly brought out that the Ancienf
Mariner's offence was a breach of the spirit of love. By wantonly
killing the albatross, which had befriended and loved him, he showed
his unfitness for living in Ji society. The natural consequence of failing
in one's obligations to others is moral isolation. The Mariner is left
alone on the sea of life without any holy influence to take pity on his
3oul in agony. No holy influence could take pity on him until he
showed himself capable of loving and blessing.

113. other. — The o is from the same root as one; ther is a com>
parative ending.

116. Cp.

" For he on honey-dew hath fed."

— Kuhla KluiH.

honev-dew is a sweet, pale yellow fluid secreted by aphides or
plant-lice, and emitted from two tubes near the middle of their backs.
This is usually collected as it exudes by insects, and particularly by

RIMR OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

ants, many species of whicii care for the plant-lice which support them
much as man cares for domestic animals. They even stimulate the
secretion by a process somewhat similar to milking, and from this
circumstance the aphides are frequently called the cows of the ants.
"When the secretion is not removed by ants or other insect?, it is allowed
to fall, and if it falls on grass it becomes noticeable as something found
in the same place as dew, but sweet: hence the name, honey-dew.

117. penance. — A doublet oi penitence. [Distinguish them in regard
to meaning.]

GLOSS.

elem3nt. — [What does Coleridge mean by this term ? Establish
your view by comparing the passages in which he uses it.]

PART VI.

2. renewing^. — A hybrid word — L. re, again, and E. new.

5. slave. — A word involving a curious chapter of national history,
and furnishing a striking example of deterioration in meaning. Origin-
ally denoting glorious, it came to be applied to that great group of
peoples which, under the diverse names of Russians, Poles, Wends,
Bohemians, Slovaks, Serbians, Croats, Bosnians, etc., fills the east of
Europe. In the Middle Ages many Slavonians became bondmen to
the Germans; ihe word acquired its present meaning in German, was
borrowed by the French, and loaned by the latter to the English.
"From the Euxine to the Adriatic," says Gibbon, "in the state of
captives or subjects . . . they [the Slavonians] overspread the
land ; and the national appellation of the Slaves has been degraded by
chance or malice from the signification of glory to that of servitude."
lord = literally, loaf-warden.

7. His great bright eye. Cc^pare with this phrase Wordsworth's
•• The broad, open eye of the solitary sky." [What is meant by " this
great, bright eye ? "]

TO, 15, i6. These lines cculd not have been written in a pre-scientific
ago. The first implies a knowledge of the moon's connection with the
tides, and the last two involve the conception of the air as a fluid
possessing weight. These theories were established in the seventeenth
century, and became the common property of educated men in the
eighteenth.

10. Referring to the influence of the moon's attraction on the ocean
in causing tides. An elevation of the surface of the 'vater follows tl\e
course of the moon over the ocean.

« ;

KOtns ON THfi

15, 16. The mcininp: is that a vacuum is created in ^ront into which
the air pushes the ship forward from behind.

17-20. An obscure stanza. It docs not appear what the first spirit
is to gain by flying higher, for what the spirits would be belated, or
why 1. 19 is introduced by For. One may conjecture that they were
on their way to some celestial goal, at which they would arrive too late
if they allowed their curiosity to induce them to accompany the ship
as it slackened its speed.

18 belated = made late. Tlio prefix be in this case converts an
adjective into a causative verb. Cp. Par. Lost, I., i8j, "some belated
pcisant." Other instances of words in which be has this force are
hrfoul, benumb.

slow and slow = very slow. Note the intensive effect of the
rcdiiplication.

20. When. — Originally the accusative singular masculine of the
interrogate 7cJio.

25. charnel -containing carcases. Carnal and charncl both come
from the Latin caro (stem earn), meaning flesh, the latter owing its
special form to its having become a part of the French vernacular
before we borrowed it. Calix and chalice, camera and chamber, cadence
and chance, cancel and chancel, canal and channel are other examples of
similar pairb uf derivatives from Latin roots.

30. passed. — Pass comes through the French passer, to pass; from
the Latin passus, a step.

33-58. Note the gradual softening of the strain, and the return
from the realms of the supernatural to the sights and sounds of ordi-
nary life: the familiar wind, the lighthouse top, the hill, the kirk. Note
also the return of the Mariner to a more natural state of feeling, ex-
pressed in 11. 37-42.

33. [What spell was snapt ?]

35. forth here means out. It comes from fore, which is closely
connected with /or.

36. else. — Originally the possessive singular of an adjective el,
other.

37-42. In this stanza, Mr. Whipple remarks, Coleridge gives pow-
erful expression to that supernatural fear in the heart, of something
dreadful near us at which we dare not look, which frequently oppresses
the imagination, which at times makes the blood of the pleasantest
atheist turn cold, and his philosophy slide away under his feet as if he
were the veriest school-girl, and from which no perr>on, poet or peasant,
has been at all moments entirely free. It is not the fear caused by
conscience, which indeed makes cowards of us all ; it is pure dread of

RIME OP THii ANCIENt MARINCR.

ilio unknown. It has been said tha* Coleridge is the only writer who
has piven poetical expression to this feeling.

3y. lonesome. — Compounded of lone, a shortened form of alone,
and Ule sufTix some, which is another form of same.
road. — Derived from ride.

3'^i once. — Possessive case of one, used adverbially.

4/. behind. — From be, by, and hind, which is connected with hence
and M', all three words having still a certain demonstrative force.

4.f. [Supply the ellipsis at the beginning of this line.]

45, 4O. That is, the course of this supernatural wind was not marked
by any rippling or shading of the sea's surface.

43-54- This wind differs from that introduced in Part v. in being
soundless, in reaching the Mariner, and in being pleasant. The differ-
ence is due to the expiation of the curse. The " roaring wind " pre-
cedes the horror of the reanimated bodies, the sweetly-blowing breeze,
the appearance of the angelic spirits in their own forms of light.

48. meadow. — Derived from moiv.

49. It . . . fears, because it reminded him of the " roaring
wind " that preceded the working of the ship by the reanimated bodies
and the conflict between the Polar Spirit and the angelic troop about
his punishment.

50. welcoming^. — Derived from 7vell and come.

58. countree. — Spelt and accented thus in imitation of the old
ballad-writers. — L. contra, against.

59. drifted. — Drift is from drive.
harbour. — Literally, a host-shelter.

bar. — [What is the meaning of dar here ?]
Co. sobs. From the same root as sup. The notion common to the
two words is that of sucking in. In the act of wbbing the air is sucked
in convulsively.

62. let . . . alway. — That is, if this is a dream, let me dream
things like this forever, and escape the disenchantment which would
accompany my awakening.

63. [What is the difference in meaning between bay and harbour?
How does harbour-bay differ from each ?]

66. [What is meant by " the shadow of the Moon ? "]

63-71. "Observe that the quietness of this scene harmonizes with

the Mariner's feelings (see 11. 89-90), and is a relief to the reader after

his visionary flight." We are gradually being prepared for the gentle

moralizings at the end.

69. — steeped. — Both steep, the adjective, and steep the verb, come

from stoop. The verb steep is simply the causal of stoop, and origin-

"vr

NoTKS ON TUB

ally mo.int to make to ntoop, i.e., to overturn. From thr sense of over-
turning canio th;i( of pmuing out, froni which to that of pouring over,
the present signification, the transition is easy.

in silcntness silently.
70 iVVIiat is to l>e inferred from the epithet steady?]

steady. —Derived from stntii, place, which is allied to stand.
71. Notice the assonance consisting of tlu^ re|H!tition of the same
sound «^f ; in three successive accented syllaMes.

silent light. -Observe how prominent the silence of this scene
is m,^de in contrast with the sounds of the tropical storm ii\ I'art v.
silent light here light unaccompanied by sound, and hence utdikfl that
in the storm in Tart v.

73. shadows. —That is, spirits.

74. Notice that in this line the alliterative are likewise the accented
sj'Uablos. It was the rule in Anglo-Saxon poetry that alliteration and
accent should coincitle ; but it was seldom the case that every accented
ayllable in a line began with the same letter. Notice that alliteration
is a sort of initial rhyme.

crimson. -Observe the use that Coleridge makes of contrasts of
colour. In Tart iv. the ocean is white as hoar frost, except in the
shadow of the ship, where it is red ; in I'art v. a hundred fire-flags sheen
are contrasted with the wan stars and the black cloutl with the white
moon at its edge; here the bay, white with silent light, sets out in
stronger relief the crimson shailows.

Compare with regard to the colour of the spirits Dante (Jabriol
Rossetti's The HUssrd Damozel .

" And the soulfi mounting up to God
Went by her like thin flames."

75. [What is the meaning of proiv? What is the word of English
•rigin that denotes the same thing ?]

76. [What were the crimson shadows ?]

So. An imitation of Shakespeare and older writers.

holy. — Derived from whole. It therefore literally means per-
fect, or excellent.

rood=:cross. The same word as rod. In church architecture
it means a crucifix with the images of the Virgin and St. John.
83. band. — Connected with hand, a fastening, and with bind.

85. signals. — Connected with sign.

86. Observe that one of the alliterative syllables here is not
accented. See note on 1. 74.

89-90. One of the most exquisite touches in the poem.

RtMB OP tllR ANCIENT MARINRR.

go. music, l^'rotn Muse. 'J'hn Muses firn the nine fa1)lRfl godrlessos
that prrside over the art ,
92. cheer hail.

100. Hermit, frotu a rtrrrk word moaning a dweller in a desert,
rna person living apart from all mankind in order to devote himsfjf to
worship and mcMlitalion. " In all a^cs and in all countries retirement
from the world has been considered as facilitating the attainment of a
virtuous life, as adding strength to strong characters, and enabling the
mind to follow out great ideas without interruption. Tin; prophets
pri^parrd themselves in solitude for their tasks; the l'yth;igoreans.
Stoics, ('ynics and IMatonists recommend the self denial and rpiiet
happiness of the solitary sage. Vasari calls solitude the (h^Iight and
school of great minds. In many parts of the ICast, and particularly in
India, it has been thought from time immemorial a pious act to
(piit forever the busy world, and even tf> add bodily pains to the
melancholy of solitude." l''rom a very early date there have been
Christian hermits, and the state of the world for several c(U>turi(:s after
the coming of ('hrist jicfidiarly favoured their increase. The con-
tinual prevalence of bloody wars and civil commotions at this period
must have made retirement and religious meditation agreeable to men
of quiet and contemplative minds. They were always more numerous
in the south and east of Christendom, the climate of Northern Europe
rendering the life of a hermit possible only for few. At present, if
there are any Christian hermits, their number must be very small.

The student will notice that it is in accord with the poetic fitness of
things that the Ancient Mariner who has done a deed involving so
terrible conseiiuences should be shriven by a man of such special
sanctity as a hormit.

103. shrieve, usually spelt shrive, =to receive confession and absolve.
— L. scribere, to write. [Pronounce.]

PART VII.

2. slop'es. — Derived from 5//^.

4. talk. — Not from tell.

Marineres. — In the early editions this is always spelt, as here,
with an added e ; when the poem was revised the e was dropped, except
in this place, where it is retained on account of the rhyme.

5. far. — Related io fare.
countree. — See note on vi., 58.

6. eve. — Contracted from the noun even, but not connected with the
adjective even.

9. stump. — A nasalized form of j/m6.

kotes on the

10. skiff, a small, light boat without a deck. Skiff is another form
of ship.

11. trow. — A. 3. trcowc, true. [Pronounce.]
13. [Parse "signal" and "but."]

15. answered. — To ansrvcr is literally to swear against. The pitifix
in a shorter form occurs in aloufr and is connected with the Latin ante,
before, and the Greek anti, against.

17 and 19. A defective rhyme.

ig. Unlers. — Derived from on and less, the literal sense being in
less than, or on a less supposition.

20-24. Observe how forcibly the Hermit's illustration impresses on
the reader the chill which the strange appearance of the ship has sent
through his own bones. It is not enough for him to say that the sails
are like " brown skeletons of leaves;" they are like them, as seen in
the heart of a forest, in the depth of winter, when the startling cry of
the owl, that hoots defiance to creatures fierce as herself on which she
preys, has stopped the blood from coursing in our veins.

21. forest. — 'L.foris, out of doors.

22. ivy-tod, a clump of ivy. In Suffolk, according to Halliwell, tod
means a stump at the top of a pollard. Shakespeare and Palsgrave
use it in the sense of a weight of twenty-eight pounds ; Ben Jonson in
that of fox. Spenser and Drayton both use the compound expression.
The latter writes :

"And like an owl by night to go abroad,
Roosted all day within an ivy tod."

23. owlet. — Diminutive from owl, a word closely connected with
howl, both coming from the same root.

24. [What is the antecedent of " That " ? j

27. a-feared. — Passive participle of the obsolete or provincial verb
of ear, frighten. It is frequently used by Shakespeare, but is rare in
literature after A.D. 1700, having been supplanted by afraid. The
prefix a in afear is English and originally meant from. Here, as in
abode and arise, it is intensive.

38. ocean. — From the name of the great stream which the Greeks
supposed to encompass t^e earth.

39-40. It is said that the bodies of the drowned rise to the surface
of the water after seven or nine days.

41. afloat=on^oa^

41-64. The Ancient Mariner who has been so long in supernatural
company is now restored to the society of men. The ship, the theatre
of so many strange experiences, has suddenly and marvellously disap-

RIMB OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

peared, and he is in an ordinary boat. But no change of scene or
circumstances can do away with what has been. He bears physical
traces of his long agony. It now becomes the business of the poet to
show this, and he docs it with a complete mastery of the art of stirring
the soul with indefinite emotions of fear and wonder. In the four
stanzas (11. 47-64) which he devot-^s to this purpose, the appearance of
the Ancient Mariner is not described ; we are made to infer it from the
effect it produces on others — *' a method far more terrible than any
direct description." If he had gone further and given hints of which a
painter might make use the whole thing would have become ridiculous ;
but he did not, and the result is a perfect triumph of the vague.
Milton for the same reasons makes use of the same artifice when intro-
ducing Sin and Death in Paradise Lost. But there the difficulty of
the task is relieved by the importance of the subject ; while here the
greatest art was necessary simply to avoid destroying the glamour
which gives interest to a trivial tale.

52. go. — fWhat does "go" mean here?]

54. Restlessness of the eyes is characteristic of some kinds of
lunatics.

56. Devil. — From a Greek word meaning slanderer.

row. — This word and oar are from the same Aryan root.

57. [Parse "all."]

60. [Why could the Hermit scarcely stand ?]
scarcely. — L. excerptus, picked out.

64. manner. — L. tnanus, hand.

65. frame. — From /ram, an obsolete form oifrom.
wrenched. — Wrench is allied to wring and wrong,

67. forced. — L. fortis, strong.

69. Since is written for sins to keep the final s sharp ; just as we
yNvite pence, mice, twice, etc. Sins is an abbreviation of sithens or sithenct,
which latter form occurs in Shakespeare. Sithens is formed from sithen
by the addition of the common adverbial ending s (as in needs). Sithen
is compounded of sith, after, and a case of the, and in the expression
*' since then" which we have here, there is a duplication of the second
part.

73. " When the Ancient Mariner tells his unwilling hearer

' I pass like night from land to land.'

be imparts to matter-of-fact minds a newly-conceived mystery of motion
to the most familiar of nature's phenomena."

69-77. *' The wandering of the Mariner is doubtless imitated from
that of the Wandering Jew, who, legend says, on account of refusing to

3«

NOTES ON THE

allow Christ, when on his way to crucifixion, to rest on a seat belonj;:-
ing to him, was doomed to perpetual wandering on earth. He often
tells his story and preaches Christianity to the nations through which
he passes."

74. speech. — Derived from speak.

78. Uproar. — From the Dutch. It is not connected with roar, but
is of similar formation with the German aufruhr.

88-103. " Observe the simplicity and gentleness, and yet the pro-
fundity of the Mariner's moralizings— so strangely different from the
tenor of the tale, but so perfectly adapted to its poetic completeness."

88. marriage. — Of Latin origin, and synonymous with the native
word wedding. They are not, however, perfect synonyms. We say a
wedding ring and a marriage certificate, not a marriage ring and a
wedding certificate. Wedding generally denotes the festivities that
accompany a marriage; marriage, the ceremony. We dance at a
wedding, we witness a marriage.

97. tell. — Derived from tale.

100. bird. — Formed by metathesis or transposition of letters from
hrid, and connected with breed and brood. A bird is literally a bred
creature.

99-103. The spirit of regard for the brute creation which appears
in these lines was one of the sentiments evoked, or at least made strong
enough to find utterance by that great change in thought and feeling
which marks the latter half of the eighteenth century and gave rise to
many political, moral and religious upheavals and revolutions.
Cowper, whom Mr. Gold win Smith characterizes as an apostle of
sensibility, appears to have been the first man of mark to express this
new development of charity.

♦• I would not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense
Yet wanting sensibility) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm."

' —The Task, VI., 560.

According to some we have here the moral of the poem. This is
only partially true. The Ancient Mariner is without any real moral
except that human nature is capable of being stirred in a remarkable
way by the mysterious. But these amiable moralizings, this unexpected
gentle conclusion serve the purpose of bringing our feet back from the
land of romance " to the common soil, with a bewildered sweetness
of relief and soft quiet after the strain of mental excitement " to which
we have been subjected.

RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

no. is of sense forlorn = is forsaken by sense. Forlorn is here a
pp. No other part of the verb survives. Compare as to its participial
use Shakespeare, The Passionate Pilgrim, 265.

" Love hath forlorn me."

It is from an obsolete verb compounded of /or, an intensive prefix, and
lose, of which the strong past participle lorn is still sometimes used.

112. Morrow morn. — These are simply variant forms of the same
word to which different meanings have come to be attached.

GLOSS.

penance of life - life peuauc«b

•■i!

ap
ail
Tl

171

Y(
L(

Er
Ir

«
•as

SELECTED MINOR POEMS OF

S. T. COLERIDGE.

ODE TO Tllli: DEPARTING YEAR.*

ARGUMKNT.

Thk Ode commonr.os with an idilioss to llio Diviiio Providence, that regulates
into one vast harmony all Iho evtMits of time, however calamitous some of them may
appear to mortals. Tiio second Strophe calls on men to suspend their private joys
and sorrows, and devote them for a while to the causo of human nature in K<-»<^ral.
The first Epode speaks of the i;iii|)ress of Russia, who died of an apoplexy on the
17th of Ni)veinl)er, 1796; having; jusl concluded a subsidiary treaty with the Kinjjs
comhinoft a^^aiast France. The first and second Antistropho dettcribe the image of
the Departint^ Year, etc., as in a vision. The second Epode prophc^es, in anguish
of spirit, the downfall of this country.

Spirit wi'o swccpest the wild harp of Time 1

It is mob. hard, with an untrouhlcd car

Thy dark i/" woven harmonics to hear !
Yet, mine eye fixed on Heaven's unchanging chme,
Long had I listened, free from mortal fear,

With inward stillness, and a bowed mind ;

When lo ! its folds far waving on the wind,
I saw the train of the departing Year 1
Starting from my silent sadness

Then with no unholy madness u

Ere yet the entered cloud foreclosed my sight,
I raised the impetuous song, and solemnised his flight.

II.

Hither, from the recent tomb,

From the prison's direr gloom,
From distemper's midnight anguish ;
And thence, where poverty doth waste and languish I
Or where, his two bright torches blending,

Love illumines manhood's maze ;

*This Ode was composed on the 34th, asth, and 26tb days of December, 1796; and
•as first published on the last day of that year.

^ coi.p.Hn>r,r. s minor pokms.

Or wIkmc o'er nndlcd infimls hcndiiif;
•o Hope hiis lixccl liri wislifiil j;;i/«; ;

1 litlicf, in prrph'xod dance,
Yo Woes I ye youiif^-cycd joys ! advanco!

By Time's wild harp, and by tli(! hand
Whose indi'lalij^ahle s\v<'ep
Kaises ils lal<>lnl sltiiij;s fioin sliM-p.
I hid you haste, a mixed Imnulluous hand t
From every private hower,

And eaeli domestie. Iiearth,
Hale (or o!ie solemn hour ;
so And with a loud and yd a loud<>r voieo,

O'er Nature stru};,q;liiij; in portentous hirth,

Wei'j) and rejoice !
Still (M'hoes the dread nam(> that o'er the earth
Let sli[) the storm, and woke the brood of llell :

And nmv advance in saintly jubilee
Justice^ and Trutli ! 'I'hey too have heard thv spell,
They too obey thy name, divincst Liberty!

kSt

III.

I mnrketl Ambition in his war-array I

1 heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry —
»o ••All 1 wherefore does the Northern Coiuiueress stay I
Groans not her chariot on its onwanl way ?"
Fly, mailed Monarch, fl}' !
Stunned by Death's twice; mortal mace,
No more on nunder's Irrid face.
Tlic insatiate h:v^ shall j^loai. with drunken eye I
Manes of the unnumbered slain !
Ye that j^asped on Warsaw's plain I
Ye that erst at Ismail's tower,
When human ruin choked the streams,
50 Fell in conquest's glutted hour,

Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams !
Spirits of the uncofiincd slain,

Sudden blasts of triumph swelling,
Oft, at night, in misty train.

Rush around her narrow dwelling!
The exterminating fiend is fled —
(Foul her life, and dark her doom)

colrridgr's minor i»oBys. 5

Mi^'lity armi('s of tlic i\v.in\

Dance, lil<r dcalli-fires, roiuHl Iicr tombl
Then wiMi prophetic sori^ relate;, ••

Eacli some tyrant-inurdercr's fate I

IV.

Departing Year ! 'twas on no earthly shore
My soul l)(;hel(l thy vision ! When* alone,
Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne,
Ay(^ M(*mory sits, thy roix; inscribed with ^ore,
With many an unini.if^inahle groan
Thou storied'st thy sad hours I Silence ensued,
Deep sihitice o'er the etluireal multitude.
Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories
shone.
Then, his eye wild ardours glancing, 1^

From the choired gods advancing.
The spirit of the Earth made reverence meet,
/Vnd stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat.

Throughout the blissful throng,
Hushed were harp and song :
Till, wheeling round the throne, the Lampads seven
(The mystic Words of Heaven)
Permissive signal make :
The fervent Spirit bowed, then spread his wings and spake!
"Thou in stormy blackness throning ^

Love and uncreated Light,
By the Earth's unsolaced groaning,
Seize thy terrors. Arm of might I
By peace with proffered insult scared,
Masked hate and envying scorn 1
By years of havoc yet unborn !
And hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bared !
But chief by Afric's wrongs.

Strange, horrible, and foul 1
By what deep guilt belongs gt

To tlie deaf Synod, " full of gifts and lies I "
By wealth's insensate laugh I by torture's howl I
Avenger, rise !

6 Coleridge's minor poems.

For ever shall the thankless Island scowl,
Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ?
Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven, O speak aloudl

And on the darkling foe
Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud I
O dart the flash ! O rise and deal the blow !
100 The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries !

Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans below I
Rise, God of Nature, rise 1 "

IV.

The voice had ceased, the vision fled ;
Yet still I gasped and reeled with dread.
And ever, when the dream of night
Renews the phantom to my sight,
Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ;

My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start ;
My brain with horrid tumult swims ;
no Wild is the tempest of my heart ;

And my thick and struggling breath
Imitates the toil of death !
No stranger agony confounds

The soldier on the war-field spread,
When all fordone with toil and wounds,

Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead !
(The strife is o'er, the daylight fled.

And the night-wind clamours hoarse 1
See ! the starting wretch's head
130 Lies pillowed on a brother's corse!)

VII.

Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile,
O Albion ! O my mother Isle !
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers.
Glitter green with sunny showers ;
Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells

Echo to the bleat of flocks ;
(Those grassy hills, those glittering dells

Proudly ramparted with rocks ;)
And Ocean mid his uproar wild
■so Speaks safety to his island-child.

COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

Hence for many a fearless age

Has social Quiet loved thy shore ;
Nor ever proud invader's rage
Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with gore.

VIII.

Abandoned of Heaven ! mad avarice thy guide,

At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride —

Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast stood,

And joined the wild yelling of famine and blood !

The nations curse thee ! They with eager wondering

Shall hear Destruction, like a vulture, scream !

Strange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a dream
Of central fires through nether seas upthundering

Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies
By livid fo\mt, or red volcanic stream.

If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes,

O Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise,
The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap.
Muttering distempered triumph in her charmed sleep.

1(0

IX.

Away, my soul, away !
In vain, in vain the birds of warning sing —
And hark ! I hear the famished brood of prey
Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind I
Away, my soul, away !
I, unpartaking of the evil thing,
With daily prayer and daily toil
Soliciting for food my scanty soil.
Have wailed my country with a loud Lament.
Now I recentre my immortal mind

In the deep sabbath of meek self-content.
Cleansed from the vaporous passions that bedim
God's Image, sister of the Seraphim.

150

160

;r(

COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

FRANCE: AN ODE.

Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause,
Whose pathless march no mortal may control !
Ye Ocean-Waves ! that, wheresoe'er ye roll,
Yield homage only to eternal laws !
Ye Woods ! that listen to the night-birds singing,
Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined,
Save when your own imperious branches swinging,

Have made a solemn music of the wind !
Where, like a man beloved of God,
10 Through glooms, which never woodman trod,
How oft, pursuing fancies holy.
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound.

Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound !
O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high !

And O ye Clouds that far above me soared !
Thou rising Sun I thou blue rejoicing Sky !
Yea, every thing that is and will be free !
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er you be,
to With what deep worship I have still adored
The spirit of divinest Liberty.

II.

When France in wrath her giant limbs upreared.
And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,
Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free,

Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared ;

With what a joy my lofty gratulation
Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band ;

And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand,
JO The Monarchs marched in evil day,

And Britain joined the dire array.
Though dear her shores and circling ocean.

Though many friendships, many youthful loves.
Had swol'n the patriot emotion,

Aud flung a magic li^;ht o'^r aU her hills and groves ;

COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,
And shame too long delayed and vain retreat I
For ne'er, O Liberty ! with partial aim
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame ;
But blessed the paeans of delivered France,
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.

III.

"And what," I said, " though Blasphemy's loud scream
With that sweet music of deliverance strove 1
Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream !

Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled,
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light ! "

And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,
The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright ; 50
When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory ;

When, insupportably advancing.
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp,

While, timid looks of fury glancing.
Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore :

Then I reproached my fears that would not flee ;
"And soon," I said, ** shall Wisdom teach her lore
In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 60

And, conquering by her happiness alone.

Shall France compel the nations to be free,
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their
own."

IV.

Forgive me. Freedom ! O forgive those dreams !

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,

From bleiak Helvetia's icy cavern sent —
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams I

Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished,
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows

With bleeding wounds, forgive me, that I cherished
One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes 1

COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt,

Where Peace her jealous home had built ;
A patriot-race to disinherit
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear i

And with inexpiable spirit
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer^
O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,

And patriot only in pernicious toils,
Are these thy boasts. Champion of human kind ?

To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway,
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey ;
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils

From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ?

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,
Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game
They burst their manacles and wear me name

Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain !
O Liberty ! with profitless endeavour
90 Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ;

But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.
Alike from all, howe'er tliey praise thee,
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee.)

Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions.
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,
Thou spcedest on thy subtle pinions,
The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the wavesl
And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-cliff's verge,
too Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above,

Had made one murmur with the distant surge !
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,
And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,
Possessing all things with intensest love,
O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there.

Februarj 1797.

COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

raves 1
|ve,

DEJECTION : AN ODE.

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear I
We shall have a deadly storm.

BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENCR.
I.

Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence

Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade

Than those whicli mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,

Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this ^olian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo ! the new Moon winter-bright !
And, overspread with phantom light, w

(With swimming phantom light o'erspread,
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)

I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming on of rain and squally blast.

And oh 1 that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast !

Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad.

Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,.

Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live ! 20

II.

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,

A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief.

Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear —
O Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood.
To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed,

All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky.

And its peculiar tint of yellow green ;
And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye I

12 COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars ;
Those stars, that gUde behind them or between,
Now sparkHng, now bedimmed, but always seen ;
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue :
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are !

III.

My genial spirits fail ;
40 And what can these avail

To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ?
It were a vain endeavour.
Though I should gaze forever
On that green light that lingers in the west :
I ma}' not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

IV.

O Lady ! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does nature live :
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud 1
50 And would we aught behold, oi higher worth.

Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd.

Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth,
A light, a, glory, a fair luminous cloud

Enveloping the Earth —
And from the soul itself must there be sent

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element !

O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me
Co What this strong music in the soul may be !
What, and wherein it doth exist.
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.

Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given,
§3^ye to the pure, and in their purest hour,

COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
oy. Lady ! is the spirit and the power,

hich wedding Nature to us gives in dower,

A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud —
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud —

We in ourselves rejoice !
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,

All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.

VI.

There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress.

And all misfortunes were but as the stuff

Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :

For hope grew round me, like the twining vine.

And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.

But now afflictions bow me down to earth ;

Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth.
But oh ! each visitation

Suspends what nature gave me at my birth.
My shaping spirit of Imagination.

For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can ;

And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man —
This was my sole resource, my only plan :

Till that which suits a part infects the whole,

And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

VII.

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

Reality's dark dream !
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that ravest without,

Bare craig, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree,

* Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the lakes up in the
mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the
Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who hs^v9 heard it at night, and 19
\ URQumtsUiioMS Qountq^,

14 COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,

Methinks were litter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers,
Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song.
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds !
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold 1
113 What tell'st thou now about ?

'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout.
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds —
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold !
But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence !

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd.
With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all is over.
It tells another tale, with sounds less dee|) and loud !
A talc of less affright.
And tempered with delight,
lao As Otway's self had framed the tender lay :
'Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild.
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way.
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear.
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother
hear.

VIII.

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep :
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep !
Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing.
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
130 May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling.

Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth I
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul !

O simple spirit, guided from above.
Dear Lady 1 friend devoutest of my choice.
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice^

COLURIDGB S MINOR POEMS.

»5

^ TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION OF A POEM
ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL MIND.

Friend of the wise ! and teacher of the good 1

Into my heart have I received that lay

More than historic, that prophetic lay

Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)

Of the foundations and the building up

Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell

What may be told, to the understanding mind

Revealable ; and what within the mind

By vital breathings secret as the soul

Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart to

Thoughts all too deep for words ! —

Theme hard as high,
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears,
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth)
Of tides obedient to external force,
And currents self-determined, as might seem.
Or by some inner power ; of moments awful,
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad.
When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received
The light reflected, as a light bestowed —
Of fancies fair, ^nd milder hours of youth, ^

Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens.
Native or outland, lakes and famous hills !
Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars
Were rising ; or by secret mountain-streams,
The guides and the companions of thy way I

Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense
Distending wide, and man beloved as man.
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 9a

i6 Coleridge's minor poems.

Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud

Is visible, or shadow on the main.

For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded,

Amid the tremor of a realm aglow.

Amid a mighty nation jubilant.

When from the general heart of human kind

Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity !

Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,

So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure
40 From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self,
With light unwaning on her eyes, to look
Far on — herself a glory to behold,
The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain)
Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice.
Action and joy ! — An Orphic song indeed,
A song divine of high and passionate thoughts
To their own music chanted !

O great Bard 1
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,
With steadfast eye I viewed thee in the choir

50 Of ever-enduring men. The truly great

Have all one age, and from one visible space
Shed influence ! They, both in power and act,
Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old.
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame
Among the archives of mankind, thy work
Makes audible a linked lay of Truth,
Of Truth profound a sweet continuoj^s lay,

So Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes !
Ah ! as I listened with a heart forlorn,
The pulses of my being beat anew :
And even as life returns upon the drowned,
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains —
Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe
Turbulent, with an outcry in the hea: . ;
And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope ;
And hope that scarce would know itself from fear ;
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain.
And genius given, and knowledge won in vain.
And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild,

COLERIDGE*S MINOR FORMS.

And all which patient toil had reared, and all,
Commune with thee had opened out — but flowers
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier,
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave !

That way no more !*and ill beseems it me,
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise.
Singing of glory, and futurity.
To wander back on such unhealthful road.
Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill
Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths
Strewed before thy advancing !

Nor do thou,
Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour
Of thy communion with my nobler mind
By pity or grief, already felt too long !
Nor let my words import more blame than needs.
The tumult rose and ceased : for peace is nigh
Where wisdom's voice has found a listening heart.
Amid the howl of more than wintry storms.
The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours
Already on the wing.

Eve following eve,
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home
Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hailed,
And more desired, more precious for thy song,
In silence listening, like a devout child,
My soul lay passive, by thy various strain
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars.
With momentary stars of my own birth,
Fair constellated foam,* still darting off
Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea,
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon.

too

•"A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals coursed by the side of
the vessel with a roar, and little stars of flame danced and sparkled and went out iu
it; and every now and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off
from the vessel's side, each with its own small constellation, over the sea, and scoured
out of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilderness." — The Friend, p. 330.

COMiRIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

And when — O Friend ! my conifoiler and puide!
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength ! —
Thy long sustained Song finally closed,
And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thyself
Wert still before my eyes, and round us both
That happy vision of beloved^aces —
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close
I sate, my being blended in one thought,
(Thought was it ? or aspiration ? or resolve ?)
Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound — •
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.

YOUTH AND AGE.

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—
Both were mine ! Life went a maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,

When I was 3'oung 1
When I was young ? — Ah, woful when !
Ah for the change 'twixt Now and Then !
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
.O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flaslicd along : —
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar.
That fear no spite of wind or tide !
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ;
Friendship is a sheltering tree ;
O the Joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old 1

COLERIDGE'S MIN'OR POEMS.

Ere I was old ? Ah woful Ere,

Which tells me, Youth's no longer here !

Youth ! for years so many and svvuet,
'Tis known, that Thou and I were one.
I'll think it but a fond conceit —

It cannot be, that Thou art gone !
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled,
And thou wert aye a masker bold !
Wiiat strange tlisgui.sc hast now j)ut on,
To make believe, that Thou art gone ?

1 see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size ;
But springLide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes !
Life is but thouglit : so tliink I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dewdrops are the gems of moruMig,
But the tears of mournful eve !
Whece no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve.

When we are old :
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist,
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while.
And tells the jest without the smilu

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NOTES.

ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR.

Ode, from a Greek word meaning song, originally included all lyrical
poems. In modern times the song has been separated from the ode,
and the application of the term has been restricted to lyrical poems
expressing overpowering and elevated emotions of joy or suffering, or
other profound affections of the soul. Generally speaking, modern odes
are distinguished from other poems by their form — the character of the
feet, the length of the verses, and the construction of the divisions or
stanzas being varied in accordance with the changes in the flow of
feeling. As examples of famous English odes may be mentioned
Milton's Ode to the Nativity, Gray's Bard, and Progress of Poesy,
Wordsworth's Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of
Early Childhood, and Shelley's Ode to the West Wind.

The following sonnet by Wordsworth, prefixed by Coleridge to the
first part of the Sibylline Leaves, in which collection the Ode to the
Departing Year stood first and that to France second, throws light on
the spirit in which they were written.

When I have borne in memory what has tamed

Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert

The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed

I had, my country ! Am I to be blamed ?

Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,

Verily, in the bottom of my heart,

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

For dearly must we prize thee : we who find

In thee a bulwark for the caus'; of men,

And I by my affection was beguiled.

What wonder if a poet now ard then.

Among the many movements of his mind,

Felt for thee as a Lover or a Child I

Coleridge wrote several odes, of which those included in this volume
are generally considered the best. The Departing Year is decidedly
inferior to both France and Dejection, each of which has been ranked
as the author's best ode, in truth of pc«etic feeling, in melody, and
in power and beauty of thought and expression. The key-note to
llic pueiu is given by Coleridge himself in the lines selected from a

VI.

NOTES ON COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS,

Speech of Cassandra in the Agamemnon of iEschylus which he

prefixed to it as a motto. They are translated as follows by Professor

Blackie : —

"Ah me ! woe ! woe !
Again strong divination's troublous whirl
Seizes my soul and stops my labouring breast
With presages of doom.

That comes which is to come. And ye shall know
Full soon, with piteous witness in your eyes,
How true, how very true, Cassandra spake."

The poet, thinking his country to have taken a. wrong course with
regard to the French Revolution, and that great evils will result there-
from, utters a prophecy which, he expects, will, like those of Cassandra,
fail to command belief, but nevertheless come true. This is his plan,
and its execution has given the world a vigorous piece of declamation,
which in the fourth and fifth stanjas almost reaches sublimity.

"W\; have said," writes Christopher North, "that this [stanzas 4
and 5] is almost sublime ; yet we have never been able to read it with-
out a sense — more or less painful — not of violation of the most awful
reverence — for that would be too strong a word — but of too daring ar
approximation to the ' cloudy seat ' by a creature yet in the clay. The
lips of the poet must indeed be touched with a coal from heaven, who
invokes the Most High, and calls upon the God of Nature to avenge
and redress Nature's wrongs. A profounder piety than was possible
with the creed the poet then held would have either sealed his lips or
inspired them with higher because humbler words. Insincere he never
was, but in those days his philosophical and poetical religion spoke in
words fitter for the ear of Jove than Jehovah. And that the mood in
which he composed this passage was one — not of true faith, but of false
enthusiasm — is manifest from the gross exaggeration of feeling which
is said to have followed the passing away of the vision."

The same lack of the true ring of feeling, the same failure to rise to
the proper level, are manifest elsewhere, and particularly m the third
stanza. Here the denunciation of Catharine the Second, though
vigorous, lacks the sternness of moral elevation ; and the words of the
invocation to the spirits of those whom she had slain, though containing
the powerful line,

" When human ruin choked the streams,"

do not " sound as if they had power to pierce the grave and force it to
give up its dead. To evoke them, shrouded or uashrouded, fxom the

6t>B TO THE DEPARTING YEAR.

Vl1.

clammy clay — bloodless or clothed with blood — needs a mighty incanta-
tion. The dry bones would not stir — not a corpse would groan — at such
big but weak words as — 11. 52-61 — " ' Sudden blasts of triumph,' indeed,
swelling from the uncoffincd slain ! Alas ! dismal is Hades — and neither
vengeance nor triumph dwells with the dead. But if fancy will
parley with the disembodied, and believe that they will obey her call,
let her speak not with the tongue of men, but of angels — and on an occa-
sion so great, at a time so portentous, that the troubled hearts of the
living may be willing to think that a human being can 'create a soui
under the ribs of death.' But here there is no passion — no power.
'The mighty armies of the dead ' keep rotting on. Their dancing days
are over. Yet if they could indeed become ' death-fires,' dance would
they not round the tomb of the imperial murderess — nor would they
' with prophetic song relate each some tyrant-murderer's ' doom. If true
1 olish patriot ghosts, with Kosciusko at their head, they would rather
have implored heaven to let them be their own avengers — and that one
spectre, pursued by many spectres, might fix on the mercy-seat its
black eye-sockets in vain."

As a whole this ode does not reach a high level of literary merit,
yet, though the turbulence of its smoky clouds is not grandeur, they
are lighted up by " many flashes of elevated thought."

Coleridge appears to have begun this ode on the model of Gray's
Bard. If he had conformed strictly to this model, it would have con-
sisted of three uniform groups, composed each of three stanzas differ-
ing from one another, but similar to the corresponding stanzas in other
groups. That is, the ist, 4th and 7th stanzas would have been alike in
form ; also the 2nd, 5th and 8th ; also the 3rd, 6th and gtji. As it
stands, only the ist and 4th stanzas exactly correspond. The first
stanza in each group is called the Strophe, the second the Antistrophe
and the third the Epode — words meaning respectively the Turn, the
Counter-turn and the After-song. These terms are derived from the
theatre, the Turn denoting what was sung during the movement of the
chorus from one side of their stage to the other, the Counter-turn, that
during the reverse movement, and the After-song what came after these
two movements. They are not always used as we have indicated
above. See, for example, Shelley's Ode to Naples. In the Argument
Coleridge calls the second stanza the Strophe ; the fourth and fifth,
the first and second Antistrophe; and the ninth, the second Epode.

The Ode to the Departing Year was first published in the Cam-
bridge Intelligencer of the 31st December, 1796.

'f '■.■»!

VUl.

NOTES ON Coleridge's minor poems.

1-8. Note that the arrangement of the rhymes in the first ei.-^ht lines of
this and the fourth stanzas is the same as in Tennyson's In Memoriam,

3. dark inwoven = obscure and complicated. — An example of the
double epithet with a profusion of which Coleridge admits that some
of his earlier poems were rightly charged.

10. madness = inspiration. — There is an allusion in this word to the
wide-spread belief that madness is due to possession by a supernatural
being. The priestess of Delphi maddened herself as a preparation for
uttering the oracles of Apollo by subjecting herself to the influence of
a vapour that arose from an opening in the ground in the middle of the
temple.

11. cloud probably means oblivion, which had already entered his
mind and would soon dim his vision of the events of the year.

II.

17. his two bright torches. — Torches were borne in the marriage
ceremonies of the ancient Greeks and Romans. Coleridge here sym-
bolizes the union of man and wife by the blending of the two torches.

As Cupido and Eros, the Latin and Greek love deities were mascu-
line, Love, when personified, is made masculine in English.

21. perplexed. — Used here in its literal sense of interwoven [ — L.
per, thoroughly, and plecto, I plait.]

23. hand [whose ?] .

31. in portentous birth=in producing portents.

33. still = from the beginning of the French Revolution until now.
the dread name = Liberty.

34. Let slip the storm, etc. — The reference is to the horrors of the
French Revolution.

35. And now advance, etc. — The French Revolution ended in 1795
with the establishment of a settled government, after which Coleridge
sees Justice and Truth extending their sway as a consequence of the
liberty secured by the French,

HI.

40. The Northern Conqueress. — A very able and ambitious Ger-
man princess who married Peter, afterwards Peter III. of Russia.
Soon after his accession his alienation from her, which had been
marked before, became so great that she felt herself forced to secure
her personal safety by dethroning him. She reigned under the title of
Catharine II. from X762 to 1796, made war with the Turks, Swedes, and
Persians, and added to her empire the Crimea and the neighbouring

ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR.

IX.

districts on the north of the Black Sea, Courland, and the lion's share
of Poland. Her moral character was far from estimable, Coleridge'*
phrase, "Foul her life," being fully justifiable.

41. groans not her chariot, etc.— Catharine had just before her
death entered into an alliance with England for the purpose of attack-
ing France.

42. Fly, mailed Monarch. — [Does fly in this line mean hasten to
bring, or flee ? What is meant by the " mailed monarch " ?]

43-57. " The death . . of the Empress ... is exulted over
. . with undignified violence of declamation, which in spite of very
magnificent mouthing sounds very like a scold . . , All true.
But how unlike Isaiah in his ire ! " — John Wilson.

43. Death's twice mortal mace. — That is, a weapon which in this
case dooms both body and soul to destruction.

46. Manes. — The Latin name for the spirits of the dead.

47. Warsaw's plain. — The reference is to the storming of Praga, a
suburb of Warsaw, which took place in 1704, and ended the struggle
against the extinction of the independence of Poland. According to
Alison ten thousand Polish soldiers fell in the conflict, nine thousand
were made prisoners, and over twelve thousand citizens of every age
and sex were put to the sword by the Russians under Suwarrow.

48. Ismail's tower. — Ismail is a town on the north side of the
Danube, which was stormed, in 1790, by the Russians un. x Suwar-
row. They lost 10,000 men in the siege. According to an account
published at St. Peter burg, the Turkish garrison, amounting to 30,000
men, were massacred in cold blood after the surrender. Amid the
dreadful scenes which followed the taking of the place the unfeeling
General wrote to his equally unfeeling mistress a laconic rhymed
despatch which Byron translates with indignant comments in the fol-
lowing passage : —

" While mosques and streets beneath his eyes, like thatch,
Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allayed^
With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch :

And here exactly follows what he said :
• Glory to God and to the Empress 1 ' (Powers
Eternal 1 such names mingled !) ' Ismail's ours.'

" He wrote this Polar melody and set it,

Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans.

Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it—
For I will teach, if possible, the stones

To rise against earth's tyrants."

59. death-fires. — See note, Ancimt Mariner, ii., 46.

.-i<lT'

NOTES ON COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

.11

IV.

64. cloudy throne = throne of cloud. See Rev. xiv., 14.

^ " And I looked, and behold a white cloud, and upon the Vioud one
Bat like unto the Son of Man."

65. Memory = the Recording Angel.

66 and 67. One may, I think, detect in the turn of thought and
words in thr-:e lines a presage of Shelley.

76. the Lampads seven, etc. — See Rev. iv., 5.
" And there were seven lamps of fire burning before the throne,
which are the Seven Spirits of God."
88. Afric's wrongs. — The slave trade.

91. the Deaf Synod. — The House of Commons, long after popular
opinion had pronounced against the slave trade, remained deaf to its
voice, as well as to every consideration of justice to the African. In
1796 that body rejected a motion for the abolition of the iniquity, pro-
posed by Wilberforce and supported by Pitt and Fox.

full of gifts and lies = led by interest to utter lies. Some of the
members were personally interested, and others represented constitu-
encies in which, as in Liverpool, many merchants were interested in
the continuation of the slave trade.

92. By wealth's insensate laugh, etc. — That is, by the laugh of the
unfeeling slave dealer, and the howl of the slave.

VI.

115. fordone = exhausted. The prefix /or corresponds to the Latin
foris, outside, and the German ver.

VII.

121. When first published this line ran,

•' O, doomed to fall, enslaved and vile."

122. Albion. — An Ancient name of Great Britain, of Celtic origin,
first occurring in classical writers. It probably is the same as Albyn,
the Celtic name of the Scotch Highlands.

133 and 134. The last invasion of Great Britain worthy of the name
took place in 1263 when the Norwegian King, Haco, landed on the west
coast of Scotland and was defeated at the battle of Largs. In the
February following the composition of this poem, 1,400 French soldiers
landed in Pembrokeshire, but were almost immediately taken prisoners.

France : an ode.

of the

VIIT.

138. And joined, c'tc. — That is, thou hast joined in a war against
France caused by the base lust for blood.

145. lidless dragon-eyes. — Serpents have no eyelids, the skin being
continuous and transparent over the eyes.

141-14O. Compare with these lines the following descriptions of the
same personified idea taken from Coleridge's Religious Musings: —

(1 ) "The old Hag, unconquerable, huge,
Creaticn's eyeless drudge, black ruin, sits
Nursing the impatient earthquake."

(ii.) " The black-visaged, red-eyed Fiend outstretched
Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans.
In feverous slumbers."

IX.

150. birds of warning sing. —Among the Romans auguries were
drawn from the singing of birds.

152. pennons. — Used here in the sense o{ pinion. Both words con.e
from the same root, namely, the Latin pcnua, a feather. Pennon is
generally used to denote a long piece of coloured cloth pointed at one
end and hung at a masthead or elsewhere on a ship,

i6i. God's image — " my immortal mind."

Seraphim. — Plural of seraph, an angel of the highest order.
Literally, a bright being, from the Hebrew saraph, to burn.

origin,
Albyn,

FRANCE: AN ODE.

"This ode," says Mr. Swinburne, " is extolled by Shelley as the finest
of modern times, and justly, until himself and Keats had written up to
it at least . . . There is in it a noble and loyal love of freedom,
though less fiery at once and less firm than Shelley's, as it proved in
the end less durable and deep. The prelude is magnificent in music,
and in sentiment and emotion far above any other of his poems, nor
are the last notes inadequate to this majestic overture." " ' France' is
a misnomer." The Recantation, which was the title given to it in The
Morning Post, in which it first appeared, is much more appropriate. It
is really an Ode to Liberty in which is imbedded the record of a
reaction which, as has been said, was as much speedier in Coleridge's
case than in that of the other ardent young minds which had come
under the spell of the Revolution as his enthusiasm had been more
passionate iha;: theirs.

ir I

III

Xll.

NOTES ON COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

!i!i!

This obtrusion of the personal element of the history of the changes
of the poet's feelings with the reasons therefor is held by Christopher
North, who does not rank the ode as high as Shelley and Mr. Swinburne,
to be a defect in its plan which p'revents it from rising to the highest
order of excellence. " In an ode of the highest kind — of which the
subject is external to the poet — a kingdom or a country — say France—
the poet, while he would make himself felt in the power of his pervading
and creative spirit, would not choose to be, as Coleridge is in this
ode — not the most prominent personage merely — but the sole. . . .
Coleridge should not have spoken so much of himself — both of the
present and of the past — nor set himself right before the Spirit of
Liberty, whom he fears he had offended in his Ode to the Departing
Year, or some other strain, in which he had expressed opinions proved
false by events. Collins loved liberty as well as Coleridge ; but in
his glorious ode, he seldom and shortly — only once or twice, and
momentarily — is heard in his personality, and the voice is oracular
as from a shrine."

This criticism seems just : at any rate, the least personal parts of
the poem are the finest; but what it loses in poetic merit, it gains in
biographical interest. Yet it is a noble ode. "Notice," we quote
Christopher North again, "how it revolves upon itself — and is circular,
like music— and like the sky, if earth did not break the radiant round.
The last strain is in the same spirit as the first — and, did nothing
intervene, there would be felt needless repetition of imagery and
sentiment. But much intervenes — che whole main course and current
of the ode. You float along with the eloquent lyrist, who is at once
impassioned and imaginative — full of ire, and full of hope ; and you
end where you began— on the sea-cliff's edge, with the foam so far
below your feet you but see it roar — for to your ear the waves are
silent as the clouds far, far farther above your head ; and all above
and below and around, at the close now, as the opening then, earth,
sea, and air — mute and motionless, or loud and driving — bespeak or
betoken, are or symbolize — • the spirit of divinest Liberty.'

" Yet, after all, this is not the highest mood of imagination. In the
highest she would have scorned the elements. Earth, sea, air, would
to her have been nothing, while she saw in all their pomp the free
faculties of the soul. Or the elements would have been her slaves — and
the slaves of Liberty — or, if you will, their servants, their ministers ,
and the winds and the waves would then have been indeed mag-
nificent — in their glorious bondage working for man, the chartered
chUdofGod."

PRANCE : AN ODft.

Xlll.

anges
Dpher
(urne,
ighest
h the
ince—
/ading
n this

. • •

of the
)irit of
parting
proved
but in
:e, and
racular

parts of
gains in
e quote
jircular,
t round.

nothing
ery and

current .

at once
|and you
so far

aves are

,11 above
earth,

ispeak or

In the
^r, Awould
the free
^es— and
^nisters ,
bed mag-
chartered

This poem consists of five stanzas of twenty-one lines each. These
correspond in every part except that the last line of the third stanza
is a foot longer than the last lines of the others.

All Nature, as being free from tyranny, is called on by the poet to
bear witness to his love of liberty.
3 and 4. Compare Mr. Swinburne's Marching Song:

•* How long till all thy soul be one with all thy sea ! "

and his

•• Free as her foam and righteous as her tides."

23. that oath. — The National Oath to be faithful to the King, to the
Law, and to the Constitution about to be made, sworn by the Con-
stituent Assembly in Paris on the 4th February, 1790, and by all
France during the three succeeding weeks.

27. a slavish band = those willing to be governed by kings.

28. disenchanted = freed from the enchantment which had kept is
in political slavery.

30. The Monarchs. — Germany, Prussia, Spain, Holland, Portugal,
Naples, Tuscany, Sardinia, and the Pope, formed a coalition with
England against France in 1793. The French proclaimed that they
were fighting against the kings not the people of these countries.

41. paean. — Originally, a hymn in honour of Apollo; now, a song
of triumph. From the Greek.

ni.

43-63. Coleridge says, in his Table Talk, July 23, 1832, not quite
consistently with the tenour of this stanza, " No man was more enthu-
siastic than I was for France and the Revolution : it had all my wishes,
none of my expectations. Before 1793 [probably a misprint for 1798] ,
I clearly saw, and often enough stated in public, the horrid delusion,
the vile mockery of the whole affair."

43. Blasphemy's loud scream. — Christianity was abandoned in
France at the end of 1793, and the worship of Reason substituted.
The famous church of Notre Dame in Paris was the scene of the
installation of a Goddess of Reason, in the ceremonies connected with
which the National Convention took part, and its name was changed
to the Temple of Reason. The rites of the new worship, which was
adopted throughout a large part of France, were almost everywhere
accompanied by indulgences of the most immoral character.

"The services of religion were now universally abandoned: tho

XlV,

NOTES ON COLERIDGE'S MINOR POEMS.

pulpits were descrtt-d throuj^hoiit nil tlu; revolutionizod districts;
baptisms ceased; tlie burial service was no longer heard; the sick
received no communion ; the dying no consr)lation. . . The village
bells were silent; Sunday was obliterated ; Inftincy entered the world
without a blessing ; Age left it without a hope. . . It appeared as if
the Christian truth had been succeeded by the orgies of the Babylonian
priests or the grossness of the Hindoo theocracy. On every tenth day a
Revolutionary leader ascended the pulpit, and preached Atheism to
the; bewildered audience; Marat was universally deified, and even the
instrument of death sanctified by the name of the Holy Guillotme. On
all the public cemeteries the inscription was placed, ' Death is an
Eternal Sleep.' " — Alison, History of Europe.

50. The dissonance ceased. — In 1795 when the cannon of Bona-
parte put an end to the rule of the mob, and paved the way for the
peaceful disso.ution of the National Convention and the establishment
of the Directory in its stead.

53. insupportably advancing;. — Compare Milton, Snnisun Agonistcs,
135 and 136,

" But safest he who stood aloof

When insupportably his lOot advanced."

and Spenser, Faerie Qnccne, I. vii. 11,

" That, when the knight he spyde, he gan advaunce
With huge force and insupportable niayne."

On the resemblance between Coleridge's expression and iMilton's De
Quincey has unreasonably based a charge of plagiarism against the
former.

54. The poet, when he wrote this line, may have had in his mind the
victories of Napoleon in his Italian campaign in 1796.

56. Domestic treason. — We may have here a reference to La Vendee,
in which part of France there was a royalist rebellion in 1793 ; or to
the suppression of the Parisian mob by Napoleon in 1795.

57. dragoon. — A fabulous winged reptile vomiting gore.
63. An Alexandrine line.

IV.

65. loud lament. — Compare Ode to the Departing Year, 1. 157.

66. Helvetia. — The ancient name of Switzerland. It was so called
from the Helvetii, a Celtic tribe which inhabited it and was rendered
subject to Rome by Julius Caesar. As this country at the time of the
Revolution had been a republic for over 400 years, the French attack
on it must have been prompted, not by a desire to spread the blessings
of liberty, but by the vulgar lust of conquest.

FRANCE : AN ODE.

XV.

"The subjugation of Switzerland was long a favourite object with
the revolutionary leaders in France. Machinations to that end were
begun as early as 1791 ; and in the fall of 1792 the National Convention
unanimously passed a decree which placed France openly at war with
all established governments. A military invasion of Switzerland soon
followed ; and the sanguinary work was continued from time to time
till 1798, when at length the French carried through their purpose.
This wanton and unprovoked assault on the ancient freedom and inde-
pendence of the Swiss disenchanted many of the sympathizers with the
French cause, both in England and elsewhere. Sir James Mackintosh
denounced it as ' an act in comparison with which all the deeds of
rapine and bloodshed perpetrated in the world are innocence itself.'
But the Swiss did not at that time stay conquered, and the final extinc-
tion of their old confederacy did not take place until 1802. Perhaps,
after all, that great crime has earned our thanks in having prompted
the composition of this mighty ode." — Hudson.

From the point of view of many French Republicans of the revolu-
tionary epoch this attack on Switzerland might be considered as pro-
voked and justifiable. A country, they would reason, which could
produce men who would for money be as faithful to a king as
Louis XVI. 's unfortunate Swiss Guards were, could not be the home
of freedom, and must be hostile to the true interests of mankind.

cavern. — Switzerland is conceived by the poet to resemble a
cavern inasmuch as it has been a place of refuge for freedom.

72. To scatter rage and traitorous guilt. —The French method
of proceeding in Switzerland was to intrigue and foment dissensions
between and in the Cantons.

73. Where Peace her jealous home had built. — During the great
wars of the 17th and i8th centuries the Swiss maintained an unvary-
ing neutrality.

74 and 75. Compare Goldsmith, The Traveller,

" Thus every good his native wilds impart
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart."

75. all that made their stormy wilds so dear. — That is, theif
historic independence and personal freedom.

stormy wilds. — Compare Goldsmith's, The Traveller,

•• The bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread."

76 and 77. These lines may mean either, to taint the peaceful free-
dom of the Swiss by infusing into it the French spirit of license and
blood from which it can never be ci^ansed by any process of purifi*
cation ;

4M;

XVI.

NOTES ON Coleridge's minor poems.

Or, actuated by a spirit for which no atonement is possible, to taint
the peaceful freedom of the Swiss.

77. The construction of 11. 72-77 not being carried on in 1. 80, we
have an example of anacoluthon.

78. that mockest Heaven. = Irreligious, or atheist.

80. Champion of human kind.— On the igth November, 1792, the
following decree was passed :

" The National Convention declares, in the name of the French
nation, that it will grant fraternity and assistance to all people who
wish to recover their liberty : and it charges the executive power to
send the necessary orders to the generals to give succour to such
people, and to defend those citizens who have suffered, or may sufifer,
in the cause of liberty,"

82, murderous prey. — Not murdered prey, but prey obtained by
murder.

83. shrine. — [Distinguish shrine from temple.]

85. Compare Dejection, 1. 72.

91 and 92. That is. Liberty has no affinity with conquerors, nor does
she infuse her spirit into forms of authority.

95. harpy. — The Harpies of Classical Mythology were winged
monsters, greedy after prey, who hdd the face of a woman and the
body of a vulture, and had their feet and hands armed with sharp claws.
Hence the adjective harpy meaning rap.:.oious.

DEJECTION: AN ODE.

Written on the 4th of April, 1802, at Keswick. This ode is, as Mr.
Traill says, a lament over the decay of Coleridge's poetical power. It
consists of eight stanzas or divisions of various lengths, no two being
formed on the same metrical plan.

Dejection is, we think, though perhaps not a finer ode, certainly a
finer poem than France. It is all beautiful, and the impression it pro-
duces of the reality of the feelings expressed is stronger than in the
preceding odes. Objection has been taken to the beginning as not
being easy language, and to the first word as being too familiar for the
dignity of an ode ; but these seem trivial. It has also been alleged as
a fault that the passage about the wind, 11. 101-127, " not only occupies
too much space in the ode, but is too quaint for a composition of such
high and solemn character." With these judgments we cannot agree.

DRJF.CTION : AN ODE.

XVII.

The leading ideas of the ode could not be better set than against the
background of an approaching storm, and not to paint the background
would spo.l the picture ; and the quai''* fancies which vary the back-
ground seem to us to add an excellence which a uniform sumbrenesa
would lack.

The quotation is probably from Percy's Reliques of Ancient Eng-
lish Poetry, a book whose publication constitutes the beginning of a
metrical epoch, so much has the form of subsequent verse been affected
by the models it offers for imitation. Thr Ancient Mariner and Christa-
bel are among the first noteworthy poems in which this influence is
strongly marked. Sir Patrick Spence is a Scotch ballad and the
quotation is not quite correct, Coleridge having, probably through
reliance on an imperfect memory, combined portions of the two fol-
lowing stanzas :

Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all

Our guid schip sails the morne.
O say na sae, my master deir,

For I feir a deadly storme.

Late, late yestreen 1 saw the new moono

Wi' the auld moone in hir arme ;
And I feir, I feir, my deir master,

That we will com to harme.

is Mr.

fer. It
being

i-io. •• Surely that is, if not affected, very far from being easy
language, and to our ear, the very familiar exclamation, • Well I ' is not
in keeping with the character of what is, or ought to be, that of an
ode." — John Wilson.

I. Bard. — The authorship of Sir Patrick Spence, like that of most
old ballads, is unknown,

^ /Eolian lute. — i^olian harp, an instrument placed in an open
window or other place where there is a draught and played on by the
wind.

JEoWaxi. — Derived from iEolus, the Greek name for the God of
the Winds, iEolus means, literally, changeable.

11-16. " How inferior the effect of this overwrought picture (and
in his [Coleridge's] poetry nothing is underwrought — for he was only
at times too lavish of his riches) to that of the verse he expands from
' the grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence ! ' In the ballad the ' deadly
storm ' is predicted from an omen, and in the fewest possible words —
and in as few is told the sinking of the ship. In the ode the meteoro-
logical notions, though tru3, and poetically worded, are got up with

'■'I

XVIU.

NOTES ON COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

too much care and effort- -and the storm passed and played the part ol
Much Ado about Nothing among the cliff-caves and tree-tops that soon
returned to their former eqi animity." — John Wilson.

This criticism is altogether wide of the mark. The object of the
writer cf the ballad was effective narrative, that of Colerid.Eje, a lament
over the decay of certain of his faculties. To this end it was nccer;sary
to begin by explanation and illustration, and the passage here referred
to is part of the .ntroduction to the statement that he sees but does not
feel how beautiful Nature is. The expansion of the idea of the ballad
is then not a blemish, but a beauty, inasmuch as it shows in what
perfection the power of seeing beauty remains. It is equally from the
point to find fault with tlie poom because a storm is introduced which
accomplishes nothing. The sounds and sights indicative of a storm
are simply an accompaniment to the feelings, and to have made it do
terrible execution would have withdrawn attention from the leading
thought, while to have omitted it would have rendered necessary the
selection of another and possibly less beautiful mode of presenting the
poet's meaning.

11. winter-bright =: bright as she is in winter.

12. overspread. —-Attribute of Moon, 1 14.
22. An Alexandrine line.

this dull pain = himself.

IT.

27. Lady.— Dorothy Wordsworth, sister, and life-long lu ;rary
friend and companion of the famous poet.

28. throstle = the song-thrush. Turdus musicus, Linn.

31. An instance of that highly sensitive apprehension of the aspects
of external nature which connects Coleridge with Wordsworth.

32. with how blank an eye. — [Explain.;

39 and 40. With the rhyme be' ween these lines compare tjiat
between 11. 69 and 70 in Part v. oj' The Ancient Mariner. It seems
probable that Coleridge pronounced are so as to rhyme with fair.

III.

42. thes2. — [What is its antecedent?]

49-61. That is, there may be matter, but it only H^es when we
think it and feel it. " That which we call Nature only lives in us, it is
wo who make it ; it can only be called alive because we are alive ; when
we receive from it impressions we receive not something distinct from
us, but our own thoug'its." When we are pleased with the beauty of a
view, the perfume of a flower, the song of a bird, what really takes

DiiJECTION : AN ODE.

xlx.

place is this : we give the colours, the odor, and the melody to Nature,
and receiving them from her as hers by a natural illusion, it is actually
the case that when we think we are rejoicing in her,

" We in ourselves rejoice." (See 1. 74.)

There are no such things as tints, or harmonies, or scents, or tastes
apart from the being that perceives them. If every creature capable of
seeing, hearing, smelling, etc., were to die, there would cease to be any
pleasure or pain in the universe. The gorgeous hues of sunset, the
roar of Niagara, the softness of the green sward would be gone : for
they exist only in those who perceive them.

This doctrine with regard to the external world constitutes one of
the leading features of the philosophy of Immanuel Kant, a great
German metaphysician of the eighteenth century, whose views have
had a profound influence on subsequent thought.

51. shroud = burial garment ; in the pi., a range of long ropes, partly
forming a rope-ladder, extending from the head of a mast on each side,
and fastened to the sides of a ship.

72. Compare France, 1. 85.
77 suffusion = overspreading.

VI.

84. afflictions. — " On the whole, in fact, the most probable account
of this all-important era in Coleridge's life appears to me to be this:
that in the course of 1801, as he was approaching his thirtieth year, a
distinct change for the worse — precipitated possibly, as Mr. Gillman
thinks, by the climate of his new place of abode — took place in his
constitution; that his rheumatic habit of body, and the dyspeptic
trouble by which it was accompanied, became confirmed ; and that the
severe attacks of the acute form of the malady which he underwent
produced such a permanent lowering of his vitality and animal spirits
As,Jirsty to extinguish the creative impulse, and then to drive him to the
phv!?!cal anodyne of opium and to the mental stimulant of metaphysics."
>-H. D. Traill.

91. abstruse research.— The study of metaphysics.

VII.

97. Reality's dark dream. —The ' ' viper thoughts " are a disagreeable
representation of the reality.

108. Devils' Yule = Devils' festivity. There is probably a reference
here (o the legend of the Yule Host, a pack of h<;ll hounds, or troop of

J...ii: )

kx.

NOTES ON Coleridge's minor poems.

evil spirits, which, in many countries, the peasant, on stormy nights,
believes he hears careering through mid air under the leadership of
the Wild Huntsman. See Iceland, its Scenes and Sagas, by S. Baring
Gould.

Yule. — Our native name for Christmas. Fick thinks it originally
meant noise or outcry: hence, the sound of revelry and rejoicing:
hence, the season of rejoicing.

109. timorous. — [Explain.]

122. Otway. — A dramatic writer of the reign of Charles II., remark-
able for his power of dealing with pathetic situations.

TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

William Wordsworth (i 770-1 S50), by many considered the greatest
English poet since Milton, is noted in the history of literature for his
opposition to the artificial school of which Pope is the master, for
distinguishing between fancy and imagination as elements of poetry,
and for enunciating the democratic principle that all classes of subjects
are suited for poetic treatment. Before his time it had been held that
certain kinds of subjects lacked dignity, and, though Cowper, Crahbe,
and some others had ceased to pay attention to the rule, it was reserved
for Wordsworth to combat it formally. Unpopular at first, he has
never ceased to extend the circle of his readers, and no poet since
Pope has had so great an influence in moulding the thoughts and style
of contemporary and succeeding writers. Born in Cumberland, ha
resided in the Lake Country during nearly the whole of his long life.
His friends, Coleridge and Southey, also took up their abode there, and
from this circumstance the three poets, who really had very little in
common, either in habit of thought or mode of expression, but were
perceived by the reviewers to be agreed in opposition to certain
previously generally accepted poetical canons and to be united by the
bonds of friendship and neighbourhood, were somewhat oddly classed
together as the Lake School.

This poem is in blank verse, which "Coleridge never could handle
with the security of conscious skill and a trained strength It grows
in his hands too facile and feeble to carry the due weight or accomplish
the due work." Owing to this or some other reason the beauty of this
composition is marred by certain awkwardnesses and obscurities of
construction which repel the ordinary reader.

Written shortly after Culoridj^c'ti return to England from Malta in
August, Il5o6. The work, called in the title a I'oem on the Growth 0/

ro WILLIAM WOftDSWORTH.

xxf.

an Individual Mind was published by Wordsworth as The Prelude. It
contains a history of the growth of the author's miod, and is addressed
to Coleridge.

Z2. "Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear."

—The Prelude, Book I.

13. That is, the spontaneous smiles and mysterious fears originate
at the same time, and are the first results of the child's exercise of his
reason.

14. tides = influences. *

15. currents=trp ^encies.

16. Or connects * >elf, " 1. 15, with "by some inner power."

18 and 19. Thy soul received the light reflected from objects on
which it shone, as if it had really come from another source. — Cora-
pare Dejection, 49-Gi.

21. Hyblean = bee-like. From Hybla, the Greek name of a city of
ancient times situated in Sicily near Syracuse and famous for its honey.
The accent is on the second syllable.

27. Social Sense = the feeling of the brotherhood of men. The
motto of the French Revolutionists was— Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.

29. The French Revolution, which began in 1789, had a very power-
ful influence on Wordsworth, as indeed on almost all the young minds
of that period.

31. immediate = not conveyed through the medium of a cloud.
Thunder from a clear sky has always been considered by the super-
stitious to convey to men an indication of the mind of the Deity.
From Horace we gather that the Romans it marked the displeasure
of Jupiter.

33. For thou wert there. — In the fall of 1790 Wordsworth visited

France for the first time on a vacation tour ; and in the next year,

shortly after taking his degree at Cambridge, he returned, and spent

fifteen months, mainly at Blois on the Loire.

thine o^vn brows g^arlanded. — Wordsworth says of himself in

the Ninth Book of The Prelude that he became what was known in

France as a patriot,

•• And thus ere long
Became a patriot ; and my heart was all
Given to the people, and my love was iheirs."

37. Hope. — The hope that an age of gold, of universal peace, pros-
perity, justice, and happiness was about to arrive filled the minds of
the French and those who sympathized with them in the early years of
(be Revolution.

xxu.

NOTES ON COLERIDGE S MINOR POEMS.

38. Supply theme at the beginning of this line.

39. homeward = " to the general heart of human kind."

42. The Angel of the vision. — " And I saw another mighty angel
come down from heaven clothed with a cloud ; and a rainbow was
upon his head, and his face was as it were the sun, and his feet as
pillars of fire." — Revelations, x. i.

38-43. You speak then of the ''iisappointment of that expectation of
the golden age, and tell how Hope, driven back into the lonely recesses
of man's innermost nature, shines there radiantly glorious, tike the
angel seen by St. John, and caiJily and surely, with eyes that never
lose their brightness, looking far on into the future discerns the coming
happiness uf mankind.

45. Orphic = connected with religious mysteries, or spiritual. From
Orpheus, a mythical Greek poet and musician, to whom was attributed
the institution of the Dionysian and other mysteries. The Greek
mysteries were religious rites performed in secret in the presence only
of those who had been initiated by a special ceremony.

51. one visible space = the stars.

56. gradual = increasing by degrees. From the Latin gradiis, a step.

58 and 59. Compare Milton's

" Linked sweetness long drawn out."

61-75. This outburst of "elf-reproach was probably awakened by
the following passage in the last >iook of The Prelude :

" Beloved Friend !
When, looking back, thou seest, in clearer view
Than any liveliest sight of yesterday.
That summer, under whose indulgent skies,
Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved
Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs.
Thou in bewitching words, with happy heart,
Didst chaunt the vision of that Ancient Man,
The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes
Didst utter of the Lady Chriftabel ;
And I, associate with such labour, steeped
In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours,
Murmuring of him who, joyous leap, was found,
After the perils of his moonlight ride,
Near the loud waterfall ; or her who sate
In misery near the miserable Thorn —
Whea thou dost to that summer turn th> thoughts,
And hast before thee all which then we were,
To thee in memory of that happiness.
It will be known, by thee at least, my Friend I
Felt, that the history of a Poet's mind
Is labour not unworthy of regard :
To thee the work shall justify itself.**

TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

xxin.

71-75. The syntax is not obvious, but the' sense is clear. One of the
throng of pains is the sense that all the fruits of observation, of study,
and of intercourse with Wordsworth will not serve as the material for
any great work worthy of himself, but will remain mere unproductive
accomplishments, of an ornamental, but by no means useful nature, to
be buried with their possessor. For the construction supply sense 0/
before " all " in 1. 71, and being before •• but flowers " in 1. 73.

76. That way no more I = No more self-reproaching.

77. herald's gfuise. — As the herald in the Middle Ages proclaimed
the names and titles of those whom he introduced, so Coleridge had
proclaimed Wordsworth's title to immortality. See 11. 49 and 50.

81. such intertwine = the intertwining of the fruit of the tree of
self- harm with the materials of which triumphal wreaths should pro-
perly be composed. The triumph was a Roman military ceremony,
and the general in whose honour it was celebrated wore a wreath of
laurel.

83. that hour. — Part of the year 1797. See passage quoted in note
on 11. 61-75, the Life of Coleridge at the beginning of this volume, and
the notes on The Ancient Mariner.

84. nobler. — Notice the admission.

87. The tumult rose and ceased. — That is, the tumult in his own
breast, described in 11. 61-75,

89-91. " His [Coleridge's] prose works are one long explanation of
all that is involved in that famous distinction between the Fancy and
the Imagination. Of what is understood by both [Coleridge and
Wordsworth] as the imaginative quality in the use of mere poetic
figures, we may take some words of Shakespeare as an example :

•My cousin, Suffolk,
My soul shall keep thine company to heaven :
Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast ! '

The complete infusion here of the figure into the thought, so vividly
realized that, though the birds are not actually mentioned, yet the sense
of their flight, conveyed to us by the single word ' abreast,' comes to
be more than half the thought itself: — this, as the expression of exalted
feeling, is an instance of what Coleridge meant by Imagination. And
this sort of identification of the poet's thought, of himself, with the
fmpge or figure which serves him, is the secret sometimes of a singu-
larly entire realization of that image, which makes this figure of
Coleridge's, for instance, ' imaginative.'

' Amid the growl of more than wintry storms,
The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hour?*
Already on the wing.' "

—Walter H. Pater.

xxIt.

NOTES ON Coleridge's minor poems.

90, The halcyon.— The Greek name for the king-fisher. It was
believed by the ancients to lay its eggs in a calm period in winter, thus
anticipating spring. •' They lay and set about midwinter, when daies
be shortest ; and the time ivhiles they are broody is called the halcyon
daies ; for during that season the sea is calme and nauigable, especially
in the coast of Sicilie." — Holland's Pliny, quoted by Skeat.

In this passage Coleridge compares his "listening heart" to the king,
fisher, the bird of serenity, which in the period of storms already
foresees the advent of the calms of spring.

97. now. — To clear up the construction take this word before " by
thy various strain."

98. stars = thoughts.

loi. As the moon produces tides in the sea, so Wordsworth pro-
duced movements in his auditor's mind. Compare The Ancient Mari-
ner, vi., 5-12.

105. longf-sustained. — The Prelude consists of fourteen books.

zio. Probably a Thought or aspiration or resolve to set himself
free from his bondage to opium, and accomplish something worthy of
his abilities.

YOUTH AND AGE.

••With respect to the date of the admired composition, Youth and
Age, memories and opinions differ. It is the impression of the writer
of this note that the first stanza from ' Verse, a breeze,' to ' liv'd in't
together,' was produced as late as 1824, and that it was subsequently
prefixed to the second stanza, 'Flowers are lovely,' which is said to
have been composed many years before. It appears, from the author's
own statement, . . . that the last verse was not added till 1827, to
which period the poem, considered as a whole, may very well be
assigned." — Sara Coleridge.

To the Division of Coleridge's poems entitled Poems written in
Later Life, in which Youth and Age stands first, there has been prefixed
the following very apposite quotation from Wordsworth :

" To be a Prodigal's favourite — then, worse truth,
A Miser's Pensioner — behold our lot !
O Man ! that from thy fair and shining youth
Age might but take the things Youth needed not ! "

Though the stanzas of this poem differ in length they agree in the
fpUowio^ respects;

Itten in
jrefixed

YOUTH AND AGE.

XXV.

X. The first three lines are preponderating!/ or entirely trochaic.

2. The remaining lines are iambic.

3. The fifth line consists of two iambic feet.

4. The sixth and seventh lines rhyme.

5. The last two lines rhyme.

Note the pleasing effect of varying the metre and the place of the
rhymes in stanzas i and 2.

2. Iambic. — The corresponding lines in the other stanzas are
trochaic.

4. Poesy. — A form from the same root as poetry, but more poetical,
'jnd almost invariably selected when the idea is personified. From a
Greek verb poico, meaning make. Hence maker is sometimes used as
a synonym for poet.

6. woful when. — [Parse "when."]

10. aery, — Derived from the ^^atin word aer, air, through the adjec-
tive aerius, airy ; while airy is formed from the English word air by
adding the English suffix, y. Air comes from the Latin aer through the
French air.

12. Like. — Coleridge's punctuation makes it at first sight doubtful
whether this word qualifies flashed, 1. 11., or body, 1. 16. But from
his having added a dash to the colon at the end of line 11, it seems
right to infer that the mark of exclamation at the end of 1. 15 takes the
place of a comma, and that the syntactical connexion is with body.

those trim skiffs = steamboats. Skiff is used peculiarly here.
It usually denotes a small undecked boat.

unknown of yore. — Shortly after Watts had effected the im-
provements in the steam-engine which have been the means of rendering
it so generally useful, attempts began to be made to utilize it for the
propulsion of boats in both Great Britain and America. It was not,
however, until 1807 that success was realized. The first steamboat was
the invention of Robert Fulton of New York, and ran on the Hudson
River. The first steamboat that ran in Great Britain was set afloat on
the Clyde in 1812.

13. On winding lakes and rivers wide. — Steamboats were first
used on inland waters, and it was for some time a matter of doubt
whether they could be used on the open sea. As the practicability of
doing this was demonstrated between 1815 and 1820 by various voyages,
and by the establishment of several lines of sea-going packets, this line
seems to indicate that the stanza was written before the date assigned
to it by Coleridge'.s daughter.

MACAU LAYS

ESSAY ON

WARREN HASTINGS.

:! li

^ M

Lord Macaulay.

^or0ttt0 :

CANADA PUBLISHING CO,

(limited.)

Prefatory Note on Composition;

Young persons who are set down to write compositions are apt to
labour under the serious difficulty of lack of ideas. To meet this the
Senate of the University of Toronto has decided that the themes for
junior matriculants shall each year be based on a prescribed text, and
that a choice of subjects shall be allowed. The effect of this arrange*
ment, it is hoped, will be that no candidate will come into the examina-
tion hall absolutely void of ideas on tue subjects of the brief essays
which he is expected ^o write there.

But even if his head be furnished with thoughts and facts the young
writer may not be able to express them. In most cases it will be found
that one cause of this inability consists in this, that he does not think
clearly. We are very strongly of opinion, indeed, that no one doe^
think clearly who does not formulate his thoughts in either uttered or
unuttered words. At any rate, this is clear, that no process is so suit-
able for removing confusion from one's ideas as attempting to give
them shape in words.

Numbers of books have been written to assist students to learn to
compose in English. All of these, we presume, have a certain value ;
but none of them can have very much, because no text-book on an art
can have much value. For composition is an art, and, like other arts,
is to be acquired by setting before one s mind an ideal of excellence and
practising until it is attained. Excellence in composition is reached
when one can say what one thinks or tell what one knows so exact. y
that his meaning cannot possibly be mistaken, and so deftly as to give
no avoidable trouble to those who try to understand him. If the
reader can take two meanings out of a sentence, it is faulty ; if it
expresses only one, but in such a way that we cannot without great
pains find it out, it is likewise faulty.

Different persons have different habits of composition, correspond-
ing to differences in their minds. Some write slowly, perfecting every
sentence before they put it down, and never afterwards altering any-

* Consult also Williams' " Compositioa and Practical English." Toronto: Caoada
fublishin^ Co. (Limited.)

ii.

PRRPATORY NOTE ON COMPOSITION.

thing. Others write rapidly and revise and re-revise. For most
beginners the best plan probably is to put down their thoughts in
any form in which they occur and afterwards to correct mistakes,
change the order of sentences, and improve the wording. But every
beginner adopting this plan should bear in mind that it is desirable
that he should so write each successive composition that it will require
less amendment than its immediate predecessor, in order that finally
he may be able to produce a first draught which will need no change
to make it passable.

The following are some of the mistakes which are likely to occur
in juvenile compositions. Firstly, words will be mis-spelt. Secondly,
the sentences will be confused and rambling. The remedy for this is
to write none but short sentences. Very few persons can write good,
.w '^ sentences, and unless they are very good they repel the reader.
Thirdly, the punctuation will be defective, and, in particular, the most
important stop, namely, the period, will be improperly placed. The
remedy for this also is to avoid long sentences. Fourthly, there will
be nominatives without verbs and verbs without nominatives. The
shorter the sentences the less the liability to make this blunder.
Fifthly, some sentences will be misplaced. That is, ideas will be
expressed in one place that ought to be expressed in another.

The preceding enumeration will serve to emphasize the statement
that in composition the formation of sentences is more important than
any other element. The sentence is in a composition what each single
letter is in a written word. Unless each separate letter is well formed
we cannot say that the word is well written as a whole. Now a sentence
may contain either one definite statement or several definite statements
linked together. The sentences of beginners often contain no definite
statement at all, often a number of definite statements inextricably
intertwined and thoroughly confused. For all who have any tendency
to make these or similar blunders the golden rule is: Make your
sentences short and see that each clearly says some one thing. Of
course composition made up entirely of very short sentences will
probably sound monotonous ; but the examiner will, very properly,
overlook the fault, if grammatical accuracy is thereby secured.

Do not be afraid to repeat a word, no matter what the effect on the
sound of the sentence, if you will make your meaning clearer. The
ill-considered use of pronouns is a prolific source of ambiguity. If in
the sentence, He said to his brotiiers that he would arrive before
they did, you mean Jones said to Smith's brothers that Brown would
arrive before the Blacks did, us-" these nouns even though all of theqi
occur in the preceding sentence

LIST OF THEMES FOR COMPOSITION BASED ON
MACAULAY'S WARREN HASTINGS.

1. Warren Hastings.

2. Nuncomar.

3. Sir Elijah Impey.

4. Sir Philip Francis.

5. Edmund Burke.

6. India.

7. The impeachment.

8. The East India Company.

9. The Wars with the Natives during Hastings' Administration.

10. The tyrannical treatment of the Lord of the Holy City of Benares
and of the Ladies of the Princely House of Oude.

11. Should the same rules of morals be applied to the public as to
the private acts of men in authority ?

12. The benefits and evils of British rule in India.

Warren Hastings;

We are inclined to think tiiat we shall best meet the
wishes of our readers, if, instead of minutely examining
this book, we attempt to give, in a way necessarily hasty
and imperfect, our owm view of the life and character of
Mr. Hastings. Our feeling towards him is not exactly that
of the House of Commons which impeached him in 1787 ;
neither is it that of the House of Commons which
uncovered and stood up to receive him in 181 3. He had
great qualities, and he rendered great services to the State.
But to represent him as a man of stainless virtue is to
make him ridiculous ; and from regard for his memory, if
from no other feeling, his friends would have done well to
lend no countenance to such adulation. We believe that,
if he were now living, he would have sufficient judgment
and sufficient greatness of mind to wish to be shown as he
was. He must have known that there were dark spots on
his fame. He might also have felt with pride that the
splendour of his fame would bear many spots. He would
have wished posterity to have a likeness of him, though
an unfavourable likeness, rather than a daub at once
insipid and unnatural, resembling neither him nor anybody
else. *' Paint me as I am," said Oliver Cromwell, while
sitting to young Lely. " If you leave out the scars and
wrinkles, I will not pay you a shilling." Even in such a
trifle, the great Protector showed both his good sense and

* " Memoirs of the Life of Warren Hastings, ^rst Governor-Gen-
(Til of Bon<::jal. Compiled from Original Papers, by the Rev. G. R.

Gi.Eia, M.i^ 3 vols. 8vo. London, 1841."

"•f;i

: r

WARREN HASTINGS.

his magnanimity. He did not wish all that was character-
istic in his countenance to be lost, in the vain attempt to
give him the regular features and smooth blooming cheeks
of the curl-pated minions of James the First. He was
content that his face should go forth marked with all the
blemishes which had been put on it by tim^i, by war, by
sleepless nights^ by anxiety, perhaps by remorse ; but with
valour, policy, authority, and public care written in all its
princely lines. If men truly great knew their own interest,
it is thus that they would wish their minds to be portrayed.

Warren Hastings sprang from ?n ancient and illus-
trious race. It has been affirmed that his pedigree can be
traced back to the great Danish sea-king, whose sails were
long the terror of both coasts of the British Channel, and
who, after many fierce and doubtful struggles, yielded at
last to the valour and genius of Alfred. But the
undoubted splendour of the line of Hastings needs no
illustration from fable. One branch of that line wore, in
the fourteenth century, the coronet of Pembroke. From
another branch sprang the renowned Chamberlain, the
faithful adherent of the White Rose, whose fate has
furnished so striking a theme both to poets and to
historians. His family received from the Tudors the earl-
dom of Huntingdon, which, after long dispossession, was
regained in our time by a series of events scarcely paralleled
in romance.

The lords of the Manor of Daylasford, in Worcester-
shire, claimed to be considered as the heads of this distin-
guished family. The main stock, indeed, prospered less
than some of the younger shoots. But the Daylesford
family, though not ennobled, was wealthy and highly con-
sidered, till, about two hundred years ago, it was over-
whelmed by the great ruin of the civil war. The Hastings
of that time was a zealous cavalier. He raised money on
his lands, sent his plate to the mint at Oxford, joined the
royal army, and, after spending half his property in the
cause of King Ch '.rles, was glad to ransom himself by
making over most of the remaining half to Speaker
Lenthal. Tha old seat at Daylesford still remained in the
family; bi;t it could no longer be kept up ; and in the fol-
lowing generation it was sold to a merchant of London,

con-

^tings

WARREN HASTINGS. |

Before this transfer took place, the last Hastings of
Daylesford had presented his second son to the rectory of
the parish in which the ancient residence of the family
stood. The living was of little value ; and the situation
of the poor clerp^yman, after the sale of the estate, was
deplorable. He was constantly engaged in lawsuits about
his tithes with the new lord of the manor, and was at
length utterly ruined. His eldest son, Howard, a well-
conducted young man, obtained a place in the customs.
TliG second son, Pynaston, an idle wortliless boy, married
before he was sixteen, losr his wife in two years, and died
in the West Indies, leaving to the care of his unfortunate
father a little orphan, destined to strange and memorable
vicissitudes of fortune.

Warren, the son of Pynaston, was born on the sixth of
December, 1732. His mother died a few days later, and
he was left dependent on his distressed grandiather. The
child was early sent to the village school, where he learned
his letters on the same bench v/ith the sons of the
peasantry ; nor did anything in his garb or fare indicate
that his life was to take a widely different course from that
of the young rustics with wliom he studied and played.
Ikit no cloud could overcast the dawn of so much genius
and so much ambition. The very ploughmen observed,
and long remembered, how kindly little Warren took to his
book. The daily siglit of the lands which his ancestors
had possessed, and which had passed into the hands of
strangers, filled his young brain with wild fancies and
projects. He loved to hear stories of the wealth and great-
ness of his progenitors, of their splendid housekeeping,
their loyalty, and their valour. On one bright summer
day, the boy, then just seven years old, lay on the bank of
the rivulet which flows through the old domain of his
house to join the Isis. There, as threescore and ten years
later he told the tale, rose in his mind a scheme which,
through all the turns of his eventful career, was never
abandoned. He would recover the estate which had
belonged to his fathers. He would be Hastings of Dayles-
ford. This purpose, formed in infancy and poverty, grew
stronger as his intellect expanded and as his fortune rose.
He pursuc^d his plan with that <?alm but indpmitable force

WARREN HASTINGS.

of will which was the most strikin,^ peculiarity of his
character. When, under a tropical sun, he ruled fifty
millions of Asiatics, his hopes, amidst all the cares of war,
finance, and lej^islation, still pointed to Daylesford. And
when his lon;^ pul)lic life, so sin;4ularly chequered with
good and evil, with j^lory and obloquy, had at length closed
for ever, it was to Daylesford that he retired to die.

When he was eight years old, his uncle Howard deter-
mined to take charge of him, and to give him a liberal
education. The boy went up to London, and was sent to
a school at Nevvington, where he was well taught but ill
fed. He always attributed tiie smallness of his stature to
the hard and scanty fare of this seminary. At ten he was
removed to Westminster School, then flourishing under
the care of Dr. Nichols. Vinny Bourne, as his pupils
affectionately called him, was one of the masters.
Churchill, Colman, Lloyd, Cumberland, Covvper, were
among the students. With Cowper, Hastings formed a
friendsliip wiiich neither the lapse of time, nor a wide
dissimilarity of opinions and pursuits, could wholly
dissolve. It does not appear that they ever met after they
had grown to manhood. But forty years later, when the
voices of many great orators Vv^ere crying for vengeance on
the oppressor of India, the shy and secluded poet could
image to himself Hastings the Governor-General only as
the Hastings with whom he had rowed on the Thames and
played in the cloister, and refused to believe that so good-
tempered a fellow could have done anything very wrong.
His own life had been spent in praying, musing, and
rliyming among the water-lilies of the OuL:e. He had
preserv^ed in no common measure the innocence of child-
hood. His spirit had indeed been severely tried, but not
by temptations wliich impelled him to any gross violation
of the rules of social morality. He had never been
attacked by combinations of powerful and deadly enemies.
He had never been compelled to make a choice between
innocence and greatness, between crime and ruin. Firmly
as he held in theory the doctrine of human depravity, Jiis
habits were sucli that he was unable to conceive liow far
from the path of riglit even kind and noble naturis ;;,r'.v be
hurried bv the rage of conflict and tlie lust of tlorniiiicn

WARREN HASTINGS.

c'Lllcl

had
:hild-
It not
ition
Ibeen
Inies.
Lvccn
Irmly

far
\v be

'ten

H'^ stings had another associatv^ at Westminster of
whom we shall have occasion to make frequent mention,
Elijah Impey. We know little about their school days.
But, we think, we may safely venture to guess that, when-
ever Hastings wished to play any trick more than usually
naughty, he hired Impey with a tart or a ball to act as fag
in the worst part of the prank.

Warren was distinguished among his comrades as an
excellent swimmer, boatman, and scholar. At fourteen he
was first in the examination for the foundation. His
name in gilded letters on the walls of the dormitory still
attests his victory over many older competitors. He
stayed two years longer at the school, and was looking
forward to a studentship at Christ Church, when an event
happened which clianged the whole course of his life.
Howard Hastings died, bequeathing his nephew to the
care of a friend and distant relation, named Chiswick.
This gentleman, though lie did not absolutely refuse the
charge, was desirous to rid himself of it as soon as possible.
Dr. Nichols made strong remonstrances against the cruelty
of interrupting the studies of a youth who seemed likely
to be one of the first scholars of the age. He even offered
to bear the expense of sending his favourite pupil to
Oxford. But Mr. Chiswick was inflexible. He thought
the years which had already been wasted on hexameters
and pentameters quite sufficient. He had it in his power
to obtain for the lad a writership in the service of the East
India Company. Whether the young adventurer, when
once shipped off, made a fortune, or died of a liver com-
plaint, he equally ceased to be a burden to any body.
Warren was accordingly removed from Westminster
school, and placed for a few months at a commercial
icademy, to study arithmetic and book-keeping. In Janu-
ary 1750, a few days after he had completed his seven-
teenth year, he sailed for Bengal, and arrived at his desti-
nation in the October following.

He was immediately placed at a desk in the Secretary's
office at Calcutta, and laboured there during two year.s.
Fort William was then purely a commercial settlement.
In the south of India the encroaching policy of Dupleix
'aad transformc 1 the servants of the English Company,

^g"*>*'^

WARREN HASTINGS.

against their will, into diplomatists and generals. The
war of the succession was raginj^ in the Carnatic ; and the
tide had been suddenly turned against the French by the
genius of young Robert Clive. But in Bengal the Euro-
pean settlers, at peace with tlie natives and with each
other, were wholly occupied with ledgers and bills of
lading.

After two years passed in keeping accounts at Calcutta,
Hastings was sent up the country to Cossimbazar, a town
which lies on the Hoogley, about a mile from Moorsheda-
bad, and which then bore to Moorshedabad a relation, if
we may compare small things with great, such as the city
of London bears to Westminster. Moorshedabad was the
abode of the prince who, by an authority ostensibly
derived from the Mogul, but really independent, ruled the
three great provinces of Bengal, Orissa, and Bahar. At
Moorshedabad were the court, the harem, and the public
offices. Cossimbazar was a port and a place of trade,
renowned for the quantity and excellence of the silks
which were sold in its marts, and constantly receiving and
sending forth fleets of richly laden barges. At this im-
portant point, the Company liad established a small
':ictc,-y subordinate to that of Fort William. Here,
during several years, Hastings was employed in making
bargains for stuffs wiiu native brokers. While he was
thus engaged, Surajah Dowlah succeeded to the govern-

mcnt, and declared war

against

the Lnjrlish. The

defenceless setilement of Cossimbazar, lying close to the
tyrant's capital, was instantly seized. Hastings was sent
a prisoner to Moorshedabad, but, in consequence of the
humane intervention of tlie servants of the Dutch Com-
pany, was treated with indulgence. Meanwhile the N ibob
marched on Calcutta ; the governor and the commandant
lied; the town and citadel were taken, and most of the
English prisoners perished in tiie Black Hole.

In these events originated the greatness of Warren
Hastings. The fugitive governor and his companions had
taken refuge on the dreary islet of Fulda, near the mouth
of the Hoogley. They were naturally desirous to obtain
full information respecting the proceedings of the Nabob ;
and no person seemed so like'y to furnish it as Hastings,

WARREN HASTINGS.

the

Ten

Who was a prisoner at large in the immediate neighbour-
hood of the court. He tlius became a diplomatic agent,
and soon established a high character for ability and
resolution. The treason which at a later period was fatal
to Surajah Dowlah was already in progress ; and Hastings
was admitted to the deliberations of the conspirators.
But the time for striking had not arrived. It was neces-
sary to postpone the execution of the design ; and Hast-
ings, who was now in extreme peril, fled to Fulda.

Soon after his arrival at Fulda, the expedition irom
Madras, commanded by Clive, appeared in the Hoogley.
Warren, young, intrepid, and excited probably by the
example of the Commander of the Forces who, having
like himself been a mercantile agent of the Company, had
been turned by public calamities into a soldier, determined
to serve in the ranks. During the early operations of the
war he carried a musket. But the quick eye of Clive soon
perceived that the head of the young volunteer would be
more useful than his arm. When, after the battle of
Plassey, Meer Jaffier was proclaimed Nabob of Bengal,
Hastings was appointed to reside at the court of the new
prince as agent for the Company.

He remained at Moorshedabad till the year 1761, when
he became a Member of Council, and was consequently
forced to reside at Calcutta. This was during the interval
between Clive's first and second administration, an interval
which has left on the fame of the East India Company a
stain not wholly effaced by many years of just and humane
government. Mr. Vansittart, the Governor, was at the
head of a new and anomalous empire. On one side was a
band of English fuiictionaries, daring, intelligent, eager to
be rich. On the other side was a great native population,
helpless, timid, accustomed to crouch under oppression.
To keep the stronger race from preying on the weaker, was
an undertaking which tasked to the utmost the talents and
energy of Clive. Vansittart, with fair intentions, was a
feeble and inefficient ruler. The master caste, as was
natural, broke loose from all restraint ; and then was seen
what we belive to be the most frightful of all spectacles,
the strength of civilization without its mercy. To all
other despotism there is a check, imperfect, indeed, and

WARREN HASTINGS.

liable to gross abuse, but still sufficient to preserve society
from the last extreme of misery. A time comes when the
evils of submission are obviously greater than those of
resistance, when fear itself begets a sort of courage, when
a convulsive burst of popular rage and despair warns
tyrants not to presume too far on tlie patience of mankind.
But against misgovernment such as then afflicted IJengal
it was impossible to struggle. The superior intelligence
and energy of tlie dominant class made their power irre-
sistible. A war of Bengalees against Englislmi >n was like
a war of sheep against wolves, of men against demons.
The only protection which the conquered could find was in
the moderation, the clemency, the enlarged policy of the
conquerors. That protection, at a later period, they found.
But at first English power came among them unaccom-
panied by English morality. Tii(re was an interval
between the time at which they became our subjects, and
the time at wliicli we began to reflect that we were bound
to discharge towards them the duties of rulers. During
that interval the business of a servant of the Company
was simply to wring out of the natives a hundred or two
hundred thousand pounds as speedily as possible, that he
might return home before his constitution had suffered
from the heat, to marry a peer's daughter, to buy rotten
boroughs in Cornwall, and to give balls in St. James's
Square. Of the conduct of Hastings at this time little is
known ; but the little that is known, and the circumstance
that little is known, must be considered as honourable to
him. He could not protect the natives : all that he could do
was to abstain from plundering and oppressing them ; and
this he appears to have done. It is certain that at this
time he continued poor ; and it is equally certain that by
cruelty and dishonesty he might easily have become rich.
It is certain that he was never charged with having borne
a share in the worst abuses which then prevailed ; and it
is almost equally certain that, if he had borne a share in
those abuses, the able and bitter enemies who afterwards
persecuted him would not have failed to discover and to
proclaim his guilt. The keen, severe, and even malevolent
scrutiny to which his whole public life was subjected, a
scrutiny unparalleled, as we believe, in the history of man-

WARRKN HASTINGS.

idnrl, is in one respect advantaj::fcoiis to liis reput.'ition. It
hrouf^ht many lamentable blemishes to li<,dit ; but it
entitles him to be considered pure from every blemish
which has not been brouf^ht to lii;ht.

The truth is that the temptations to which so many
Enj^dish functionaries yielded in lh(> time of Mr. Vansittart
W(Te not temj^tations addressed to the ruliuf^ ]V'issions of
Warren Hastings. He was not sfjuiamish in ])ecuniary
transactions ; but lie was neither -orditl nor rapacious.
He was far too enlightened a man to look <m a ^rcat empire
mercdy as a buccaneer would look on a J^^lll(.'on. Had his
heart been much worse than it was, his understanduij^
would have preserved him from that extremity of baseness.
He was an unscrupulous, perhaps an unprincipled states-
man ; but still he was a statesman, and not a freebooter.

In 1764 Hastings returned to England. He had real-
ised only a very moderate fortune ; and that moderate
fortune was soon reduced to nothing, partly by his praise-
worthy liberality, and partly by his mismanagement. To-
wards his relations he appears to have acted very gener-
ously. The greater part of his savings he left in Bengal,
hoping probal)ly to obtain the high usury of India. Ihit
In'gh usury and bad security generally go together; and
Hastings lost both interest and principal.

He remained four years in England. Of his life at this
time very little is known. But it has been asserted, and is
highly probable, that liberal studies and the society of men
c/f letters occupied a great part of his time. It is to be
remembered to his honour that, in days when the languages
of the East were regarded by other servants of the Com-
pany merely as the means of communicating with weavers
and money-changers, his enlarged and accomplished mind
sought in Asiatic learning for new forms c)f intellectual
enjoyment, and for new views of government and society.
Perhaps, like most persons who have paid much attention
ti departments of knowledge which lie out of the comnion
track, he was inclined to overrate the value of his favourite
s:tudies. He conceived that the cultivation of Persian
literature might v/ith advantage be made a part of the
liberal education of an English gentleman ; and he drew
up a plan with that vfew. It is said that the University of

WARREN HASTINGS.

Oxford, in ^vhicll Oriental Icarnin^^ liad never, since the
revival of letters, been wholly ne^deeted, was to be the seat
of the institution which he contemplated. An endowment
was expected from the munificence of the Company ; and
professors thoroughly ct)mpetent to interpret Haliz and
Ferdusi were to be engagetl in tiie East. Hastings called
on Johnson, with the hope, as it should s(!em, of interesting
in this project a man who enjoyed the highest literary
reputation, and who was particularly connected with
Oxford. The interview appears to have left on Johnson's
mind a most favourable impression of tiie talents and
attainments of his visitor. Long after, when Hastings was
ruling the immense population of British India, the old
philosopher wrote to him, and referred in the most courtly
lerms, though with great dignity, to their short but agree-
able intercourse.

Hastings soon began to look again towards India. He
had little to attach him to England ; and his pecuniary
embarrassments were great. He solicited his old masters
the Directors for employment. They acceded to his re-
quest, with high compliments both to his abilities and to
his integrit}^ and appointed him a Member of Council at
Madras. It would be unjust not to mention that, though
forced to borrow money for his outfit, he did not withdraw
any portion of the sum which he had appropriated to the
relief of his distressed relations. In the spring of 1769 he
embarked on board of the Duke of Grafton, and commenced
a voyage distinguished by incidents which might furnish
matter for a novel.

Among the passengers in the Duke of Grafton was a
German of the name of Imhoff. He called himself a Baron ;
but he was in distressed circumstances, and was going out
to Madras as a portrait-painter, in the hope of picking up
some of the pagodas which were then "lightly got and as
lightly spent by the English in India. The Baron was
accompanied by his wife, a native, we have somewhere
read, of Archangel. This young woman, who, born under
the Arctic circle, was destined to play the part of a Queen
under the tropic of Cancer, had an agreeable person, a
cultivated mind, and manners in the highest degree engag-
ing. She despised her husband heartily, and, as the

WARUIiN HASTINGS,

igup
id as
was
^here
inder
lueen
m, a

»gag-
the

i^tory which we liavc to tell sufficiently proves, )iot without
reason. Slie was interested by tlie conversation and
Mattered by the attentionsof Haslin<:!'s. Tiie situation was
indeed j)erilous. No place is so propitious to tlie formation
cither of close friendships or of deadily enmities as an India-
man. There are very few people who do not find a voyage
which lasts several months insupportably dull. Anything
is welcome which may break that long monotony, a sail, a
shark, an albatross, a man overboard. Most passengers
find some resource in eating twice as many meals as on
land, lint the great devices for killing the time are quar-
relling and flirting. The facilities for both these exciting
pursuits are great. The inmates of the ship are thrown
together far more th^.n in any country-seat or boarding-
house. None can escape from the rest except by impris-
oning himself in a cell in which he can hardly turn. All
food, all exercise, is taken in company. Ceremony is to a
great extent banished. It is every day in the power of a
mischievous person to inflict innumerable annoyances. It
is every day in the power of an amiable person to confer
little services. It not seldom happens that serious distress
and danger call forth, in genuine beauty and deformity,
heroic virtues and abject vices, which, in the ordinary ipter-
course of good society, might remain during many years
unknown even to intimate associates. Under such circum-
stances met Warren Hastings and the Baroness Imhoff,
two persons whose accomplishments would have attracted
notice in any court of Europe. Tlie gentleman had no
domestic ties. The lady was tied to a husband for whom
she had no regard, and who had no regard for his own
honour. An attachment sprang up, which was soon
strengthened by events such as could hardly have occurred
on land. Hastings fell ill. The Baroness nursed him with
womanly tenderness, gave him his medicines with her own
hand, and even sat up in his cabin while he slept. Long
before the Duke of Grafton reached Madras, Hastings
was in love. But his love was of a most characteristic
description. Like his hatred, like his ambition, like all
his passions, it was strong, but not impetuous. It was
calm, deep, earnest, patient of delay, unconquerable by
time. Imhoff was called into council by his wife and his

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WARRHN HASTINGS.

wife's lover. It was firran^^ed that the Ijaroncss should
institute a suit for a (hvorce in the courts of Franconia,
that the Baron should afford every facihty to the proceed-
ing, and that; duriiiL,' the years wjiich might elapse before
the sentence should be pronounced, they should continue
to live together. It was also agreed that Hastings should
bestow some very substantial marks of gratitude on the
complaisant husband, and should, when the marriage was
dissolved, make tlie lady his wife, and adopt the children
whom she had already borne to Imhoff.

At Madras, Hastings found the trade of the Company
in a very disorganized state. His own tastes would have
led him rather to political than to commercial pursuits ;
but he knew that the favour of his employers depended
chiefly on their dividends, and that their dividends depend-
ed chiefly on the investment. He, therefore, with great
judgment, determined to apply his vigorous mind for a time
to this department of business, which had been much
neglected, since the servants of the Company had ceased
to be clerks, and had become warriors and negotiators.

In a very few months he effected an important reform.
The Directors notified to him their high approbation, and
were so much pleased with his conduct that they deter-
mined to place him at the head of the government of Ben-
gal. Early in 1772 he quitted Fort St. George for his new
post. The Imhoffs, who were still man and wife, accom-
panied him, and lived at Calcutta on the same plan which
they had already followed during more than two years.

When Hastings took his seat at ths head of the council
board, Bengal was still governed according to the system
which Clive had devised, a system which was, perhaps,
skilfully contrived for the purpose of facilitating and con-
cealing a great revolution, but, which, when that revolution
was complete and irrevocable, could produce nothing but
inconvenience. There were two governments, the real and
the ostensible. The supreme power belonged to the Com-
pany, and was in trutli the most despotic power that can be
conceived. The only restraint on the English masters of
the country was that which their own justice and humanity
imposed on them. There was no constitutional check on
their will, and resistance to them was utterly hopeless.

WARREN HASTINGS.

But lliough thus absolute in reality the Enpjlish had not
yet assumed the style of sovereignty. They held tiieir
territories as vassals of the throne of Delhi ; they raised
their revenues as collectors appointed by the imperial com-
mission ; their public seal was inscribed with the imperial
titles ; and their mint struck only the imperial coin.

There was still a nabob of Bengal, who stood to the
Lnglish rulers of his country in the same relation in which
Augustulus stood to Odoacer, or the last Merovingians to
Charles Martel and Pepin. He lived at Moorshedabad,
surrounded by princely magnificence. He was approached
with outward marks of reverence, and his name was used in
public instruments. But in the government of the country
he had less real share than the youngest writer or cadet in
the Company's service.

The English council which represented the Company at
Calcutta was constituted on a very different plan from that
which has since been adopted. At present the Governor is,
as to all executive measures, absolute. He can declare
war, conclude peace, appoint public functionaries or re-
move them, in opposition to the unanimous sense of those
who sit with him in council. They are, indeed, entitled to
know all that is done, to discuss all that is done, to advise,
to remonstrate, to send protests to England. But it is
with the Governor that the supreme power resides, and on
him that the whole responsibility resis. This system, which
was introduced by Mr. Pitt and Mr. Dundas in spite of the
strenuous opposition of Mr. Burke, we conceive to be on
the whole the best that was ever devised for the govern-
ment of a country where no materials can be found for a
representative constitution. In the time of Hastings the
Governor had only one vote in council, and, in case of an
equal division, a casting vote. It therefore happened not
unfrequently that he was overruled on the gravest ques-
tions ; and it was possible that he might be wholly exclud-
ed, for years together, from the real direction of public
affairs.

The English functionaries at Fort William had as yet
paid little or no attention to the internal government of
Bengal. The only branch of politics about which they
much busied themselves was negotiation with the native

All

Warren Mastimgs.

•

princes. The police, the administration of justice, the
details of the collection of revenue, were almost entirely
neglected. We may remark that the phraseology of the
Company's servants still bears the traces of this state of
things. To this day they always use the word ** political"
as synonymous with " diplomatic." We could name a
gentleman still living, who was described [)y the highest
authority as an invaluable public servant, eminently fit to
be at the head of the internal administration of a whole
presidency, but unfortunately quite ignorant of all political
business.

The internal government of Bengal the English rulers
delegated to a great native minister, who was stationed at
Moorshedabad, All military affairs, and, with the excep-
tion of what pertains to mere ceremonial, all foreign affairs,
were withdrawn from his control ; but the other depart-
ments of the administration were entirely confided to him.
His own stipend amounted to near a hundred thousand
pounds sterling a year. The personal allowance of the
nabob, amounting to more than three hundred thousand
pounds a year, passed through the minister's hands, and
was, to a great extent, at his disposal. The collection of
the revenue, the administration of justice, the maintenance
of order, were left to this high functionary ; and for the
exercise of his immense power he was responsible to none
but the British masters of the country.

A situation so important, lucrative, and splendid, was
naturally an object of ambition to the ablest and most
powerful natives. Clive had found it difficult to decide
between conflicting pretensions. Two candidates stood
out prominently from the crowd, each of them the repre-
sentative of a race and of a religion.

One of these was Mahommed Reza Khan, a Mussul-
man of Persian extraction, able, active, religious after the
fashion of his people, and highly esteemed by them. In
England he might perhaps have been regarded as a cor-
rupt and greedy politician. But, tried by the lower
standard of Indian morality, he might be considered as a
man of integrity and honour.

His competitor was a Hindoo Brahmin whose name
has, by a terrible and melancholy event, been inseparably

WARREN HASTINGS.

associated with that of Warren Hastings, the Maharajah
Nuncomar. This man had played an important part in all
the revolutions which, since the time of Surajah Dowlah,
had taken place in Bengal. To the consideration which in
that country belongs to high and pure caste, he added the
weight which is derived from wealth, talents, and experi-
ence. Of his moral character it is difficult to give a notion
to those who are acquainted vath human nature only as it
appears in our island. What the Italian is to the English-
man, what the Hindoo is to the Italian, what the Bengalee
is to other Hindoos, that was Nuncomar to other Bengalees.
The physical organization of the Bengalee is feeble even to
effeminacy. He lives in a constant vapour bath. His pur-
suits are sedentary, his limbs delicate, his movements
languid. During many ages he has been trampled upon
by men of bolder and more hardy breeds. Courage, inde-
pendence, veracity, are qualities to which his constitution
and his situation are equally unfavourable. His mind
bears a singular analogy to his body. It is weak even to
helplessness for purposes of manly resistance ; but its
suppleness and its tact move the children of sterner climates
to admiration not unmingled with contempt. All those arts
which are the natural defence of the weak are more familiar
to this subtle race than to the Ionian of the time of Juvenal,
or to the Jew of the dark ages. What the horns are to the
buffalo, what the paw is to the tiger, what the sting is to
the bee, what beauty, according to the old Geeek song, is
to woman, deceit is to the Bengalee. Large promises,
smooth excuses, elaborate tissues of circumstantial false-
hood, chicanery, perjury, forgery, are the weapons, offensive
and defensive, of the people of the Lower Ganges. All
those millions do not furnish one sepoy to the armies of
the Company. But as usurers, as money-changers, as sharp
legal practitioners, no class of human beings can bear a
comparison with them. With all his softness, the Bengalee
is by no means placable in his enmities or prone to pity.
The pertinacity with which he adheres to his purposes yields
only to the immediate pressure of fear. Nor does he lack
a certain kind of courage which is often wanting to his
masters. To inevitable evils he is sometimes found to
oppose a passive fortitude, such as the Stoics attributed to

WARREN HASTINGS.

their ideal sajje. An European warrior who rushes on a
battery of cannon with a loud hurrah, will sometimes shriek
under the surgeon's knife, and fail into an agony of despair
at the sentence of death. But the Bengalee, who wouKl
see his country overrun, his house laid in ashes, his children
murdered or dishonoured, without having the. spirit to strike
one blow, has yet been known to endure torture with the
firmness of Mucins, and to mount the scaffold with tlie
steady step and even pulse of Algernon Sidney.

In Nuncomar, the national character was strongly and
with exaggeration personified. The Company's servants
had repeatedly detected him in the most criminal intrigues.
On one occasion he brought a false charge against another
Hindoo, and tried to substantiate it by producing forged
documents. On another occasion it was discovered that,
while professing the strongest attachment to the English,
he was engaged in several conspiracies against them, and
in particular that he was the medium of a correspondence
between the Court of Delhi and the French authorities ir.
tha Carnatic. For these and similiar practices he had been
lon'.( detained in confinement. But his talents and influence
had not only procured his liberation, but had obtained for
him a certain degree of consideration even among the
British rulers of his country.

Clive was extremely unwilling to place a Mussulman
at tlic head of the administration of Bengal. On the other
hand, he could not bring himself to confer immense power
on a man to whom every sort of villainy had repeatedly been
brought home. Therefore, though the nabob, over whom
Nuncomar had by intrigue acquired great influence, begged
that the artful Hindoo might be intrusted with the Govern-
ment, Clive, after some hesitation, decided honestly and
wisely in favour of Mahommed Reza Khan. When Hast-
ings became Governor, Mahommed Reza Khan had held
p:)wer seven years. An infant son of Meer Jaffier was now
ni!)ob; and the guardianship of the young prince's person
hd 1 been confided to the minister.

Nuncomar, stimulated at once by cupidity and malice,
had been constantly attempting to hurt the reputation ol
his successful rival. This was not difficult. The revenues
of Bengal, under the administration established by Clive,

WA'^REN HASTINGS.

les on a

;s shriek
[despair
o would
children
to strike
with the
with the

igly and

servants

intrigues.

t another

ig forged

ired that,

Enghsh,

hem, and

pondencc

lorities ir,

had been

influence

tained fi)i

iiong the

ussulman
the other
ise power
jedly been
er whom
:e, begged
Govern-
;stly and
len Hast-
had held
was now
;'s person

malice,

itation oi

revenues

)y CUve,

did not yield such a surplus as had been anticipated by the
Company; for, at that time, the most absurd notions were
entertained in England respecting the wealth of India.
Palaces of porphyry, hung with the richest brocade, heaps
of pearls and diamonds, vaults from which pagodas and
gold mohurs were measured out by the bushel, filled the
imagination even of men of business. Nobody seemed to
be aware of what nevertheless was most undoubtedly the
truth, that India was a poorer country than countries which
in Europe are reckoned poor, than Ireland, for example,
or than Portugal. It was confidently believed by Lords of
the Treasury and members for the city that Bengal would
not only defray its own charges, but would afford an
increased dividend to the proprietors of Indian stock, and
large relief to :he English finances. These absurd expec-
tations were disappointed; and the Directors, naturally
enough, chose to attribute the disappointment rather to the
mismanagement of Mahommed Reza Khan than to their
own ignorance of the country intrusted to their care. They
were confirmed in their error by the agents of Nuncomar ;
for Nuncomar had agents even in Leadenhall Street. Soon
after Hastings reached Calcutta, he received a letter
addressed by the Court of Directors, not to the Council
generally, but to himself in particular. He was directed
to remove Mahommed Reza Khan, to arrest him together
with all his family and all his partisans, and to institute a
strict inquiry into the whole administration of the province.
It was added that the Governor would do well to avail
himself of the assistance of Nuncomar in the investigation.
The vices of Nuncomar were acknowledged. But even
from his vices, it was said, much advantage might at such
a conjuncture be derived ; and, though he could not safely
be trusted, it might still be proper to encourage him by
hopes of reward.

The Governor bore no good will to Nuncomar. Many
years before, they had known each other at Moorshedabad ;
and then a quarrel had arisen between them which all the
authority of their superiors could hardly compose. Widely
as they differed in most points, they resembled each other
in this, that both were men of unforgiving natures. To
Mahommed Tveza Khan, on the other hand, Hastings had

WARREN HASTINGS.

no feelings of hostility. Nevertheless he proceeded to
execute the instructions of the Company with an alacrity
which he never showed, except when instructions were in
perfect conformity with his own views. He had, wisely as
we think, determined to get rid of the system of double
government in Bengal. The orders of the Directors fur-
nished him with the means of effecting his purpose, and
dispensed him from the necessity of discussing the matter
with his Council. He took his measures with his usual
vigour and dexterity. At midnight, the palace of Mahom-
med Reza Khan at Moorshedabad was surrounded by a
battalion of sepoys. The Minister was roused from his
slumbers and informed that he was a prisoner. With the
Mussulman gravity, he bent his head and submitted himself
to the will of God. He fell not alone. A chief named
Schitab Roy had been intrusted with the government of
Bahar. His valour and his attachment to the English
had more than once been signally proved. On the memor-
able day on which the people of Patna saw from their walls
the wiiole army of the Mogul scattered by the little band
of Captain Knox, the voice of the British conquerors
assigned the palm of gallantry to the brave Asiatic. " I
never," said Knox, when he introduced Schitab Roy, covered
with blood and dust, to the English functionaries assembled
in the factory, " I never saw a native fight so before."
Schitab Roy was involved in the ruin of Mahommed Reza
Khan, was removed from office, and was placed under
arrest. The members of the Council received no intimation
of these measures till the prisoners were on their road to
Calcutta.

The inquiry into the conduct of the minister was post-
poned on different pretences. He was detained in an easy
confinement during many months. In the mean time, the
great revolution which Hastings had planned was carried
into effect. The office of minister was abolished. The
internal administration was transferred to the servants of
the Company. A system, a very imperfect system, it is
true, of civil and criminal justice, under English superin-
tendence, was established. The nabob was no longer to
have even an ostensible share in the government ; but he
was Still to receive a considerable annual allowance, and to

WARREN HASTINGS.

d to

crity

ire in

jly as

ouble

i fur-

, and

latter

usual

ihom-

. by a

m his

:h the

limself

lamed

ent of

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lemor-

r walls

5 band

luerors
, a T

overed
mbled
efore."
Reza
under
[nation
oad to

s post-
in easy
ne, the
;arried
The
ants of
it is
iperin-
iger to
but he
land to

he surrounded with the state of sovereignty. As he was an
infant, it was necessary to provide guardians for his person
and property. His person was intrusted to a lady of his
father's harem, known by the name of the Munny 13egum.
The office of treasurer of the household was bestowed on
a son of Nuncomar, named Goordas. Nuncomar's services
were wanted ; yet he*could not safely be trusted with power ;
and Hastings thought it a masterstroke of policy to reward
the able and unprincipled parent by promoting theinoflen-
sive child.

The revolution completed, the double government dis-
solved, the Company installed in the full sovereignty of
Bengal, Hastings had no motive to treat the late ministers
with rigour. Their trial had been put ofT on various pleas
till the new organization was complete. They were then
brought before a committee, over which the Governor pre-
sided. Schitab Roy was speedily acquitted with honour.
A formal apology was made to him for the restraint to
which he had been subjected. All the Eastern marks of
respect were bestowed on him. He was clothed in a robe
of state, presented with jewels and with a richly harnessed
elephant, and sent back to his government at Patna. But
his health had suffered from confinement ; his high spirit
had been cruelly wounded ; and soon after his liberation
he died of a broken heart.

The innocence of Mahommed Reza Khan was not so
clearly established. But the Governor was not disposed
to deal harshly. After a long hearing, in which Nqncomar
appeared as the accuser, and displayed both the art and
the inveterate rancour which distinguished him, Hastings
pronounced that the charge had not been made out, and
ordered the fallen minister to be set at liberty.

Nuncomar had proposed to destroy the Mussulman
administration, and to rise on its ruin. Both his male-
volence and his cupidity Lad been disappointed. Hastings
had made h'm a tool, had used him for the purpose of
accomplishing the transfer of the governinent from Moor-
shedabad to Calcutta, from native to European hands.
Tlio rival, the enemy, so long envied, so implacably per-
secuted, had been dismissed unhurt. The situation so
long and ardently desired had been abolished. It was

>!1

WARREN HASTINGS.

natural tnat the Governor should be frcm that time an
object of the most intense hatred to the vindictive Brah-
min. As yet, however, it was necessary to suppress such
feelings. The time was coming when that long animosity
was to end in a desperate and deadly struggle.

In the mean time, Hastings was compelled to turn his
attention to foreign affairs The object of his diplomacy
was at this time simply , get money. The finances of
his government were in an embarrassed state, and this
embarrassment he was determined to relieve by some
means, fair or foul. The principle which directed all his
dealings with his neighbours is fully express d by the oM
motto of one of the great predatory families of Teviotdale,
" Thou shalt want ere I want." He seems to have laid it
down, as a fundamental proposition which could not be dis-
puted, that, when he had not as many lacs of rupees as the
public service required, he was to take them from anybody
who had. One thing, indeed, is to be said in excuse for
him. The pressure applied to him by his employers at
home, was such as only the highest virtue could have with-
stood, such as left him no choice except to commit great
wrongs, or to resign his high post, and with that post
all his hopes of fortune and distinction. The Directors, it
is true, never enjoined or applauded any crime. Far from
it. Whoever examines their letters written at that time,
will find there many just and humane sentiments, many
excellent precepts, in short, an admirable code of political
ethics. But every exhortation is modified or nullified by a
demand for money. " Govern leniently, and send more
money ; practise strict justice and moderation towards
neighbouring powers, and send more money :" this is, in
truth, the sum of almost all the instructions that Hastings
ever received from home. Now these instructions, being
interpreted, mean simply : " Be the father and the oppressor
of the people ; be just and unjust, moderate and rapacious."
The Directors dealt with India, as the Church, in good old
times, dealt with a heretic. They delivered the victim
over to the executioners, with an earnest request that all
possible tenderness might be shown. We by no means
accuse or suspect those who framed these despatches of
hypocrisy. It is probable that, writing fifteen thousand

WARItBN HAStlNCft.

ime an
5 Brah-

ss such
imosity

urn his
ilomacy
nces of
nd this
y some
I all his
the old
riotdale,
e laid it
t be dis-
ss as the
inybody
[cuse for
oyers at
ive with-
nit great
Kat post
ctors, it
ar from
at time,
s, many
political
Ified by a
Ind more
towards
|iis is, in
[astings
IS, being
)pressor
facious."
rood old
victim
that all
means
Ltches of
housand

miles from the place where their orders were to be carried
into effect, they never perceived the gross inconsistency
of which they were guilty. But the inconsistency was at
once manifest to their vicegerent at Calcutta, who, with
i. n empty treasury, with an unpaid army, with his own
salary often in arrear, with deficient crops, with govern-
ment tenants daily running away, was called upon to
remit home another half million without fail. Hastings
saw that it was absolutely necessary for him to disregard
either the moral discourses or the pecuniary requisitions
of his employers. Being forced to disobey them in some-
thing, he had to consider what kind of disobedience
they would most readily pardon ; and he correctly judged
that the safest course would be to neglect the sermons and
to find the rupees.

A mind so fertile as his, and so little restrained by con-
scientious scruples, speedily discovered several modes of
relieving the financial embarrassments of the government.
The allowance of the Nabob of Bengal was reduced at a
stroke from three hundred and twenty thousand pounds a
year to half that sum. The Company had bound itself to
pay near three hundred thousand pounds a year to the
Great Mogul, as a mark of homage for the provinces which
he had intrusted to their care ; and they had ceded to him
the districts of Corah and Allahabad. On the plea that
the Mogul was not really independent, but merely a tool
in the hands of others, Hastings determined to retract
these concessions. He accordingly declared that the
English would pay no more tribute, and sent troops to
occupy Allahabad and Corah. The situation of these
places was such that there would be very little advantage
and great expense in retaining them. Hastings, who
wanted money, and not territory, determined to sell them.
A purchaser was not wanting. The rich province of Oude
had, in the general dissolution of the Mogul Empire, fallen
to the share of the great Mussulman house by which it is
still governed. About twenty years ago, this house, by
the permission of the British Government, assumed the
royal title; but in the time of Warren Hastings such
an assumption would have been considered by the
Maliommedans of India as a monstrous impiety. Tha

■in

WAftRBX HASttN6§.

Prince of Oude, though he hcid iiie power, did not venture
to use the style of sovereignty. To the appellation of
Nabob or Viceroy, he added that of Vizier of the monarchy
of Hindostan, just as in the last century the Electors of
Saxony and Brandenburg, though independent of the
Emperor, and often in arms against him, were proud to
style themselves his Grand Chamberlain and Grand
Marshal. Sujah Dowlah, then Nabob Vizier, was on
excellent terms with the English. He had a large treasure.
Allahabad and Corah were so situated that they might be
of use to him and could be of none to the Company. The
buyer and seller soon came to an understanding ; and the
provinces which had been torn from the Mogul were made
over to the Government of Oude for about half a million
sterling.

But there was another matter still more important to be
settled by the Vizier and the Governor. The fate of a
brave people was to be decided. It was decided in a
manner which has left a lasting stain on the fame of Hast-
ings and of England.

The people of Central Asia had always been to the
inhabitants of India what the warriors of the German
forests were to the subjects of the decaying monarchy of
Rome. The dark, slender, aiul timid Hindoo shrank from
a conflict with the strong muscle and resolute spirit of the
fair race which dwelt beyond the passes. There is reason
to believe that, at a period anterior to the dawn of regular
history, the people who spoke tlie rich and flexible Sanscrit
came from regions lying far beyond the Hyphasis and the
Hystaspes, and imposed their yoke on the children of the
soil. It is certain that, during the last ten centuries, a
succession of invaders descended from the west on Hindo-
stan ; nor was the course of conquest ever turned back
towards the setting sun, till that memorable campaign in
which the cross of Saint George was planted on the walls
of Ghizni.

The Emperors of Hindostan themselves came from the
other side of the great mountain ridge ; and it had always
been their practice to recruit their army from the hardy
and valiant race from which their own illustrious house
sprang. Among the m'brnry adventurers who were allured

WARREN HASTINGS.

«5

to the Mo;;iil standards from the neighbourhood of Cabul
and Candahar, were conspicuous several gallant bands,
known by the name of the Rohillas. Their services had
hccn rewarded with large tracts of land, fiefs of the spear,
if we may use an expression drawn from an analogous state
of things, in that fertile plain through which the Ramgunga
flows from the snowy heights of Kumaon to join the
Ganges. In the general confusion which followed the
death of Aurungzebe, the warlike colony became virtually
independent. The Rohillas were distinguished from the
other inhabitants of India by a peculiarly fair complexion.
They were more honourably distinguished by courage in
war and by skill in the arts of peace. While anarchy
raged from Lahore to Cape Comorin, their little territory
enjoyed the blessings of repose under the guardianship of
valour. Agriculture and commerce flourished among them ;
nor were they negligent of rhetoric and poetry. Many
persons now living have heard aged men talk with regret
of the golden days when the Afghan princes ruled in the
vale of Rohilcund.

Sujah Dowlah had set his heart on adding this rich
district to his own principality. Right, or show of right,
he had absolutely none. His claim was in no respect
better founded than that of Catharine to Poland, or that
of the Bonaparte family to Spain. The Rohillas held their
country by exactly the same title by which he held his, and
had governed their country far better than his had ever
been governed. Nor were they a people whom it was per-
fectly safe to attack. Their land was indeed an open plain
destitute of natural defences ; but their veins were full of
the high blood of Afghanistan. As soldiers they had not
the steadiness which is seldom found except in company
with strict discipline ; but their impetuous valour had been
proved on many fields of battle. It was said that their
chiefs, when united by common peril, could bring eighty
thousand men into the field. Sujah Dowlah had himself
seen them fight, and wisely shrank from a conflict with
them. There was in India one army, and only one, against
which even those proud Caucasian tribes could not stand.
It had been abundantly proved that neither tenfold odds,
nox the n[iaxtial a-rdour of the boldest Asiatic nations, could

WARREN HASTINGS,

avail aught against English science and resolution. Was
it possible to induce the Governor of Bengal to let out to
hire the irresistible energies of the imperial people, the
skill against which the ablest chiefs of Hindostan were
helpless as infants, the discipline which had so often tri-
umphed over the frantic struggles of fanaticism and despair,
the unconquerable British courage which is never so sedate
and stubborn as towards the close of a doubtful and mur-
derous day ?

This was what the Nabob Vizier asked, and what
Hastings granted. A bargain was soon struck. Each of
the negotiators had what the other wanted. Hastings was
in need of funds to carry on the government of Bengal, and
to send remittances to London ; and Sujah Dowlah had
an ample revenue. Sujah Dowlah was bent on subjugat-
ing the Rohillas; and Hastings had at his disposal the
only force by which the Rohillas could be subjugated. It
was agreed that an English army should be lent to the
Nabob Vizier, and that, for the loan, he should pay four
hundred thousand pounds sterling, besides defraying all
the charge of the troops while employed in his service.

" I really cannot see," says Mr. Gleig, " upon what
grounds, either of political or moral justice, this proposi-
tion deserves to be stigmatized as infamous." If we under-
stand the meaning of words, it is infamous to commit a
wicked action for hire, and it is wicked to engage in war
without provocation. In this particular war, scarcely one
aggravating circumstance was wanting. The object of the
Rohilla war was this, to deprive a large population, who
had never done us the least harm, of a good government,
and to place them, against their will, under an execrably
bad one. Nay, even this is not all. England now des-
cended far below the level even of those petty German
princes who, about the same time, sold us troops to fight
the Americans. The hussar-mongers of Hesse and Ans-
pach had at least the assurance that the expeditions on
which their soldiers were to be employed would be con-
ducted in conformity with the humane rules of civilized
warfare. Was the Rohilla war likely to be so conducted ?
Did, the Governor stipulate that it should be so conducted ?
He well knew what Indian warfare wa3' He well knew

WARREN HASTINGS.

«7

. Was

t out to
pie, the
in were
iften tri-
despair,
o sedate
,nd mur-

id what
Each of
ings was
igal, and
wlah had
subjugat-
posal the
;ated. It
int to the
pay four
raying all
Irvice.
lon what
proposi-
e under-
;ommit a
|ge in war
.rcely one
ct of the
ion, who
ernment,
ixecrably
inow des-
German
s to fight
.nd Ans-
itions on
be con-
civiUzed
ducted ?
ducted ?
ell knew

that the power which he covenanted to put into Sujah
Dowlah's hands would, in all probability, be atrociously
abused ; and he required no guarantee, no promise, that it
should not be so abused. He did not even reserve to him-
self the right of withdrawing his aid in case of abuse, how-
ever gross. We are almost ashamed to notice Major
Scott's plea that Hastings was justified in letting out
English troops to slaughter the Rohillas, because the
Rohillas were not of Indian race, but a colony from a dis-
tant country. What were the English themselves ? Was
it lor them to proclaim a crusade for the expulsion of all
intruders trom the countries watered by the Ganges ? Did
it lie in their mouths to contend that a foreign settler who
establishes an empire in India is a caput lupinum ? What
would they have said if any other power had, on such a
ground, attacked Madras or Calcutta, without the slightest
provocation ? Such a defence was wanting to make the
infamy of the transaction complete. The atrocity of the
crime, and the hypocrisy of the apology, are worthy of
each other.

One of the three brigades of which the Bengal army
consisted was sent under Colonel Champion to join Sujah
Dowlah's forces. The Rohillas expostulated, entreated,
offered a large ransom, but in vain. They then resolved to
defend themselves to the last. A bloody battle was fought.
" The enemy," says Colonel Champion, "gave proof of a
good share of military knowledge ; and it is impossible to
describe a more obstinate firmness of resolution than they
displayed." The dastardly sovereign of Oude fled from the
field. The English were left unsupported ; but their fiie
and their charge were irresistible. It was not, however,
till the most distinguished chiefs had fallen, fighting bravely
at the head of their troops, that the Rohilla ranks gave
v/ay. Then the Nabob Vizier and his rabble made their
appearance, and hastened to plunder the camp of the
valiant enemies, whom they had never dared to look in the
face. The soldiers of the Company, trained in an exact
discipline, kept unbroken order, while the tents were
pillaged by these worthless allies. But many voices were
heard to exclaim, " We have had all the fighting, and tHos^
rogues are to have all the profit."

WARREN HASTINGS.

Then the horrors of Indian war were let loose on the
fair valleys and cities of Rohilcund. The whole country
was in a blaze. More than a hundred thousand people
fled from their homes to pestilential jungles, preferring
famine, and fever, and the haunts of tigers, to the tyranny
of him, to whom an English and a Christian government
had, for shameful lucre, sold their substance and their
blood, and the honour of their wives and daughters. Col-
onel Champion remonstrated with the Nabob Vizier, and
sent strong representations to Fort William ; but the
Governor had made no conditions as to the mode in which
the war was to be carried on. He had troubled himself
about nothing but his forty lacs ; and, though he might
disapprove of Sujah Dowlah's wanton barbarity, he did
not think himself entitled to interfere, except by offering
advice. This delicacy excites the admiration of the
biographer. " Mr. Hastings," he says, '* could not him-
self dictate to the Nabob, nor permit the commander of
the Company's troops to dictate how the war was to be
carried ''m." No, to be sure. Mr. Hastings had only to
put down by main force the brave struggles of innocent
men fighting for their liberty. Their military resistance
crushed, liis duties ended; and he had then only to fold
his arms and look on while their villages were burned,
their children butchered, and their women violated. Will
Mr. Gleig seriously maintain this opinion ? Is any rule
more plain than this, that whoever voluntarily gives to
another irresistible power over human beings is bound to
take order that such power shall not be barbarously
abused ? But we beg pardon of our readers for arguing a
point so clear.

We hasten to the end of this sad and disgraceful story.
The war ceased. The finest population in India was
subjected to a greedy, cowardly, cruel tyrant. Commerce
and agriculture languished. The rich province which had
tempted the cupidity of Sujah Dowlah became the most
miserable part even of his miserable dominions. Yet is
the injured nation not extinct. At long intervals gleams
of its ancient spirit have flas ed forth; and even at this
day, valour, and self-respect, and a chivalrous feeling rare
among Asiatics, and a bitter remembrance of the great

WAftRBN HASTINGS*

)n the

untry

jeople

erring

ranny

nment

their

Col-

r, and

Lit the

which

limself
might

he did

offering

of the

)t him-

ider of

IS to be

only to

inocent
istance
to fold
urned,
Will
ny rule
ives to
und to
arously
uing a

ll story,
lia was
imerce
Ich had
le most

Yet is
[gleams

at this

ig rare

great

crime of England, distinguish that noble Afghan race. To
this day they are regarded as the best of ail sepoys at the
cold steel ; and it was very recently remarked, by one who
had enjoyed great opportunites of observation, that the
only natives of India to whom the word gentleman can
with perfect propriety be applied, are to be found among
the Rohillas.

Whatever we may think of the morality of Hastings,
it cannot be denied that the financial results of his policy
did honour to his talents. In less than two years after he
assumed the government, he had, without imposing any
additional burdens on the people subject to his authority,
added about four hundred and fifty thousand pounds to
the annual income of the Company, besides procuring
about a million in ready money. He had also relieved the
finances of Bengal from military expenditure, amounting
to near a quarter of a million a year, and had thrown that
charge on the Nabob of Oude. There can be no doubt
that this was a result which, if it had been obtained by
honest means, would have entitled him to the warmest
gratitude of his country, and which, by whatever means
obtained, proved that he possessed great talents for admin-
istration.

In the mean time. Parliament had been engaged in
long and grave discussions on Asiatic affairs. The
ministry of Lord North, in the session of 1773, introduced
a measure which made a considerable change in the con-
stitution of the Indian government. This law, known by
the name of the Regulating Act, provided that the presi-
dency of Bengal should exercise a control over the other
possessions of the Company ; that the chief of that presi-
dency should be styled Governor-General ; that he should
be assisted by four Councillors ; and that a supreme court
of judicature, consisting of a chief justice and three
inferior jndges, should be established at Calcutta. This
court was made independent of the Governor-General
and Council, and was intrusted with a civil and criminal
jurisdiction of immense and, at the same time, of undefined
extent.

The Governor-General and Councillors weru named in
the act, and were to hold their situations for five yearsc

SH:

■f.

• :l

WARREN HASTINGS.

Hastings was to be the first Governor-General. One of
the four new Councillors, Mr. Barwell, an experienced
servant of the Company, was then in India. The other
three. General Clavering, Mr. Monson, and Mr. Francis,
were sent cut from England.

The ablest of the new Councillors was, beyond all
doubt, Philip Francis. His acknowledged compositions
prove that he possessed considerable eloquence and infor-
mation. Several years passed in the public offices had
formed him to habits of business. His enemies have nevei
denied that he had a fearless and manly spirit ; and his
friends, we are afraid, must acknowledge that his estimate
of himself was extravagantly high, that his temper was
irritable, that his deportment was often rude and petulant,
and that his hatred was of intense bitterness and long
duration.

It is scarcely possible to mention this eminent man
without adverting for a moment to the question which his
name at once suggests to every mind. Was he the author
of the " Letters of Junius " ? Our own firm belief is that he
was. The evidence is, we think, such as would support a
verdict in a civil, nay, in a criminal proceeding. The hand-
writing of Junius is the very peculiar handwriting of
Francis, slightly disguised. As to the position, pursuits,
and connections of Junius, the following are the most
important facts which can be considered as clearly proved :
first, that he was acquainted with the technical forms of
the secretary of state's office ; secondly, that he was
intimately acquainted with the business of the war-office ;
thirdly, that he, during the year 1770, attended debates in
the House of Lords, and took notes of speeches, particu-
larly of the speeches of Lord Chatham ; fourthly, that he
bitterly resented the appointment of Mr. Chamier to the
place of deputy secretary-at-war ; fifthly, that he was
bound by some strong tie to the first Lord Holland. Now,
Francis passed some years in the secretary of state's office.
He was subsequently chief clerk of the war-office. He
repeatedly mentioned that he had himself, in 1770, heard
speeches of Lord Chatham ; and some of these speeches
were actually printed from his notes. ' He resigned his
clerkship at the war-office firom resentment at the appoin^-

WARREN HASTINGS.

s«

le was

office;
ites in
irticii-
lat he
to the
was
Now,
office.
. He
heard
seches
ed his
poin^'

ment of Mr. Chamier. It was by Lord Holland that he
was first introduced into the public service. Now, here
are five marks all of which ought to be found in Junius.
They are all five found in Francis. We do not believe
that more than two of them can be found in any other
person .whatever. If this argument does not settle the
question, there is an end of all reasoning on circumstantial
evidence.

The internal evidence seems to us to point the same
way. The style of Francis bears a strong resemblance to
that of Junius ; nor are we disposed to admit, what is
generally taken for granted, that the acknowledged com-
positions of Francis are very decidedly inferior to the
anonymous letters. The argument from inferiority, at all
events, is one which may be urged with at least equal force
against every claimant that has ever been mentioned, with
the single exception of Burke; and it would be a waste of
time to prove that Burke was not Junius. And what
conclusion, after all, can be drawn from mere inferiority ?
Every writer must produce his best work ; and the inter-
val between his best work and his second best work may
be very wide indeed. Nobody will say that the best letters
of Junius are more decidedly superior to the acknowledged
works of Francis than three or four of Corneille's tragedies
to the rest, than three or four of Ben Jonson's comedies to
the rest, than the Pilgrim's Progress to the other works
of Bunyan, than Don Quixote to the other works of Cer-
vantes. Nay, it is certain that Junius, whoever he may
have been, was a most unequal writer. To go no further
than the letters which bear the signatures of Junius : the
letter to the king, and the letters to Home Tooke, have
little in common, except the asperity ; and asperity was an
ingredient seldom wanting either in the writings or in the
speeches of Francis.

Indeed one of the strongest reasons for believing that
Francis was Junius is the moral resemblance between the
two men. It is not difficult, from the letters which, under
various signatures, are known to have been written by
Junius, and from his dealings with Woodfall and others,
to form a tolerably correct notion of his character. He
W^s clearly a man not destitute of real patriotism 9^^

3«

WARREN HASTINGS.

magnanimity, a man whose vices were not of a sordid

kind. But ne must also have been a man in the highest
degree arrogant and insolent, a man prone to malevolence,
and prone to the error of mistaking his malevolence for
public virtue. ** Doest thou well to be angry ? " was the
question asked in old time of the Hebr'^.w prophet. And
he answered, '* I do well." This was evidently the tem-
per of Junius ; and to this cause we attribute the savage
cruelty which disgraces several of his letters. No man is
so merciless as he who, under a strong self-delusion, con-
founds his antipathies with his duties. It may be added
that Junius, though allied with the democratic party by
common enmities, was the very opposite of a democratic
politician. While attacking individuals with a ferocity
which perpetually violated all the laws of literary warfare,
he regarded the most defective parts of old institutions
with a respect amounting to pedantry, pleaded the cause
of Old Sarum with fervour, and contemptuously told the
capitalists of Manchester and Leeds that, if they wanted
votes, they might buy land and become freeholders of
Lancashire and Yorkshire. All this, we believe, might
stand, with scarcely any change, for a character of Philip
Francis.

It is not strange that the great anonymous writer
should have been willing at that time to leave thie country
which had been so powerfully stirred by his eloquence.
Everything had gone against him. That party which he
clearly preferred to every other, the party of George Gren-
ville, had been scattered by the death of its chief ; and
Lord Suffolk had led the greater part of it over to the
ministerial benches. The ferment produced by the Middle-
sex election had gone down. Every faction must have
been alike an object of aversion to Junius. His opinions
on domestic affairs separated him from the Ministry ; his
opinions on colonial affairs from the Opposition. Under
such circumstances, he had thrown down his pen in mis-
anthropical despair. His farewell letter to Woodfall bears
date the nineteenth of January, 1773. In that letter he
declared that he must be an idiot to write again ; that he
had meant well by the cause and the public ; that both
\yere ^iven up ; that there were not ten men whp would

WARRfiN HASTINGS.

act steadily together on any question. "But it is all
alike," he added, ** vile and contemptible. You have never
flinched that I know of; and I shall always rejoice to hear
of your prosperity." These were the last words of Junius.
In a year from that time, Philip Francis was on his voy-
age to Bengal.

With the three new Councillors came out the judges of
the Supreme Court. The chief justice was Sir Elijah
Impey. He was an old acquaintance of Hastings ; and it
is probable that the Governor-General, if he had searched
through all the inns of court, could not have found an
equally serviceable tool. But the members of Council
were by no means in an obsequious mood. Hastings
greatly disliked the new form of government, and had no
very high opinion of his coadjutors. They had heard of
this, and were disposed to be suspicious and punctilious.
When men are in such a frame of mind, any trifle is sufficient
to give occasion for dispute. The members of Council
expected a salute of twenty-one guns from the batteries
of Fort William. Hastings allowed them only seventeen.
They landed in ill-humour. The first civilities were ex-
changed with cold reserve. On the morrow commenced
that long quarrel which, after distracting British India,
was renewed in England, and in which all the most
eminent statesmen and orators of the age took active part
on one or the other side.

Hastings was supported by Barwell. They had not
always been friends. But the arrival of the new members
of Council from England naturally had the effect of uniting
the old servants of the Company. Clavering, Monson,
and Francis formed the majority. They instantly wrested
the government out of the hands of Hastings, condemned,
certainly not without justice, his late dealings with the
Nabob Vizier, recalled the English agent from Oude, and
sent thither a creature of their own, ordered the brigade
which had conquered the unhappy Rohillas to return to
the Company's territories, and instituted a severe inquiry
into the conduct, of the war. Next, in spite of the Gov-
ernor-General's remonstrances, they proceeded to exercise,
in the most indiscreet manner, their new authority over
the subordinate presidencies ; threw all the affairs of iiom-

4V: !

^* -
^ ■

ri .

r '' '

WARREN HAStlNGd*

\. '-i

bay into confusion ; and interfered, with an incredible union
of rashness and feebleness, in the intestine disputes of the
Mahratta Government. At the same time they fell on the
internal administration of Bengal, and attacked the whole
fiscal and judicial system, a system which was undoubtedly
defective, but which it was very improbable that gentlemen
fresh from England would be competent to amend. The
effect of their reforms was that all protection to life and
property was withdrawn, and that gangs of robbers plun-
dered and slaughtered with impunity in the very suburbs
of Calcutta. Hastings continued to live in the Govern-
ment House, and to draw the salary of Governor-General.
He continued even to take the lead at the council-board
in the transaction of ordinary business ; for his opponents
could not but feel that he knew much of which they were
ignorant, and that he decided, both surely and speedily,
many questions which to them would have been hopelessly
puzzling. But the higher powers of government and the
most valuable patronage had been taken from him.

The natives soon found this out. They considered him
as a fallen man ; and they acted after their kind. Some of
our readers may have seen, in India, a cloud of crows
pecking a sick vulture to death, no bad type of what
happens in that country, as often as fortune deserts one
who has been great and dreaded. In an instant all the
sycophants who had lately been ready to lie for him, to forge
for him, to pander for him, to poison for him, hasten to
purchase the favour of his victorious enemies by accusing
him. An Indian government has only to let it be under-
stood that it wishes a particular man to be ruined ; and, in
twenty-four hours, it will be furnished with grave charges,
supported by depositions so full and circumstantial that
any person unaccustomed to Asiatic mendacity would
regard them as decisive. It is well if the signature of the
destined victim is not counterfeited at the foot of some
illegal compact, and if some treasonable paper is not
slipped into a hiding-place in his house. Hastings was
now regarded as helpless. The power to.make or mar the
fortune of every man in Bengal had passed, as it seemed,
into the hands of the new Councillors. Immediately
charges against the Governor-General began to pour in.

WARREN HASTINGS.

They were eagerly welcomed by the majority, who, to do
them justice, were men of too much honour knowingly to
countenance false accusations, but who were not sufficiently
acquainted with the East to be aware that, in that part of
the world, a very little encouragement from power will call
forth, in a week, more Oateses, and Bedloes, and Danger-
fields, than Westminster Hall sees in a century.

It would have been strange indeed if, at such a juncture,
Nuncomar had remained quiet. That bad man was stimu-
lated at once by malignity, by avarice, and b} ambition.
Now was the time to be avenged on his old enemy, to wreak
a grudge of seventeen years, to establish himself in the
favour of the majority of the Council, to become the
greatest native in Bengal. From the time of the arrival of
the new Councillors, he had paid the most marked court
to them, and had in consequence been excluded, with all
indignity, from the Government House. He now put into
the hands of Francis, with great ceremony, a paper, con-
taining several charges of the most serious description.
By this document Hastings was accused of putting offices
up to sale, and of receiving bribes for suffering offenders to
escape. In particular, it was alleged that Mahommed
Reza Khan had been dismissed with impunity, in con-
sideration of a great sum paid to the Governor-General.

Francis read the paper in Council. A vioknt alterca-
tion followed. Hastings complained in bitter terms of the
way in which he was treated, spoke with contempt of
Nuncomar and of Nuncomar's accusation, and denied the
right of the Council to sit in judgment on the Governor.
At the next meeting of the Board, another communication
from Nuncomar was produced. He requested that he
might be permitted to attend the Council, and that he
might be heard in support of his assertions. Another
tempestuous debate took place. The Governor-General
maintained that the council-room was not a proper place
for such an investigation ; that from persons who were
heated by daily conflict with him he could not expect the
fairness of judges ; and that he could not, without betray-
ing the dignity of his post, submit to be confronted with
such a man as Nuncomar. The majority, hoj^rever, re-
solved to go into the charges. Hastings rose, declared the

3«

WARREN HASTINGS.

I 'i

II, >

silling at an end, and left the room, followed by Barwcll.
The other members kept their seats, voted themselves a
council, put Claveringin the chair, and ordered Nuncomar
to be called in. Nuncomar not only adhered to the original
charges, but, after the fashion of the East, produced a
large supplement. He stated that Hastings had received
a great sum for appointing Rajah Goordas treasurer of the
Nabob's household, and for committing the care of His
I ghness's person to the Munny Begum. He put in a
letter purporting t© bear the seal of the Munny Begum, for
the purpose of establishing the truth of his story. The
seal, whether forged, as Hastings affirmed, or genuine, as
we are rather inclined to believe, proved nothing. Nunco-
mar, as every body knows who knows India, had only to tell
the Munny Begum that such a letter would give pleasure
to the majority of the Council, in order to procure her
attestation. The majority, however, voted .;hat the charge
was made out ; that Hastings had corruptly received
between thirty and forty thousand pounds ; and that he
ought to be compelled to refund.

The general feeling among the English in Bengal was
strongly in favour of the Governor-General. In talents for
business^ in knowledge of the country, in general courtesy
of demeanour, he was decidedly supeiior to his persecutors.
The servants of the Company were naturally disposed to
side with the most distinguished member of their own body
against a clerk from the war-office, who, profoundly
ignorant of the native languages and of the native cha-
racter, took on himself to regulate every department of the
administration. Hastings, however, in spite of the general
sympathy of his countrymen, was in a most painful situ-
ation. There was still an appeal to higher authority in
England. If that authority took part with his enemies,
nothing was left to him but to throw up his office. He ac-
cordingly placed his resignation in the hands of his agent in
London, Colonel Macleane. But Macleane was instructed
not to produce the resignation, unless it should be fully
ascertained that the feeling at the India House was adverse
to the Governor-General.

The triumph of Nuncomar seemed to be complete. He
held a daily levee, to which his countrymen resorted in

WARPriN I!ASTIN'G«5.

crowds, and to which, on one occasion, the majority of the
Council condescended to repair. His house was an office
for the purpose of receivinj:^ charges against the Governor-
General. It was said that, partly by threats, and partly
by wheedling, tlie villainous Brahmin had induced many of
tlie wealthiest men of the province to send in complaints.
But he was playing a perilous game. It was not safe to
drive to despair a man of such resources and of such deter*
mination as Hastings. Nuncomar, with all his acuteness,
did not understand the nature of the institutions under
Vvliicii he lived. He saw that he had with him the majority
of the body which made treaties, gave places, raised taxes.
The separation between political and judicial functions
was a tiling of which he had no conception. It had pro-
bably never occurred to him that there was in Bengal an
authority perfectly independent of the Council, an authority
which could protect one whom the Council wished to
destroy, and send to the gibbet one whom the Council
wished to protect. Yet such was the fact. The Supreme
Court was, within the sphere of its own duties, altogether
mdepcndent of the Government. Hastings, with his usual
sagacity, had seen how much advantage he might derive
from possessing himself of this stronghold ; and he had
acted accordingly. The Judges, especially the Chief
Justice, were hostile to the majority of the Council. The
time had now come for putting this formidable machinery
into action.

On a sudden, Calcutta was astounded by the news that
Nuncomar had been taken up on a charge of felony, com-
mitted, and thrown into the common gaol. The crime
imputed to him was that six years before he had forged a
bond. The ostensible prosecutor was a native. But it
was then, and still is the opinion of every body, idiots and
biographers excepted, that Hastings was the real mover in
the business.

The rage of the majority rose to the highest point. They
l)rotested against the proceedings of the Supreme Court,
and sent several urgent messages to the Judges, demanding
tliat Nuncomar should be admitted to bail. The Judges
returned haughty and resolute answers. All that the
Council could do was to heap honours and emoluments oa

WARRF.N HASTINGS.

the family of Niincomar ; and this tliey did. In the mean-
time the assizes commcnctul ; n tin; bill was found ; an(l
Nunconiar was hrniiLjht hcfon; Sit l'>lijali Impey and a jury
composed of Kn;^lishmcn. A j^aeat quantity of contra-
dictory swearing, and the necessity of having every word
of the evidence intcrj)reted, protracted tiie trial to a most
unusual lenf^th. At last a verdict of guilty was returned,
and the Chief Justice pronounced sentence of death on the
prisoner.

That Impcy ought to have respited Nuncomar we hold
to be perfectly clear. Wliether the whole proceeding was
not illegal, is a question. But it is certain that, whatever
may have been, according to technical rules of construc-
tion, the effect of the statute under which the trial took
place, it was most unjust to hang a Hindoo for forgery.
The law which made forgery capital in England was
passed without the smallest reference to the state of society
in India. It was unknown to the natives of India. It had
never been put in execution among them, certainly not for
want of delinquents. It was in the highest degree shocking
to all their notions. They were not accustomed to the dis-
tinction which many circumstances, peculiar to our own
state of society, have led us to make between forgery and
other kinds of cheating. The counterfeiting of a seal was,
in their estimation, a common act of swindling ; nor had it
ever crossed their minds that it was to be punished as
severely as gang-robbery or assassination. A just judge
would, beyond all doubt, have reserved the case fcr the
consideration of the sovereign. But Impey would not
hear of mercy or delay.

The excitement among all classes was great. Francis
and Fra :is's few English adherents described the Gov-
ernor-General and the Chief-Justice as the worst of mur-
derers. Clavering, it was said, swore that even at the
foot of the gallows, Nuncomar should be rescued. The
bulk of the European society, though strongly attached
to the Governor-Generiil, could not but feel compassion
for a man who, with all his crimes, had so long filled
so large a space in their sight, who had been great and
powerful before the British empire in India began to exis*^,
and to whom, in the old times, governors and mem-

WARREW HASTINGS.

bers of council, then mere commercial factors, had paid
court for protection. The feeling of the Hindoos was in-
finitely stronger. They were, indeed, not a people to strike
one blow for their countryman. But his sentence filled
them with sorrow and dismay. Tried even by their low
standard of morality, he was a bad man. But, bad as he
was, he was the head of their race and religion, a Brahmin
of the Brahmins. He had inherited the purest and highest
caste. He had practised with the greatest punctuality all
those ceremonies to which the supeistitious Bengalees
ascribe far more importance than to the correct discharge
of the social duties. They felt, therefore, as a devout
Catholic in the dark ages would have felt, at seeing a pre-
late of the highest dignity sent to the gallows by a secular
tribunal. According to their old national laws, a Brahmin
could not be put to death for any crime whatever. And
the crime for which Nuncomar was about to die was regarded
by them in much the same light in which the selling of an
unsound horse for a sound price is regarded by a York-
shire jockey.

The Mussulmans alone appear to have seen with exulta-
tion the fate of the powerful Hindoo, who had attempted
to rise by means of the ruin of Mahommed Reza Khan.
The Mahommedan historian of those times takes delight
in aggravating the charge. He assures us that in Nun-
comar's house a casket was found containing counterfeits of
the seals of all the richest men of the Province. We have
never fallen in with any other authority for this story,
which in itself is by no means improbable.

The day grew near ; and Nuncomar prepared himself
to die with that quiet fortitude with which the Bengalee,
so effeminately timid in personal conflict, often encounters
calamities for which there is no remedy. The sheriff, with
the humanity which is seldom wanting in an English
gentleman, visited the prisoner on the eve of the execution,
and assured him that no indulgence, consistent with the
law, should be refused to him. Nuncomar expressed his
gratitude with great politeness and unaltered composure.
Not a muscle of his face moved. Not a sigh brcke from
him. He put his finger to his forehead, and calmly said
that fate would have its way, and that there was no resisting

mmm

WARREN HASTINGS,

the pleasure of God. He sent his compliments to Francis,
Clavering, and Monson, and charged them to protect Rajah
Goordas, who was about to become the head of the
Brahmins of Bengal. The sheriff withdrew, greatly agitated
by what had passed, and Nuncomar sat composedly down
to write notes and examine accounts.

The next morning, ^before the sun was in his power, an
immense concourse assembled round the place where the
gallows had been set up. Grief and horror were on every
face ; yet to the last the multitude could hardly believe that
the English really proposed to take the life of the great
Brahmin. At length the mournful procession came through
the crowd. Nuncomar sat up in his palanquin, and looked
round him with unaltered serenity. He hr.d just parted
from those who were most nearly connected with him.
Their cries and contortions had appalled the European
ministers of justice, but had not produced the smallest effect
on the iron stoicism of the prisoner. The only anxiety
which he expressed was that men of his own priestly caste
might be in attendance to take charge of his corpse. He
again desired to be remembered to his friends in the Council,
mounted the scaffold with firmness, and gave the signal to
the executioner. The moment that the drop fell, a howl
of sorrow and despair rose from the innumerable spectators.
Hundreds turned away their faces from the polluting sight,
fled with loud wailings towards the Hoogley, and plunged
into its holy waters, as if to purify themselves fiom the
guilt of having looked on such a crime. These feelings
were not confined to Calcutta. The whole Province was
greatly excited ; and the population of Dacca, in particular,
gave strong signs of grief and dismay.

Of Impey's conduct it is impossible to speak too severely.
We have already said that, in our opinion, he acted unjustly
in refusing to respite Nuncomar. No rational man can
doubt that he took this course in order to gratify the
Governor-General. If we had ever had any doubts on that
point, they would have been dispelled by a letter which
Mr. Gleig has published. Hastings, three or four years
later, described Inipey as the man •' to whose support he
was at one time indebtec for the safety of his fortune,
honour, and reputation." These strong words can xefer

%■■• J

WARRP.N tt\STlNC.S.

4«

tors,
ght,
iged
the
lings
was
ular,

rely.
Listly
can
the
that
hich
ears
t he
nne,
efer

only to the case of Nuncomar ; and they must mean that
Impey hanged Nuncomar in order to support Hastings.
It is, therefore, our deliberate opinion that Impey, sitting
as a judge, put a man unjustly to death in order to serve a
political purpose.

But we look on the conduct of Hastings in a somewhat
different light. He was struggling for fortune, honour,
liberty, all that makes life valuable. He was beset by
rancorous and unprincipled enemies. From his colleagues
he could expect no justice. He cannot be blamed for
wishing to crush his accusers. He was indeed bound to
use only legitimate means for that end. But it was not
strange that he should have thought any means legitimate
which were pronounced legitimate by the sages of the law,
by men whose peculiar duty it was to deal justly between
adversaries, and whose education might be supposed to
have peculiarly qualified them for the discharge of that
duty. Nobody demands from a party the unbending equity
of a judge. The reason that judges are appointed is, that
even a good man cannot be trusted to decide a cause in
which he is himself concerned. Not a day passes on which
an honest prosecutor do'^s not ask for what none but a
dishonest tribunal would grant. It is too much to expect
that any man, when his dearest interests are at stake, and
his strongest passions excited, will, as against himself, be
more just than the sworn dispensers of justice. To take
an analogous case from the history of our own island :
suppose that Lord Stafford, when in the Tower on suspicion
of being concerned in the Popish plot, had been apprised
that Titus Gates had done something which might, by a ques-
tionable construction, be brought under the head of felony.
Should we severely blame Lord Stafford, in the supposed
case, for causing a prosecution to be instituted, for furnish-
ing funds, for using all his influence to intercept the mercy
of the Crown ? We think not. If a judge, indeed, from
favour to the Catholic lords, were to strain the law in order
to hang Gates, such a judge would richly deserve impeach-
ment. But it does not appear to us that the Catholic lord,
by bringing the case before the judge for decision, would
materially overstep the limits of a just self-defence.

While, therefore, we have not the least doubt that this

i i

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I '.

WARREN HASTINGS.

I r

r ;
I ■•

memorable execution is to be attributed to Hastings, we
doubt whether it can with justice be reckoned among his
crimes. That his conduct was dictated by a profound pohcy
is evident. He was in a minority in Council. It was
possible that he might long be in a minority. He knew
the native character well. He knew in what abundance
accusations are certain to flow in against the most innocent
inhabitant of India who is under the frown of power.
There was not in the whole black population of Bengal a
place-holder, a place-hunter, a government tenant, who did
not think that he might better himself by seiiding up a
deposition against the Governor-General. Under these
circumstances, the persecuted statesman resolved to teach
the whole crew of accusers and witnesses, that, though in
a minority at the council-board, he was still to be feared.
The lesson which he gave them was indeed a lesson not to
be forgotten. The head of the combination which had
been formed against him, the richest, the most powerful,
the most artful of the Hindoos, distinguished by the favour
of those who then held the government, fenced round by
the superstitious reverence of millions, was hanged in broad
day before many thousands of people Every thing that
could make the warning impressive, dignity in the sufferer,
solemnity in the proceeding, was found in this case. The
helpless rage and vain struggles of the Council made the
triumph more signal. From that moment the conviction
of every native was that it was safer to take the part of
Hastings in a miiiority than that of Francis in a majority,
and that he who was so venturous as to join in running
down the Governor-General might chance, in the phrase
of the Eastern poet, to find a tiger, while beating the jungle
for a deer. The voices of a thousand informers were
silenced in an instant. From that time, whatever difficulties
Hastings might have to encounter, he was never molested
by accusations from natives of India.

It is a remarkable circumstance that one of the letters
of Hastings to Dr. Johnson bears date a very few hours
after the death of Nuncomar. While the whole settlement
was in commotion, while a mighty and ancient priesthood
were weeping over the remains of their chief, the con-
queror in that deadly grapple sat down, with characteristic

WARREN HASTINGS.

•we

his
>licy
was
new
ince
cent
iwer.
jal a
D did
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gh in
iared.
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1 had
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;avour
nd by
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ie the
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lested

1 letters

hours

llement

Isthood

le con-

teristic

Relf-possc'ssion, to write about the Tour to the Hebrides,
Jones's Persian Grammar, and the history, traditions, arts,
and natural productions of India.

In the mean time, intelligence of the Rohilla war, and
of the first disputes between Hastings and his colleagues
had reached London. The Directors took part witli the
majority, and sent out a letter filled with severe reflections
on the conduct of Hastings. They condemned, in strong
but just terms, the iniquity of undertaking offensive wars
merely for the sake of pecuniary advantage. But they
utterly forgot that, if Hastings had by illicit means
obtained pecUiiiary advantages, he had done so, not for
his own benefit, but in order to meet their demands. To
enjoin honesty, and to insist on having what could not be
honestly got, was then the constant practice of the Com-
pany. As Lady Macbeth says of her husband, they
'• would not play false, and yet would wrongly win."

The Regulating Act, by which Hastings had been
appointed Governor-General for five years, empowered the
Crown to remove him on an address from the Company.
Lord North was desirous to procure such an address.
The three members of Council who had been sent out
from England were men of his own choice. General
Clavering, in particular, was supported by a large parlia-
mentary connection, such as no Cabinet could be inclined
to disoblige. The wish of the minister was to displace
Hastings, and to put Clavering at the head of the govern-
ment. In the Court of Directors parties were very nearly
balanced. Eleven voted against Hastings; ten for him.
The Court of Proprietors was then convened. Tlie great
sale-room presented a singular appearance. Letters had
been sent by the Secretary of the Treasury, exhorting all
the supporters of government who held India stock to be
in attendance. Lord Sandwich marshalled the friends of
the administration with his usual dexterity and alertness.
Fifty peers and privy councillors, seldom seen so far east-
ward, were counted in the crowd. The debate lasted till
midnight. The opponents of Hastings had a small
superiority on the division; but a ballot was demanded;
and the result was that the Governor-General triumphed
by a majority of above a hundred votes over the combined

t ! I

:J ;

1 '

■

If j

" t!

■ I

WARREN HASTINGS.

efforts of the Directors and the Cabinet. The ministers
were greatly exasperated by this defeat. Even Lord
North lost his temper, no ordinary occurrence with him,
and threatened to convoke Parliament before Christmas,
and to bring in a bill for depriving the Company of all
political power, and for restricting it to its old business of
trading in silks and teas.

Colonel Macleane, who through all this conflict had
zealously supported the cause of Hastings, now thought
that his employer was in imminent danger of being turned
out, branded with parliamentary censure, perhaps prose-
cuted. The opinion of the crown lawyers had already
been taken respecting some parts of the Governor-
General's conduct. It seemed to be high time to think of
securing an honourable retreat. Under these circum-
stances, Macleane thought himself justified in producing
the resignation with which he had been intrusted. The
instrument was not in very accurate form ; but the Direc-
tors were too eager to be scrupulous. They accepted the
resignation, fixed on Mr. Wheler, one of their own body,
to succeed Hastings, and sent out orders that General
Clavering, as senior member of Council, should exercise
the functions of Governor-General till Mr. Wheler should
arrive.

But, while these things were passing in England, a
great change had taken place in Bengal. Monson was no
more. Only four members of the government were left.
Clavering and Francis were on one side, Barwell and the
Governor-General on the other ; and the Governor-Gen-
eral had the casting vote. Hastings, who had been during
two years destitute of all power and patronage, became at
once absolute. He instantly proceeded to retaliate on his
adversaries. Their measures were reversed ; their crea-
tures were displaced. A new valuation of the lands of
Bengal, for the purposes of taxation, was ordered ; and it
was provided that the whole inquiry should be conducted
by the Governor-General, and that all the letters relating
to it should run in his name. He began, at the same time,
to revolve vast plans of conquest and dominion, plans
which he lived to see realised, though not by himself.
His project was to form subsidiary alliances with the

Warren hasting^.

native princes, particularly with those of Oude and Berar,
and thus to make Britain the paramount power in India.
While he was meditating tlicse great designs, arrived the
intelligence that he had ceased to be Governor-General,
that his resignation had been accepted, that Wheler was
coming cut immediately, and tliat, till Wheler arrived, the
chair was to be fdled by Clavering.

Had Hastings still been in a minority, he would prob-
ably iiave retired without a struggle ; but he was now the
real master of British India, and he was not disposed to
quit his high place. He asserted that lie had never given
any instructions which could warrant the steps taken at
home. What his instructions had been, he owned he iiad
forgotten. If he had kept a copy of them he had mislaid
it. But he was certain that he had repeatedly declared to
the Directors that he would not resign. He could not see
how the court pcssessed of that declaration from himself,
could receive his resignation from the doubtful hands of
an agent. If the resignation were invalid, all the proceed-
ings which were founded on that resignation were null, and
Hastings was still Governor-General.

He afterwards affirmed that, though his agents had not
acted in conformity with his instructions, he would never-
theless have held himself bound by their acts, if Clavering
had not attempted to seize the supreme power by violence.
Whether this assertion were or were not true, it cannot be
doubted that the imprudence of Clavering gave Hastings
an advantage. The General sent lor the keys of the fort
and of the treasury, took possession of the records, and
held a council at which Francis attended. Hastings took
the chair in another apartment, and Barwell sat with him.
Each of the two parties had a plausible show of right.
There was no authority entitled to their obedience within
fifteen thousand miles. It seemed that there remained no
way of settling the dispute except an appeal to arms ;
and from such an appeal Hastings, confident of his
influence over his countrymen in India, was net inclined
to shrink. He directed the officers of the garrison at Fort
Wilham and of all the neighbouring stations to obey no
orders but his. At the same time, with admirable judg-
ment, he offered to submit the case to the Supreme Court,

wmmmmmm

4«

WARREN Hastings.

and to abide by its decision. By making this proposition
he risked nothing ; yet it was a proposition which his
opponents could hardly reject. Nobody could be treated
as a criminal for obeying what the judges should solemnly
pronounce to be the lawful government. The boldest man
would shrink from taking arms in defence of what the
judges should pronounce to be usurpation. Clavering and
Francis, after some delay, unwillingly consented to abide
by the award of the court. The court pronounced that
the resignation was invalid, and that therefore Hastings
was still Governor-General under the Regulating Act ;
and the defeated members of the Council, finding that the
sense of the whole settlement was agavnst them, acquiesced
in the decision.

About this time arrived the news that, after a suit which
had lasted several years, the Franconian courts had decreed
a divorce between Imhoff and his wife. The Baron left
Calcutta, carrying with him the means of buying an estate
in Saxony. The lady became Mrs. Hastings. The event
was celebrated by great festivities ; and all the most con-
spicuous persons at Calcutta, without distinction of parties,
were invited to the Government House. Clavering, as the
Mahommedan chronicler tells the story, was sick in mind
and body, and excused himself from joining the splendid
assembly. But Hastings, whom, as it should seem, success
in ambition and in love had put into high good-humour,
would take no denial. He went himself to the* General's
house, and at length brought his vanquished rival in triumph
to the gay circle which surrounded the bride. The exertion
was too much for a frame broken by mortification as well
as by disease. Clavering died a few days later.

Wheler, who came out expecting to be Governor-
General, and was forced to content himself with a seat at
the council-board, generally voted with Francis. But the
Governor-General, with Barv/ell's help and his own cast-
ing vote, was still the master. Some change took place at
this time in the feeling both of the Court of Directors and
of the Ministers of the Crown. All designs against Hast-
ings were dropped ; and, when his original term of five
years expired, he was quietly re-appointed. The truth is,
that the fearful dangers to which the public interests in

WARREN HASTINGS.

> I

every quarter were now exposed, made both Lord North
and the Company unwilling to part with a Governor vhose
talents, experience, and resolution, enmity itself was com-
pelled to acknowledge.

The crisis was indeed formidable. That great and
victorious empire, on the throne of which George the Third
had taken his seat eighteen years before, with brighter
hopes than had attended the accession of any of the long
line of English sovereigns, had, by the most senseless mis-
government, been brought to the verge of ruin. In
America millions of Englishmen were at war -with the
country from which their blood, their language, their
religion, and their institutions were derived, and to which,
but a short time before, they had been as strongly attached
as the inhabitants of Norfolk and Leicestershire. The
great powers of Europe, humbled to the dust by the vigour
and genius which had guided the councils of George the
Second, now rejoiced in the prospect of a signal revenge.
The time was approaching when our island, while strug-
gling to keep down the United States of America, and
pressed with a still nearer danger by the too just discon-
tents of Ireland, was to be assailed by France, Spain, and
Holland, and to be threatened by the armed neutrality of
the Baltic ; when even our maritime supremacy was to be
in jeopardy ; when hostile fleets were to command the
Straits of Calpe and the Mexican Sea ; when the British
flag was to be scarcely able to protect the British Channel.
Great as were the faults of Hastings, it was happy for our
country that at that conjuncture, the most terrible through
which she has ever passed, he was the ruler of her Indian
dominions.

An attack by sea on Bengal was little to be appre-
hended. The danger was that the European enemies of
England might form an alliance with some native power,
might furnish that power with troops, arms, and ammuni-
tion, and might thus assail our possessions on the side of
the land. It was chiefly from the Mahrattas that Hastings
anticipated danger. The original seat of that singular
people was the wild range of hills which runs along the
western coast of India. In the reign of Aurungzebe the
inhabitants of those regions, led by the great Sevajee,

' i

ill

i^ '

WaRRRN MAStlNGI.

began to descend on the possessions of their wealthier and
less warlike neighbours. The energy, ferocity, and cunning
of the Mahrattas, soon maJe them the most conspicuous
among the new powers wliich were generated by the cor-
ruption of the decaying monarchy. At first they were only
robbers. They soon rose to the dignity of conquerors.
Half the provinces of the empire were turned into Mahratta
principalities. Freebooters, sprung from low castes, and
accustomed to menial employments, became mighty
Rajahs. The Bonslas, at the head of a band of plunderers,
occupied the vast regions of Berar. The Guicowar, which
is, being interpreted, the Herdsman, founded that dynasty
which still reigns in Guzerat. The houses of Scindia and
Holkar waxed great in Malwa. One adventurous captain
made his nest on the impregnable rock of Gooti. Another
became the lord of the thousand villages which are scattered
among the green rice-fields of Tanjore.

That was the time throughout India of double govern-
ment. The form and the power were everywhere separated.
The Mussulman nabobs who hcd become sovereign princes,
the Vizier in Oude, and the Nizam at Hyderabad, still
called themselves the viceroys of the house of Tamerlane.
In the same manner the Mahratta states, though really
independent of each other, pretended to be members of
one empire. They all acknowledged, by words and cere-
monies, the supremacy of the heir of Sevajee, a roi faineant
who chewed bang and toyed with dancing girls in a state
prison at Sattara, and of his Peshwa or mayor of the palace,
a great hereditary magistrate, who kept a court with kingly
state at Poonah, and whose authority was obeyed in the
spacious provinces of Aurungabad and Bejapoor.

Some months before war was declared in Europe the
government of Bengal was alarmed by the news that a
French adventurer, who passed for a man of quality, had
arrived at Poonah. It was said that he had been received
there with great distinction, that he had delivered to the
Peshwa letters and presents from Louis the Sixteenth, and
that a treaty, hostile to England, had been concluded
between France and the Mahrattas.

Hastings immediately resolved to strike the first blow.
The title of the Peshwa was not undisputed. A portion of

WARREN HASTINGS.

running
picuous
the cor-
jre only
juerors.
iahratta
tes, and

mighty
nderers,
r, which
dynasty
idia and

captain
Another
cattered

: govern-
jparated.
1 princes,
pad, still
merlane.
1 really
nbers of
tnd cere-
'. faineant
a state
palace,
th kingly
id in the

rope the
that a
lity, had
received
-d to the
nth, and
ncluded

the Mahratta nation was favourable to a pretender. The
Governor-General determined to espouse this pretender's
interest, to move an army across the peninsula of India,
and to form a close alliance with the chief of the house of
Bonsla, who ruled Berar, and who, in power and dignity,
was inferior to none of the Mahratta princes.

The army had marched, and the negotiations with
Berar were in progress, when a letter from the English
consul at Cairo brought the news that war had been pro-
claimed both in London and Paris. All the measures
which the crisis required were adopted by Hastings without
a moment's delay. The French factories in Bengal were
seized. Orders were sent to Madras that Pondicherry
should instantly be occupied. Near Calcutta works were
thrown up which were thought to render the approach of
a hostile force impossible. A maritime establishment was
formed for the defence of the river. Nine new battalions
of sepoys were raised, and a corps of native artillery was
formed out of the hardy Lascars of the Bay of Bengal.
Having made these arrangements, the Governor-General,
with calm confidence, pronounced his presidency secure
from all attack, unless the Mahrattas should march against
it in conjunction with the French.

The expedition which Hastings had sent westward was
not so speedily or completely successful as most of his
undertakings. The commanding officer procrastinated.
The authorities at Bombay blundered. But the Governor-
General persevered. A new commander repaired the
errors of his predecessor. Several brilliant actions spread
the military renown of the English through regions where
no European flag had ever been seen. It is probable that,
if a new and more formidable danger had not compelled
Hastings to change his whole policy, his plans respecting
the Mahratta empire would have been carried into com-
plete effect.

The authorities in England had wisely sent out to
Bengal, as commander of the forces and member of the
Council, one of the most distinguished soldiers of that
time. Sir Eyre Coote had, many years before, been con-
spicuous among the founders of the British empire in the
East. At the council of war which preceded the battle

11^

WARREN HASTINGS.

of Plassey, he earnestly recommended, in opposition to the
majority, that daring course, which, after some hesitation,
was adopted, and which was crowned with such splendid
success. He subsequently commanded in the south of
India against the brave and unfortunate Lally, gained the
decisive battle of Wandewash over the French and their
native allies, took Pondicherry, and made the English
power supreme in the Carnatic. Since those great exploits
nearly twenty years had elapsed. Coote had no longer
the bodily activity which he had shown in earlier days ;
nor was the vigour of his mind altogether unimpaired.
He was capricious and fretful, and required much coaxing
to keep him in good humour. It must, we fear, be added
that the love of money had grown upon him, and that he
thought more about his allowances, and less about his
duties, than might have been expected from so eminent a
member of so noble a profession. Still he was perhaps
the ablest officer that was then to be found in the British
army. Among the native soldiers his name was great and
his influence unrivalled. Nor is he yet forgotten by them.
Now and then a white-bearded old sepoy may still be
found who loves to talk of Porto Novo and Pollilore. It
is but a short time since one of those aged men came to
present a memorial to an English officer, who holds one of
the highest employments in India. A print of Coote hung
in the room. The veteran recognized at once that face
and figure which he had not seen for more than half a
century, and, forgetting his salam to the living, halted,
drew himself up, lifted his hand, and with solemn reverence
paid his military obeisance to the dead.

Coote, though he did not, like Barwell, vote constantly
with the Governor-General, was by no means inclined to
join in systematic opposition, and on most questions con-
curred with Hastings, who did his best, by assiduous
courtship, and by readily granting the most exorbitant
allowances, to gratify the strongest passions of the old
soldier.

It seemed likely at this time that a general reconcili-
ation would put an end to the quarrels which had, during
some years, weakened and disgraced the government of
Bengal. The dangers of the empire might well induce

WARREN HASTINGS.

men of patriotic fueling — and of patriotic feeling neither
Hastings nor Francis was destitute — to forget private
enmities, and to co-ojxjratii heartily for the general good.
Coote had never been concerned in faction. VVheler was
thoroughly tired of it. Barwell had made an ample
fortune, and, though he had promised that he would not
leave Calcutta while his help was needed in Council, was
most desirous to return to England, and exerted himself to
promote an arrangement which would set him at liberty.

A compact was made, by which Francis agreed to desist
from opposition, and Hastings engaged that the friends of
Francis should be admitted to a fair share of the honours
and emoluments of the service. During a few months
after this treaty there was apparent harmony at the council-
board.

Harmony, indeed, was never more necessary : for at
this moment internal calamities, more formidable than war
itself, menaced Bengal. The authors of the Regulating
Act of 1773 had established two independent powers, the
one judicial, and the c^^her political ; and, with a careless-
ness scandalously coui. on in English legislation, had
omitted to define the limi's of either. The judges took
advantage of the indistinctness, and attempted to draw to
themselves supreme authority, not only within Calcutta,
but through the whole of the great territory subject to the
Presidency of Fort William. There are few Englishmen
who will not admit that the English law, in spite of
modern improvements, is neither so cheap nor so speedy
as might be wished. Still, it is a system which has grown
up among us. In some points it has been fashioned to
suit our feelings ; in others, it has gradually fashioned our
feelings to suit itself. Even to its worst evils we are
accustomed ; and therefore, though we may complain of
them, they do not strike us with the horror and dismay
which would be produced by a new grievance of smaller
severity. In India the case is widely different. English
law, transplanted to that country, has all the vices from
which we suffer here ; it has them all in a far higher
degree ; and it has other vices, compared with which the
worst vices from which we suffer are trifles. Dilatory
here, it is far more dilatory in a land where the help of an

■ iji

■i^

m 'I

s«

WARREN HASTINGS.

interpreter is needed by every judge and by every advo«
cate. Costly here, it is far more costly in a land into
which the legal practitioners must be imported from an
immense distance. All English labour in India, from the
labour of the Governor-General and the Commander-in-
Chief, down to that of a groom or a watchmaker, niust be
paid for at a higlicr rate than at home. No man will bo
banished, and banished to the torrid zone, for notliing.
The rule holds good with respect to the legal profession.
No English barrister will work, fifteen thousand miles from
all his friends, with the thermometer at ninety-six in the
shade, for the emoluments which will content him in
chambers that overlook the Thames. Accordingly, the
fees at Calcutta are about three times as great as the fees
of Westminster Hall; and this, though the people of
India are, beyond all comparison, poorer than the people
of England. Yet the delay and expense, grievous as they
are, form the smallest part of the evil which English law,
imported without modifications into India, could not fail to
produce. The strongest feelings of our nature, honour,
religion, female modesty, rose up against the innovation.
Arrest on mesne process was the first step in most civil
proceedings ; and to a native of rank arrest was not merely
a restraint, Ijut a foul personal indignity. Oaths were
required in every stage of every suit ; and the feeling of a
Quaker about an oath is hardly stronger than that of a
respectable native. That the apartments of a woman of
quality should be entered by strange men, or that her face
should be seen by them, are, in the East, ntolerable out-
rages, outrages which are more^ dreaded than death, and
which can be expiated only by the shedding of blood. To
these outrages the most distinguished families of Bengal,
Bahar, and Orissa were now exposed. Imagine what the
state of our own country would be, if a jurisprudence
were on a sudden introduced among us, which should be
to us what our jurisprudence was to our Asiatic subjects.
Imagine what the state of our country would be, if it were
enacted that any man, by merely swearing that a debt was
due to him, should acquire a right to insult the persons of
men of the most honourable* and sacred callings and of
women of the most shrinking delicacy, to hoiiicwliip a

WARREN HASTINGS.

)nour,

ation.
civil

icrely

were

of a

an of
face

2 out-
and
To

general officer, to put s bishop in the stocks, to treat ladies
in the way which cahed forth the blow of Wat Tyler.
Something like this was the effect of the attempt which
the Supreme Court made to extend its jurisdiction over
the whole of the Company's territory.

A reign of terror began, of terror heightened by mystery;
for even that which was endured was less horrible than
that which was anticipated. No man knew what was next
to be expected from this strange tribunal. It came from
beyond the black water, as the people of India, with mys-
terious horror, call the sea. It consisted of judges, not
one of whom was familiar with the usages of the millions
over whom they claimed boundless authority. Its records
were kept in unknown characters ; its sentences were pro-
nounced in unknown sounds. It had already collected
round itself an army of the worst part of the native popula-
tion, informers, and false witnesses, and common barrators,
and agents of chicane, and above all, a banditti of bailiffs'
followers, compared with whom th e retainers of the worst
English sponging-houses, in the worst times, might be con-
sidered as upright and tender-hearted. Many natives,
highly considered among their countrymen, were seized,
hurried up to Calcutta, flung into the common gaol, not
for any crime even imputed, not for any debt that had been
proved, but merely as a precaution till their cause should
come to trial. There were instances in which men of the
most venerable dignity, persecuted without a cause by
extortioners, died of rage and shame in the gripe of the
vile alguazils of Impey. The harems of noble Mahom-
medans, sanctuaries respected in the East by governments
which respected nothing else, were burst open by gangs of
bailiffs. The Mussulmans, braver and less accustomed to
submission than the Hindoos, sometimes stood on their
defence ; and there were instances in which they shed their
blood in the doorway, while defending, sword in hand, the
sacred apartments of their women. Nay, it seemed as if
even the faint-hearted Bengalee, who had crouched at the
feet of Surajah Dowlah, who had been mute during the
administration of Vansittart, would at length find courage
in despair. No Mahratta invasion had ever spread through
the province such dismay as this inroad of English lawyers.

' (

iwm'

ilf

WARREN HASTINGS.

All the injustice of former oppressors, Asiatic and Euro-
pean, appeared as a blessing when compared with the
justice of the Supreme Court.

Every class of the population, English and native, with
the exception of the ravenous pettifoggers who fattened on
the misery and terror of an immense community, cried out
loudly against this fearful oppression. But the judges
were immovable. If a bailiff was resisted, they ordered
the soldiers to be called out. If a servant of the Company,
in conformity with the orders of the government, withstood
the miserable catchpoles who, with Impey's writs in their
hands, exceeded the insolence and rapacity of gang-
robbers, he was flung into prison for a v'-.ontempt. The
lapse of sixty years, the virtue and wisdom of many
eminent magistrates who have during that time adminis-
tered justice in the Supreme Court, have not effaced from
the minds of the people of Bengal the recollection of those
evil days.

The members of the government were, on this subject,
united as one man. Hastings had courted the judges; he
had found them useful instruments ; but he was not dis-
posed to make them his own masters, or the masters of
India. His mind was large ; his knowledge of the native
character most accurate. He saw that the system pursued
by the Supreme Court was degrading to the government
and ruinous to the people ; and he resolved to oppose it
manfully. The consequence was, that the friendship, if
that be the proper word for such a connection, which had
existed between him and Impey, was for a time completely
dissolved. The government placed itself firmly between
the tyrannical tribunal and the people. The Chief Justice
proceeded to the wildest excesses. The Governor-General
and all the members of Council were served with writs,
calling on them to appear before the King's justices, and
to answer for their public acts. This was too much.
Hastings, with just scorn, refused to obey the call, set at
liberty the persons wrongfully detained by the Court, and
took measures for resisting the outrageous proceedings of
the sheriff's officers, if necessary, by the sword. But he
had in view another device, which might prevent the
necessity of an appeal to arms. He was seldom at a loss

WARREN HASTINGS*

for an expedient ; and he knew Impey well. Tho expedient,
in this case, was a very simple one, neither more nor less
than a bribe. Impey was, by act of parliament, a judge,
independent of the government of Bengal, and entitled to
a salary of eight thousand a year. Hastings proposed to
make him also a judge in the Company's service, remov-
able at the pleasure of the government of Bengal ; and to
give him, in that capacity, about eight thousand a year
more. It was understood that, in consideration of this
new salary, Impey would desist from urging the high pre-
tensions of his court. If he did urge these pretensions, the
government could, at a moment's notice, eject him from
the new place which had been created for him. The
bargain was struck ; Bengal was saved ; an appeal to force
was averted ; and the Chief Justice was rich, quiet, and
infamous.

Of Impey's conduct 't is unnecessary to speak. It was
of a piece with almost every part of his conduct that comes
under the notice of history. No other such judge has dis-
honoured the English ermine, since JeflFeries drank himself
to death in the Tower. But we cannot agree with those
who have blamed Hastings for this transaction. The case
stood thus. The negligent manner in which the Regulating
Act had been framed put it in the power of the Chief
Justice to throw a great country into the most dreadful
confusion. He was determined to use his power to the
utmost, unless he was paid to be still ; and Hastings con-
sented to pay him. The necessity was to be deplored. It
is also to be deplored that pirates should be able to exact
ransom, by threatening to make their captives walk the
plank. But to ransom a captive from pirates has always
been held a humane and Christian act ; and it would be
absurd to charge the payer of the ransom with corrupting
the virtue of the corsair. This, we seriously think, is a
not unfair illustration of the relative position of Impey,
Hastings, and the people of India. Whether it was right
in Impey to demand or to accept a price for powers which,
if they really belongeo .o him, he could not abdicate,
which, if they did not belong to him, he ought never to
have usurped, and which in neither case he could honestly
sell, is one question. It is quite another question whether

i ^ :

WARREN HASTINGS.

. . --if ■,
1 >j

.'•l^ :

Hastings was not right to give any sum, however large, to
any man, however worthless, rather than either surrender
millions of human beings to pillage, or rescue them by
civil war.

Francis strongly opposed this arrangement. It may,
indeed, be suspected that personal aversion to Impey was
as strong a motive with Francis as regard for the welfare
of the province. To a mind burning with resentment, it
might seem better to leave Bengal to the oppressors than
to redeem it by enriching them. It is not improbable, on
on the other hand, that Hastings may have been the more
willing to resort to an expedient agreeable to the Chief
Justice, because that high functionary had already been so
serviceable, and might, when existing dissensions were
composed, be serviceable again.

Bi it was not on this point alone that Francis was now
opposed to Hastings. The peace between them proved
to be only a short and hollow truce, during which their
mutual aversion was constantly becoming stronger. At
length an explosion took place. Hastings publicly charged
Francis with having deceived him, and with having induced
Barwell to quit the s'^^rvice by insincere promises. Then
came a dispute, such as frequently arises even between
honourable men, when they make important agreements
by mere verbal communication. An impartial historian
will probably be of opinion that they had misunderstood
each other; but their minds were so much embittered that
they imputed to each other nothing less than deliberate
villainy. ** I do not," said Hastings, in a minute recorded
in the Consultations of the Government, " I do not trust
to Mr. Francis's promises of candour, convinced that he is
incapable of it. I judge of his public conduct by his pri-
vate, which I have found to be void of truth and honour."
After the Council had risen, Francis put a challenge into
the Governor-General's hand. It was instantly accepted.
They met, and fired. Francis was shot through the body.
He was carried to a neighbouring house, where it appeared
that the wound, though severe, was not mortal. Hastings
inquired repeatedly after his enemy's health, and proposed
to call on him ; but Francis coldly declined the visit. He
bad a proper sense, he said, of the Governor-General's

WARREN HASTINGS.

politeness, but could not consent to any private interview.
They could meet only at the Council-board.

In a very short time it was made signally manifest to
how great a danger the Governor-General had, on this
occasion, exposed his country. A crisis arrived with which
he, and he alone, was competent to deal. It is not too
much to say that, if he had been taken from the head of
affairs, the years 1780 and 1781 would have been as fatal
to our power in Asia as to our power in America.

The Mahrattas had been the chief objects of appre-
hension to Hastings. The measures which he had adopted
for the purpose of breaking their power, had at first been
frustrated by the errors of those whom he was compelled
to employ ; but hii perseverance and ability seemed likely
to be crowned with success, when a far more formidable
danger showed itself in a distant quarter.

About thirty years before this time, a Mahommedan
soldier had begun to distinguish himself in the wars of
Southern India. His education had been neglected ; his
extraction was humble. His father had been a petty
officer of revenue; his grandfather a wandering dervise.
But though thus meanly descended, though ignorant even
of the alphabet, the adventurer had no sooner been placed
at the head of a body of troops than he approved himself
a man born for conquest and command. Among the crowd
of chiefs who were struggling for a share of India, none
could compare with him in the qualities of the captain and
the st ■' man. He became a general ; he became a
sovereign Out of the fragments of old principalities,
which haa gone to pieces in the general wreck, he formed
for himself a great, compact, and vigorous empire. That
empire he ruled with the ability, severity, and vigilance of
Lewis the Eleventh. Licentious in his pleasures, inplac-
able in his revenge, he had yet enlargment of mind enough
to perceive how much the prosperity of subjects adds to
the strength of governments. He was an oppressor ; but
he had at least the merit of protecting his people against
all oppression except his own. He was now in extreme
old age ; but his intellect was as clear, and his spirit as
high, as in the prime of manhood. Such was the great
liyder Ali, the founder of the Mahommedan kingdom o(

||||

■I h

■#■■1

WARREN HASTINGS.

Mysore, and the most formidable enemy with whom the
EngHsh conquerors of India have ever had to contend.

Had Hastings been governor of Madras, Hyder would
have been either made a friend, or vigorously encountered
as an enemy. Unhappily the English authorities in the
south provoked their powerful neighbour's hostility, without
being prepared to repel it. On a sudden, an army of ninety
thousand men, far superior in discipline and efficiency to
any other native force that cculd be found in India, came
pouring through those wild passes which, worn by mountain
torrents, and dark with jungle, lead down from the table-
land of Mysore to the plains of the Carnatic. This great
army was accompanied by a hundred pieces of cannon ;
and its movements were guided by many French officers,
trained in the best military schools of Europe.

Hyder was everywhere triumphant. The sepoys in
many British garrisons flung down their arms. Some fort-;
were surrendered by treachery, and some by despair. In
a few days the whole open country north of the Coleroon
had submitted. The English inhabitants of Madras could
already see by night, from the top of Mount St. Thomas,
the western sky reddened by a vast semicircle of blazing
villages. The white villas, to which our countrymen retire
after the daily labours of government and of trade, when
the cool evening breeze springs up from the bay, were now
left without inhabitants : for bands of the fierce horsemen
of Mysore had already been seen prowling among the tulip-
trees, and near the gay verandas. Even the town was not
thought secure, and the British merchants and public
functionaries made haste to crowd themselves behind the
cannon of Fort St. George.

There were the means, indeed, of assembling an army
which might have defended the presidency, and even
driven the invader back to his mountains. Sir Hector
Munro was at the head of one considerable force ; Baillie
was advancing with another. United, they might have
presented a formidable front even to such an enemy as
Hyder. But the English commanders, neglecting those
fundamental rules of the military art of which the propriety
is obvious even to men who have never received a military
education, deferred their junction, and were separately

WARREN HASTINGS.

army
even
ector
Jaillie
have
ly as
those
)riety
htary
ately

attacked. Baillie's detachment was destroyed. Munro
was forced to abandon his baggage, to fling his guns into
the tanks, and to save himself by a retreat which might be
called a flight. In three weeks from the commencement
of the war, the British empire in Southern India had been
brought to the verge of ruin. Only a few fortified places
remained to us. The glory of our arms had departed. It
was known that a great French expedition might soon be
expected on the coast of Coromandei. England, beset by
enemies on every side, was in no condition to protect such
remote dependencies.

Then it was that the fertile genius and serene courage
of Hastings achieved their most signal triumph. A swift
ship, flying before the south-west monsoon, brought the
evil tidings in a few days to Calcutta. In twenty-four
hours the Governor-General had framed a complete plan
of policy adapted to the altered state of affairs. The
struggle with Hyder was a struggle for life and death.
All minor objects must be sacrificed to the preservation
of the Carnatic. The disputes with the Mahrattas must
be accommodated. A large military force and a supply
of money must be instantly sent to Madras. But even
these measures would be insufficient, unless the war,
hitherto so grossly mismanaged, were placed under the
direction of a vigorous mind. It v/as no time for trifling.
Hastings determined to resort to an extreme exercise of
power, to suspend the incapable governor of Fort St.
George, to send Sir Eyre Coote to oppose Hyder, and to
intrust that distinguished general with the whole adminis-
tration of the war.

In spite of the sullen opposition of Francis, who had
now recovered from his wound, and had returned to the
Council, the Governor-Generals wise and firm policy was
api)roved by the majority of the board. The reinforce-
ments were sent off with great expedition, and reached
Madras before the French armament arrived intne Indian
seas. Coote, broken by age and disease, was no. onger the
Coote of Wandewash ; but he was still a resolute and
skilful commander. The progress of Hyder was arrested ;
and in a few months the great victory of Porto Novo re-
trieved the honour of the English arms,

;■!

WARREN HASTINGS.

In the meantime Francis had returned to Enji^land, and
Hastings was now left perfectly unfettered. Wheler had
gradually been relaxing in his opposition, and, after the
departure of his vehement and implacable colleague, co-
operated heartily with the Governor-General, whose
influence over the British in India, always great, had, by
the vigour and success of his recent measures, been con-
siderably increased.

But, though the difficulties arising from factions within
the Council were at an end, another class of difficulties had
become more pressing than ever. The financial embar-
rassment was extreme. Hastings had to find the means,
not only of carrying on the government of Bengal, but of
maintaining a most costly war against both Indian and
European enemies in the Carnatic, and of making remit-
tances to England. A few years before this time he had
obtained relief by plundering the Mogul and enslaving the
Rohillas ; nor were the resources of his fruitful mind by
any means exhausted.

His first design was on Benares, a city which in wealth,
population, dignity, and sanctity, was among the foremost
of Asia. It was commonly believed that half a million of
human beings was crowded into that labyrinth of lofty
alleys, rich with shrines, and minarets, and balconies, and
carved oriels, to which the sacred apes clung by hundreds.
The traveller could scarcely make his way through the
press of holy mendicants and not less holy bulls. The
broad and stately flights of steps which descended from
these swarming haunts to the bathing-places along the
Ganges were worn every day by the footsteps of an
innumerable multitude of worshippers. The schools and
temples drew crowds of pious Hindoos from every
province where the Brahminical faith was known. Hun-
dreds of devotees came thither every month to die : for it
was believed that a peculiarly happy fate awaited the man
who should pass from the sacred city into the sacred river.
Nor was superstition the only motive which allured
strangers to that g 3at metropolis. Commerce had as
many pilgrims as religion. All along the shores of the
venerable stream lay great fleets of vessels laden with rich
merchandise. From the looms of Benares went forth the

WARREN HASTINGS.

I, and
r had
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most delicate silks that adorned the balls of St. James's and
of Versailles ; and in the bazaars, the muslins of Bengal
and the sabres of Oude were mingled with the jewels of
Golcondaand the shawls of Cashmere. This rich capital,
and the surrounding tract, had long been under the
immediate rule of a Hindoo prince, who rendered homage
to the Mogul emperors. During the great anarchy of
India, the lords of Benares became independent of the
court of Delhi, but were compelled to submit to the
authority of the Nabob of Oude. Oppressed by this
formidable neighbour, they invoked the protection of the
English. The English protection was given ; and at
length the Nabob Vizier, by a solemn treaty, ceded all his
rights over Benares to the Company. From that time the
Rajah was the vassal of the government of Bengal,
acknowledged its supremacy, and engaged to send an
annual tribute to Fort William. This tribute Cheyte
Sing, the reigning prince, had paid with strict punctuality.

About the precise nature of the legal relation between
the Company and the Rajah of Benares, there has been
much warm and acute controversy. On the one side, it
has been maintained that Cheyte Sing was merely a great
subject on whom the superior power had a right to call for
aid in the necessities of the empire. On the other side, it
has been contended that he was an independent prince,
that the only claim which the Company had upon him was
for a fixed tribute, and that, while the fixed tribute was
regularly paid, as it assuredly was, the English had no
more right to exact any further contribution from him
than to demand subsidies from Holland or Denmark.
Nothing is easier than to find precedents and analogies in
favour of either view.

Our own impression is that neither view is correct. It
was tgo much tne habit of English politicians to take it
for granted that there was in India a known and definite
constitution by which questions of this kind were to be
decided. The truth is that, during the interval which
elapsed between the fall of the house of Tamerlane and
the establishment of the British ascendancy, there was no
such constitution. The old order of things had passed
away ; the new order of things was not yet formed, AU

■m

' mffl

■

WARREN HASTINGS.

was transition, confusion, obscurity. Every body kept his
head as he best might, and scrambled for whatever he
could get. There have been similar seasons in Europe.
The time of the dissolution of the Carlovingian empire is
an instance. Who would think of seriously discussing the
question, what extent of pecuniary aid and of obedience
Hugh Capet had a constitutional right to demand from the
Duke of Brittany or the Duke of Normandy ? The
words " constitutional right " had, in that state of society,
no meaning. If Hugh Capet laid hands on all the posses-
sions of the Duke of Normandy, this might be unjust and
immoral ; but it would not be illegal, in the sense in which
the ordinances of Charles the Tenth were illegal. If, on
the other hand, the Duke of Norniandy made war on
Hugh Capet, this might be unjust and immoral; but it
would not be illegal, in the sense in which the expedition
of Prince I,.ouis Bonaparte was illegal.

Very similar to this was the state of India sixty years
ago. Of the existing governments not a single one could
lay claim to legitimacy, or could plead any other title than
recent occupation. There was scarcely a province in
which the real sovereignty and the nominal sovereignty
were not disjoined. Titles and forms were still retained
which implied that the heir of Tamerlane was an absolute
ruler, and that the Nabobs of the provinces were his
lieutenants. In reality, he was a captive. The Nabobs
were in some places independent princes. In other places,
as in Bengal and the Carnatic, they had, like their master,
become mere phantoms, and the Company was supreme.
Among the Mahrattas, again, the heir of Sevajee still kept
the title of Rajah ; but he was a prisoner, and his prime
minister, the Peshwa, had become the hereditary chief of
the State. The Peshwa, in his turn, was fast sinking into
the same degraded situation into which he had reduced the
Rajah. It was, we believe, impossible to find, from the
Himalayas to Mysore, a single government which was at
once a government de facto and a government de jure,
which possessed the physical means of making itself feared
by its neighbours and subjects, and which had at the same
time the authority derived from law and long prescription.

Hastings clearly discerned what was hidden from most

WARREN HASTINGS.

of his contemporaries, that such a state of things gave
immense advantages to a ruler of great talents and few
scruples. In every international question that could arise,
he had his option between the de facto ground and the de
jure ground ; and the probability was that one of those
grounds would sustain any claim that it might be conven-
ient for him to make, and enable him to resist any claim
made by others. In every controversy, accordingly, he
resorted to the plea which suited his immediate purpose,
without troubling himself in the least about consistency ;
and thus he scarcely ever failed to find what, to persons of
short memories and scanty information, seemed to be a
justification for what he wanted to do. Sometimes the
Nabob of Bengal is a shadow, sometimes a monarch.
Sometimes the Vizier is a mere deputy, sometimes an inde-
pendent potentate. If it is expedient for the Company to
show some legal title to the revenues of Bengal, the grant
under the seal of the Mogal is brought forward as an in-
strument of the highest authority. When the Mogul asks
for the rents which were reserved to him by that very
grant, he is told that he is a mere pageant, that the
English power rests on a very different foundation from a
charter given by him, that he is welcome to play at loyalty
as long as he likes, but that he must expect no tribute
from the real masters of India.

It is true that it was in the power of others, as well as
of Hastings, to practise this legerdemain ; but in the con-
troversies of governments, sophistry is of little use unless
it be backed by power. There is a principle which Hast-
ings was fond of asserting in the strongest terms, and on
which he acted with undeviating steadiness. It is a
principle which, we must own, though it may be grossly
abused, can hardly be disputed in the present state of
public law. It is this, that where an ambiguous question
arises between two governments, there is, if they cannot
agree, no appeal except to force, and that the opinion of
the stronger must prevail. Almost every question was
ambiguous in India. The English government was the
strongest in India. The consequences are obvious. The
English government might do exactly what it chose.

Xhe English government iiow chose to wrings money

iii«

. '!■

iL
1

1! . \l

i ill

WARRFN HASTINGS.

out of Cheyte Sing. It had formerly been convenient to
treat him as a sovereign prince ; it was now convenient to
treat him as a subject. Dexterity inferior to that of Hast-
ings could easily find, in the general chaos of laws and
customs, arguments for either course. Hastings wanted a
great supply. It was known that Cheyte Sing had a large
revenue, and it was suspected that he had accumulated a
treasure. Nor was he a favourite at Calcutta. He had,
when the Governor-General was in great difficulties,
courted the favour of Francis and Clavering. Hastings,
who, less perhaps from evil passions than from policy,
seldom left an injury unpunished, was not sorry that tlic
fate of Cheyte Sing should teach neighbouring princes tlie
same lesson which the fate of Nuncomar had already
impressed on the inhabitants of Bengal.

In 1778, on the first breaking out of the war with
France, Cheyte Sing was called upon to pay, in addition
to his fixed tribute, an extraordinary contribution of fifty
thousand pounds. In 1779, an equal sum was exacted.
In 1780, the demand was renewed. Cheyte Sing, in the
hope of obtaining some indulgence, secretly offered the
Governor-Ge?r.eral a bribe of twenty thousand pounds.
Hastings took the money, and his enemies have maintained
that he took it intending to keep it. He certainly con-
cealed the transaction, for a time, both from the Council
in Bengal and from the Directors at home ; nor did he
ever give any satisfactory reason for the concealment.
Public spirit, or the fear of detection, at last determined
him to withstand the temptation. He paid over the bribe
to the Company's treasury, and insisted that the Rajah
should instantly comply with the demands of the English
government. The Rajah, after the fashion of his country-
men, shuffled, solicited, and pleaded poverty. The grasp
of Hastings was not to be so eluded. He added to the
requisition another ten thousand pounds as a tine for
delay, and sent troops to exact the money.

The money was paid. But this was not enoug.i. The
late events in the south of India had increased the
financial embarrassments of the Company. Hastings was
determined to plunder Cheyte Sing, and, for that end, to
fs^stea a quarrel on him. Accordingly, the Rajah was now

WARftfiN MAStlNGS.

required to keep a body of cavalry for the service of the
British government. He objected and evaded. This was
exactly what the Governor-General wanted. He had now
a pretext for treating the wealthiest of his vassals as a
criminal. ** I resolved" — these are the words of Hastings
himself — " to draw from his guilt the means of relief of
the Company's distresses, to make him pay largely for his
pardon, or to exact a severe vengeance for past delin-
quency." The plan was simply this, to demand larger and
larger contributions till the Rajah should be driven to
remonstrate, then to call his remonstrance a crime, and to
punish him by confiscating all his possessions.

Cheyte Sing was in the greatest dismay. He offered
two hundred thousand pounds to propitiate the British
government. But Hastings replied that nothing less than
half a million would be accepted. Nay, he began to think
of selling Benares to Oude, as he had formerly sold
Allahabad and Rohilcund. The matter was one which
could not be well managed at a distance ; and Hastings
resolved to visit Benares.

Cheyte Sing received his liege lord with every mark of
reverence, came near sixty miles, with his guards, to meet
and escort the illustrious visitor, and expressed his deep
concern at the displeasure of the English. He even took
off his turban, and laid it in the lap of Hastings, a gesture
which in India marks the most profound submission and
devotion. Hastings behaved with cold and repulsive
severity. Having arrived at Benares, he sent to the Rajah
a paper containing the demands of the government of
Bengal. The Rajah, in reply, attempted to clear himself
from the accusations brought against him. Hastings, who
wanted money and not excuses, was not to be put off by
the ordinary artifices of Eastern negotiation. He instantly
ordered the Rajah to be arrested and placed under the
custody of two companies of sepoys.

In taking these strong measures, Hastings scarcely
showed his usual judgment. It is possible that, having
had little opportunity of personally observing any part of
the population of India, except the Bengalees, he was not
fully aware of the difference between their character and
that of the tribes which inhabit the up^ er provuices. He

i jf
j !

WARnEN HASTINGS.

j; ' r;.

4' !

was now in a land far riore favourable to the vigour of the
human frame than the Delta of the Ganges ; in a land
fruitful of soldieib, who have been found worthy to follow
English battalions to the charge and into the breach. The
Rajah was popular among his subjects. His administra-
tion had been mild ; and the prosperity of the district
which he governed presented a striking contrast to the
depressed state of Bahar under our rule, and a still more
striking contrast to the misery of the provinces which were
cursed by the tyranny of the Nabob Vizier. The national
and religious prejudices with which the English were
regarded throughout India were peculiarly intense in the
metropolis of the Brahminical superstition. It can there-
fore scarcely be doubted that the Governor-General, before
he outraged the dignity of Cheyte Sing by an arrest, ought
to have assembled a force capable of bearing down all
opposition. This had not been done. The handful of
sepoys who attended Hastings would probably have been
sufficient to overawe Moorshedabad, or the Black Town
of Calcutta. But they were unequal to a conflict with the
hardy rabble of Benares. The streets surrounding the
palace were filled by an immense multitude, of whom a
large proportion, as is usual in Upper India, wore arms.
The tumult became a fight, and the fight a ijiassacre. The
English officers defended themselves with desperate
courage against overwhelming numbers, and fell, as
became them, sword in hand. The sepoys were butchered.
The gates were forced. The captive prince, neglected by
his gaolers during the confusion, discovered an outlet
which opened on the precipitous bank of the Ganges, let
himself down to the water by a string made of the turbans
of his attendants, found a boat, and escaped to the
opposite shore.

If Hastings had, by indiscreet violence, brought him-
self into a difficult and perilous situation, it is only just to
acknowledge that he extricated himself with even more
than his usual at Uty and presence of mind. He had only
fifty men with hin The building in which he had taken
up his residence v. on every side blockaded by the insur-
gents. But his fort jde remained unshaken. The Rajah
from the other side oi the river sent apologies and liberal

WARRBN HASTINGS.

ofFers. They were not even answered. Some subtle and
enterprising men were found who undertook to pass
through the throng of enemies, and to convey the intelH-
gence of the late events to the English cantonments. It
is the fashion of the natives of India to wear large earrings
of gold. When they travel the rings are laid aside, lest
the precious metal should tempt some gang of robbers ;
and, in place of the ring, a quill or a roll of paper is
inserted in the orifice to prevent it from closing. Hastings
placed in the ears of his messengers letters rolled up in
the smallest compass. Some of these letters were
addressed to the commanders of the English troops. One
was written to assure his wife of his safety. One was to
the envoy whom he had sent to negotiate with the
Mahrattas. Instructions for the negotiation were needed ;
and the Governor-General framed them in that situation
of extreme danger, with as much composure as '^ he had
br'-n writing in his palace at Calcutta.

^hings, however, were not yet at the worst. An
i_-j,iish officer of more spirit than judgment, eager to
distinguish himself, made a premature attack on the insur-
gents beyond the river. His troops were entangled in
narrow streets, and assailed by a furious population. He
fell, with many of his men ; and the survivors were forced
to retire.

This event produced the effect which has never failed
to follow every check, however slight, sustained in India
by the English arms. For hundreds of miles round, the
whole country was in commotion. The entire population
of the district of Benares took arms. The fields were
abandoned by the husbandmen, who thronged to defend
their prince. The infection spread to Oude. The
oppressed people of that province rose up against the
Nabob Vizier, refused to pay their imposts, and put the
revenue officers to flight. Even Bahar was ripe for revolt.
The hopes of Che5rte Sing began to rise. Instead of
imploring mercy in the humble, style of a vassal, he began
to talk in the language of a conqueror, and threatened, it
was said, to sweep the white usurpers out of the land. But
the English troops were now assembling fast. The officers,
and even the private men, regarded the Governor-General

t I

WARRRN HASTINGS.

with entlnisiastic attachment, and flew to his aid with an
alacrity which, as he boasted, had never been shown on any
oihcr occasion. Major Po];iJiam, a brave and skilful soldier
wiio had hifjhly distinguished himself in the Mahratta
war, and in whom the Governor-General reposed the
^Tcatcst confidence, took the command. The tumultuary
army of the Rajah was put to rout. His fastnesses were
stormed. In a few hours, above thirty thousand men left
his standard, and returned to their ordinary avocations.
Tlie unhappy prince fled from his country for ever. His
fair domain was added to the British dominions. One of
his relations indeed was appointed Kajah ; but the Rajah
of Benares was henceforth to be, like the Nabob of
Bengal, a mere pensioner.

By this revolution, an addition of two hundred thousand
pounds a year was made to the revenues of the Company.
But the immediate relief was not as great as had been
expected. The treasure laid up by Cheyte Sing had been
popularly estimated at a million sterling. It turned out to
be about a fourth part of that sum ; and, such as it was, it
was seized by the army, and divided as prize-money.

Disappointed in his expectations from Benares, Hast-
ings was more violent than he would otherwise have been,
in his dealings with Oude. Sujah I^owlah had long been
dead. His son and successor, Asaph-ul-Dowlah, was one
of the weakest and n ost vicious even of Eastern princes.
His life was divided between torpid repose and the most
odious forms of sensuality. In his court there was bound-
less waste, throughout his dominions wretchednesji and
disorder. He had been, under the skilful management of
the English government, gradually sinking from the rank
of an independent prince to that of a vassal of the Com-
pany. It was only by the help of a British brigade that he
could be secure from the aggressions of neighbours who
despised his weakness, and from the vengeance of subjects
who detested his tyranny. A brigade was furnished ; and
he engaged to defray the charge of paying and maintaining
it. From that time his independence was at an end.
Hastings was not a man to lose the advantage which he
had thus gained. The Nabob soon began to complain of
the burden which he had undertaken to bear. His revenues,

WARREN HASTINGS.

he said, were falling off ; his servants were unpaid ; he
could no longer support the expense of the arrangement
which he had sanctioned. Hastings would not listen to
these representations. The Vizier, he said, had invited
the gc '/er.iment of Bengal to send him troops, and had
promised to pay for them. The troops had been sent.
How long the troops were to remain in Oude was a matter
not settled by the treaty. It remained, therefore, to be
settled between the contracling parties. But the con-
tracting parties differed. Who then must decide ? The
stronger.

Hastings also argued that, if the English force was
withdrawn, Oude would certainly become a prey to anar-
chy, and would probably be overrun by a Mahratta army.
That the linances of Oude were embarrassed he admitted.
But he contended, not without reason, that the embarrass-
ment was to be attributed to the incapacity and vices of
Asaph-ul-Dowlah himself, and that if less were spent on
the troops, the only effect would bo that more would be
squandered on worthless favourites.

Hastings had intended, after settling the affairs of
Benares, to visit Lucknow, and there to confer with Asaph-
ul-Dowlah. But the obsequious courtesy of the Nabob
Vizier prevented this visit. With a small train he hastened
to meet the Governor-General. An interview took place
in the fortress which, from the crest of the precipitous rock
of Chunar, looks down on the waters of the Ganges.

At first sight it might appear impossible that the nego-
tiation should come to an amicable close. Hastings wanted
an extraordinary supply of money. Asaph-ul-Dowlah
wanted to obtain a remission of what he already owed.
Such a difference seemed to admit of no c.~>mpromise.
There was, however, one course satisfactory to both sides,
one course by which it was possible to relieve the finances
both of Oude and of Bengal ; and that course was adopted.
It was simply this, that the Governor-General and the
Nabob Vizier should join to rob a third party ; and the
third party whom they determined to rob was the parent
of one of the robbers.

The mother of the late Nabob and his wife, who was
the mother of the present Nabob, were known as the Be-

WARREN HASTINGS.

I'.

gums or Princesses of Oude. They had possessed great
influence over Sujah Dowlah, and had, at his death, been
left in possession of a splendid donation. The domains of
which they received the rents and administered the gov-
ernment were of wide extent. The treasure hoarded by
the late Nabob, a treasure which was popularly estimated
at near three millions sterling, was in their hands. They
continued to occupy his favourite palace at Fyzabad, the
Beautiful Dwelling ; while Asaph-ul-Dowlah held his courf
in the stately Lucknow, which he had built for himself on
the shores of the Goomti, and had adorned with noble
mosques and colleges.

Asaph-ul-Dowlah had already extorted considerable
sums from his mother. She had at length appealed to the
English; and the English had interfered. A solemn com-
pact had been made, by which she consented to give her
son some pecuniary assistance, and he in his turn promised
never to commit a'".y further invasion of her rights. This
compact was formally guaranteed by the government of
Bengal. But times had changed ; money was wanted ;
and the power which had given the guarantee was not
ashamed to instigate the spoiler to excesses such that even
he shrank from them.

It was necessary to find some pretext for a confiscation
inconsistent, not merely with plighted faith, not merely
with the ordinary rules of humanity and justice, but also
with that great law of filial piety which, even in the wildest
tribes of savages, even in those more degraded communi-
ties which wither under the influence of a corrupt half-
civilization, retains a certain authority over the human
mind. A pretext was the last thing that Hastings was
likely, to want. The insurrection of Benares had produced
disturbances in Oude. These disturbances it was con-
venient to impute to the Princesses. Evidence for the
imputation there was scarcely any ; unless reports wander-
ing from one month to another, and gaining something by
every transmission, may be called evidence. The accused
were furnished with no charge ; they were permitted to
^^^ake no defence ; for the Governor-General wisely con-
iidered that, if he tried them, he might not be able to find
a ground for plundering them. It was agreed between him

■!

WARREN HASTINGS.

and the Nabob Vizier that the noble ladies should, uy a
sweeping act of confiscation, be stripped of their domains
and treasures for the benefit of the Company, and that the
sums thus obtained should be accepted by the government
of Bengal in satisfaction of its claims on the government
of Oude.

While Asaph-ul-Dowlah was at Chunar, he was com-
pletely subjugated by the clear and commanding intel-
lect of the English statesman. But, when they had separ-
ated, the Vizier began to reflect with uneasiness on the
engagements into which he had entered. His mother and
grandmother protested and implored. His heart, deeply
corrupted by absolute power and licentious pleasures, yet
not natural!}- unfeeling, failed him in this crisis. Even the
English resident at Lucknow, though hitherto devoted to
Hastings, shrank from extreme measures. But the Gov-
ernor-General was inexorable. He wrote to the resident
in terms of the greatest severity, and declared that, if the
spoliation which had been agreed upon were not instantly
carried into effect, he would himself go to Lucknow, and
d6 ihat from which feebler minds recoil with dismay. The
resident, thus menaced, waited on his Highness, and
insisted that the treaty of Chunar should be carried into
full and immediate effect. Asaph-ul-Dowlah yielded,
making at the same time a solemn protestation that he
yielded to compulsion. The lands were resumed ; but the
treasure was not so easily obtained. It was necessary to
use violence. A body of the Company's troops marched to
Fyzabad, and forced the gates of the palace. The Prin-
cesses were confined to their own apartments. But still
they refused to submit. Some more stringent mode of
coercion was to be found. A mode was found, of which,
even at this distance of time, we cannot speak without
shame and sorrow.

There were at Fyzabad two ancient men, belonging to
that unhappy class which a practice, of immemorial anti-
quity in tile East, has excluded from the pleasures of love
and fron: the hope of posterity. It has always been held
in Asiatic courts that beings thus estranged from sympathy
with their kind are those whom princes may most safely
trust. Sujah Dowlah had been of this opinion. He had

1 I
■ *

WARREN HASTINGS.

given his entire confidence to the two eun.ichs ; and after
his death they remained at the head of the household of his
widow.

These men were, by the orders of the British govern-
ment, seize i, imprisoned, ironed, starved almost to death,
in order to extort money from the Princesses. After they
had been two months in confinement, their health gave
way. They implored permission to take a little exercise
in the garden of their prison. The officer who was in
charge of them stated that, if they were allowed this
indulgence, there was not the smallest chance of their
escaping, and that their irons really added nothing to the
security of the custody in which they were kept. He did
not understand the plan of his superiors. Their object in
these inflictions was not security bat torture ; and all miti-
gation was refused. Yet this was not the worst. It was
resolved by an English government that these two infirm
old men "hould be delivered to the tormentors. For that
purpose they were removed to Lucknow. What horrors
their dungeon there witnessed can only be guessed. But
there remains on the records of Parliament, this letter,
written by a British resident to a British soldier.

" Sir, the Nabob having determined to inflict corporal
punishment upon the prisoners under your guard, this is to
desire that his officers, when they shall come, may have
free access to the prisoners, and be permitted to do with
them as they shall see proper."

While these barbarities were perpetrated at Lucknow,
the Princesses were still under duress at Fyzabad. Food
was allowed to enter their apartments only in such scanty
quantities that their female attendants were in danger of
perishing with hunger. Month after month this cruelty
continued, till at length, after twelve hundred thousand
pounds had been wrung out of the Princesses, Hastings
began to think that he had really got to the bottom of
their coffers, and that no rigour could extort more. Then
at length the wretched men who were detained at Lucknow
regained their liberty. When their irons were knocked off",
and the doors of their prison opened, their quivering lips,
the tears which ran down their cheeks, and the thanks-
givings which they poured forth to the common Father of

WARREN HASTINGS,

Mussulmans and Christians, melted even the stout hearts
of the English warriors who stood by.

But we must not forget to do justice to Sir Elijah
Impey's conduct on this occasion. It was not indeed eas}'
for him to intrude himself into a business so entirely alien
from all his official duties. But there was something in-
expressibly alluring, we must suppose, in the peculiar
rankness of the infamy which was then to be be got at
Lucknow. He hurried thither as fast as relays of palan-
quin-bearers could carry him. A crowd of people came
before him with affidavits against the Begums, ready drawn
in their hands. Those affidavits he did not read. Some
of them, indeed, he could not read ; for they werfe in the
dialects of Northern India, and no interpreter was employ-
ed. He administered the oath to the deponents with all
possible expedition, and asked net a single question, not
even whether they had perused the statements to v/hich
they swore. This work performed, he got again into his
palanquin, and posted back to Calcutta, to be in time for
the opening of term. This cause was one which, by his
own confession, lay altogether out of his jurisdiction.
Under the charter of justice, he had no more right to
inquire into crimes committed by Asiatics in Oude than
the Lord President of the Court of Session of Scotland to
hold an assize at Exeter. He had no right to try the
Begums, nor did he pretend to try them. With what
object, then, did he undertake so long a journey ? Evid-
ently in order that he might give, in an irregular manner,
that sanction which in a regular manner he could not give,
to the crimes of those who had recently hired him ; and in
order that a confused mass of testimony which he did not
sift, which he did not even read, might acquire an authority
not properly belonging to it, from the signature of the
highest judicial functionary in India.

The time was approaching, however, when he was to
be stripped of that robe which has never, since the Revo-
lution, been disgraced so foully as by him. The state ol
India had for some time occupied much of the attention of
the British Parliament. Towards the close of the American
war, two committees of the Commons sat on Eastern affairs.
In one Edmund Burke took the lead. The other was

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WARREN HASTINGS.

under the presidency of the able and versatile Henry
Dundas, then Lord Advocate of Scotland. Great as are
the changes which, during the last sixty years, have taken
place in our Asiatic dominions, the reports which those
committees laid on the table of the House will still be found
most mteresting and instructive.

There was as yet no connection between the Company
and either of the great parties in the state. The ministeis
had no motive to defend Indian abuses. On the contrary,
it was for their interest to show, if possible, that the gov-
ernment and patronage of our Oriental empire might, with
advantage, be transferred to themselves. The votes, there-
fore, which, in consequence of the reports made by the two
committees, were passed by the Commons, breathed the
spirit of stern and indignant justice. The severest epithets
were applied to several of the measures of Hastings, espe-
cially to the Rohilla war; and it was resolved, on the motion
of Mr. Dundas, that the Company ought to recall a Gov-
ernor-General who had brought such calamities on the
Indian people, and such dishonour on the British name.
An act was passed for limiting the jurisdiction of the
Supreme Court. The bargain which Hastings had made
with the Chief Justice was condemned in the strongest
terms ; and an address was presented to the King, praying
that Impey might be summoned home to answer for his
misdeeds.

Impey was recalled by a letter from the Secretary of
State. But the proprietors of India stock resolutely re-
fused to dismiss Hastings from their service, and passed a
resolution affirming, what was undeniably true, that they
were intrusted by law with the right of naming and remov-
ing their Governor-General, and that they were not bound
to obey the directions of a single branch of the Legislature
with respect to such nomination or removal.

Thus supported by his employers, Hastings remained
at the head of the government of Bengal till the spring of
1785. His administration, so eventful and stormy, closed
in almost perfect quiet. In the Council there was no
regular opposition to his measures. Peace was restored to
India. The Mahratta war had ceased. Hyder was no
more. A treaty had been concluded with his son, Tippoo ;

WARREN HASTINGS.

and the Carnatic had been evacuated by the armies of
Mysore. Since the termination of the American war,
England had no European enemy or rival in the Eastern
seas.

On a general review of the long administration of
Hastings, it is impossible to deny that, against the great
crimes by which it is blemished, we have to set off great
public services. England had passed through a perilous
crisis. She still, indeed, maintained her place in the fore-
most rank of European powers; and the manner in which
she had defended herself against fearful odds had inspired
surrounding nations with a high opmion both of her spirit
and of her strength. Nevertheless, in every part of the
world, except one, she had been a loser. Not only had
she been compelled to acknowledge the independence of
thirteen colonies peopled by her children, and to conciliate
the Irish by giving up the right of legislating for them ;
but in the Mediterranean, in the Gulf of Mexico, on the
coast of Africa, on the continent of America, she had been
compelled to cede the fruits of her victories in former wars.
Spain regained Minorca and Florida ; France regained
Senegal, Goree and several West Indian Islands. The
only quarter of the world in which Britain had lost noth-
ing was the quarter in which her interests had been com-
mitted to the care of Hastings. In spite of the utmost
exertions both of European and Asiatic enemies, the power
of our country in the East had been greatly augmented.
Benares was subjected ; the Nabob Vizier reduced to
vassalage. That our influence had been thus extended,
nay, that Fort William and Fort St. George had not been
occupied by hostile armies, was owing, if we may trust the
general voice of the English in India, to the skill and
resolution of Hastings.

His internal administration, with all its blemishes, gives
him a title to be considered as one of the most remarkable
men in our history. He dissolved the double government.
He transferred the direction of affairs to English hands.
Out of a frightful anarchy, he educed at least a rude and
imperfect order. The whole organization by which justice
was dispensed, revenue collected, peace maintained through-
out a territory not inferior in population to the dominions

■ ii

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WARREN HASTINGS.

ffl

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of Lewis the Sixteenth or the Emperor Joseph, was formed
and superintended by him^ He boasted that every public
Dffice, without exception, which existed when he left Ben-
gal, was his creation. It is quite true that this system,
after all the improvements suggested by the experience of
sixty years, still needs improvement, and that it was at
first far more defective than it now is. But whoever
seriously considers what it is to construct from the begin-
ning the whole of a machine so vast and complex as a
government, will allow that what Hastings effected deserves
high admiration. To compare the most celebrated Euro-
pean ministers to him seems to us as unjust as it would be
to compare the best baker in London with Robinson
Crusoe, who, before he could bake a single loaf, had to
make his plough and his harrow, his fences and his scare-
crows, his sickle and his flail, his mill and his oven.

The just fame of Hastings rises still higher, when we
reflect that he was not bred a statesman ; that he was sent
from school to a counting-house ; and that he was employed
during the prime of his manhood as a commercial agent,
far from all intellectual society.

Nor must we forget that all, or almost all, to whom,
when placed at the head of affairs, he could apply for
assistance, were persons who owed as little as himself, or
less than himself, to education. A minister in Europe
find'v himself, on the first day on which he commences his
functions, surrounded by experienced public servants, the
depositaries of official traditions. Hastings had no such
help. His own reflection, his own energy, were to supply
the place of all Downing Street and Somerset House.
Having had no facilities for learning, he was forced to
teach. He had first to form himself, and then to form his
instruments ; and this not in a single department, but in all
the departments of the administration.

It must be added that, while engaged in this most ardu-
ous task, he was constantly trammelled by orders from home,
and frequently borne down by a majority in Council. The
preservation of an empire from a formidable combination
of foreign enemies, the construction of a government in all
its parts, were accomplished by him, while every ship
brought out bales of censure from his employers, and while

Warren hastincs.

the records of every consultation were filled with acrimoni*
ous minutes by his colleagues. We believe that there
never was a public man whose temper was so severely
tried ; not Marlborough, when tlnvartcd by the Dutch
Deputies; not Welliuf^ton, when he liad to deal at once
with the Portui^ucse Regency, the Spanish Juntas, and
Mr. Percival. But the temper of IlEjstmgs was equal to
almost any trial. It was not sweet ; but it was calm.
Quick and vigorous as his intellect was, the patience with
which he endured the most cruel vexations, till a remedy
could be found, resembled the patience of stupidity. He
seems to have been capable of resentment, bitter and long
enduring; yet his resentment so seldom hurried him into
any blunder, that it may be doubted whether what appeared
to be revenge was any thing but policy.

The effe^.t of this singular equanimity was that he
always had the full command of all the resources of one of
the most fertile minds that ever existed. Accordingly no
complication of perils and embarrassments could perplex
him. For every difficulty he had a contrivance ready;
and, whatever may be thought of the justice and humanity
of some of his contrivances, it is certain that they seldom
failed to serve the purpose for which they were designed.

Together with this extraordinary talent for devising
expedients, Hastings possessed, in a very high degree,
another talent scarcely less necessary to a man in his
situation ; we mean the talent for conducting political con-
troversy. It is as necessary to an English statesman in
the East that he should be able to write, as it is to a min-
ister in this country that he should be able to speak. It is
chiefly by the oratory of a public man here that the nation
judges of his powers. It is from the letters and reports of
a public man in India that the dispensers of patronage
form their estimate of him. In each case, the talent which
receives peculiar encouragement is developed, perhaps at
the expense of the other powers. In this country, we
sometimes hear men speak above their abilities. It is not
very unusual to find gentlemen in the Indian service who
write above their abilities. The English politician is a
little too much of a debater ; the Indian politician a little
too much of an essayist.

WARREN HASTINGS.

I'll'!

Of the numerous servants of the Company who have
distinguished themselves as framers of minutes and de-
spatches, Hastings stands at the head. He was indeed
the person who gave to the official writing of the Indian
governments the character which it still retains. He was
matched against no common antagonist. But even Francis
was forced to acknowledge, with sullen and resentful can.
dour, that there was' no contending against the pen of
Hastings. And, in truth, the Governor-General's power
of making out a case, of perplexing what it was incon-
venient that people should understand, and of setting in
the clearest point of view whatever would bear the light,
was incomparable. His style must be praised with some
reservation. It was in general forcible, pure, and polished :
but it was sometimes, though not often, turgid, and, on one
or two occasions, even bombastic. Perhaps the fondness
of Hastings for Persian literature may have tended to
corrupt his taste.

And, since we have referred to his literary tastes, it
would be most unjust not to praise the judicious encourage-
ment, which, as a ruler, he gave to liberal studies and
curious researches. His patronage was extended, with
prudent generosity, to voyages, travels, experiments, publi-
cations. He did little, it is true, towards introducing into
India the learning of the West. To make the young
natives of Bengal familiar with Milton and Adam Smith,
to substitute the geography, astronomy, and surgery of
Europe for the dotages of the Brahminical superstition, or
for the imperfect science of ancient Greece transfused
through Arabian expositions, this was a scheme reserved
to crown the beneficent administration of a far more
virtuous ruler. Still it is impossible to refuse high com-
mendation to a man who, taken from a ledger to govern an
empire, overwhelmed by public business, surrounded by
people as busy as himself, and separated by thousands of
leagues from almost all literary society, gave, both by his
example and by his munificence, a great impulse to learn-
ing. In Persian and Arabic literature he was deeply
skilled. With the Sanscrit he was not himself acquainted ;
but those who first brought that language to the know-
ledge of European students owed much to his encourage-

Warren Hastings.

nicnt. It was under his protection that the Asiatic Society
commenced its honourable career. That distinguished
body selected him to be its first president ; but, with excel-
lent taste and feeling, he declined the honour in favour of
Sir William Jones. But the chief advantage which the
students of Oriental letters derived from his patronage
remains to be mentioned. The Pundits of Bengal had
always looked with great jealousy on the attempts ol
foreigners to pry into those mysteries which were locked
up in the sacred dialect. The Brahminical religion had
been persecuted by the Mahommrdans. What the Hin-
doos knew of the spirit of the Portuguese government
might warrant them in apprehending persecution from
Christians. That apprehension, the wisdom and modera-
tion of Hastings removed. He was the first foreign ruler
who succeeded in gaining the confidence of the hereditary
priests of India, and who induced them to lay open to
English scholars the secrets of the old Brahminical theology
and jurisprudence.

It is indeed impossible to deny that, in the great art of
inspiring large masses of human beings with confidence
and attachmeri, no ruler ever surpassed Hastings. If he
had made himself popular with the English by giving up
the Bengalees to extortion and oppression, or if, on the
other hand, he had conciliated the Bengalees and alienated
the English, there would have been no cause for wonder.
What is peculiar to him is that, being the chief of a small
band of strangers, who exercised boundless power over a
great indigenous population, he made himself beloved both
by the subject many and by the dominant few. The affec-
tion felt for him by the civil service was singularly ardent
and constant. Through all his disasters and perils, his
brethren stood by him with steadfast loyalty. The army.
At the same time, loved him as armies have seldom loved
any but the greatest chiefs who have led them to victory.
Even in his disputes with distinguished military men, he
could always count on the support of the military pro-
fession. While such was his empire over the hearts of his
countrymen, he enjoyed among the natives a popularity,
such as other governors have perhaps better merited, but
sacU as no other governor has been able lo attain. He

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Warren Hastings.

spoke their vernacular dialects with facility and precision.
He was intimately acquaited with their feelings and usages.
On o)\e. or two occasions, for great ends, he deliberately
acted in defiance of their opinion ; but on such occasions he
gained more in their respect than he lost in their love. In
general, he carefully avoided all that could shock their
national or religious prejudices. His administration was
indeed in many respects faulty ; but the Bengalee standard
of good government was not high. Under the Nabobs, the
hurricane of Mahratta cavalry had passed annually over
the rich alluvial plain. But even the Mahratta shrank
from a conflict with the mighty children of the sea ; and
the immense rice harvests of the Lower Ganges were safely
gathered in, under the protection of the English sword.
The first English conquerors had been more rapacious and
merciless even than the Mahrattas ; but that generation
had passed away. Defective as was the police, heavy as
were the public burdens, it is probable that the oldest man
in Bengal could not recollect a season of equal security
and prosperity. For the first time within living memory,
the province was placed under a government strong enough
to prevent others from robbing, and not inclined to play
the robber itself. These things inspired good-will. At
the same time, the constant success of HasI i igs and the
manner in which he extricated himself from every difficulty
made him an object of superstitious admiration ; and the
more than regal splendour which he sometimes displayed
dazzled a people who have much in common with children.
Even now, after the lapse of more than fifty years, the
natives of India still talk of him as the greatest of the
English ; and nurses sing children to sleep with a jingling
ballad about the fleet horses and richly caparisoned
elephants of Sahib Warren Hostein.

The gravest offences of which Hastings was guilty did
not affect his popularity with the people of Bengal ; for
those offences were committed against neighbouring states.
Those offences, as our readers must have perceived, we
are not disposed to vindicate ; yet, in order that the cen-
sure may be justly apportioned to the transgression, it is
fit that the motive of the criminal should be taken into
consideration. The motive which prompted the worst acts

WARREN HASTINGS.

of Hastings was misdirected and ill-regulated public spirit.
The rules of justice, the sentiments of humanity, the
plighted faith of treaties, were in his view as nothing, when
opposed to the immediate interest of the State. This is no
justification, according to the principles either of morality,
or of what we believe to be identical with morality, namely,
far-sighted policy. Nevertheless the common sense of
mankind, which in questions of this sort seldom goes far
wrong, will always recognize a distinction between crimes
which originate in an inordinate zeal for the common-
wealth, and crimes which originate in selfish cupidity. To
the benefit of this distinction Hastings is fairly entitled.
There is, we conceive, no reason to suspect that the Rohilla
war, the revolution of Benares, or the spoliation of the
Princesses of Oude, added a rupee to his fortune. We will
not affirm that, in all pecuniary dealings, he showed that
punctilious integrity, that dread of the faintest appearance
of evil, which is now the glory of the Indian civil service.
But, when the school in which he had been trained, and
the temptations to which he was exposed are considered,
we are more inclined to praise him for his general up-
rightness with respect to money, than rigidly to blame him
for a few transactions which would now be called indelicate
and irregular, but which even now would hardly be desig-
nated as corrupt. A rapacious man he certainly was not.
Had he been so, he would infallibly have returned to this
country the richest subject in Europe. We speak within
compass, when we say ihat, A'ithout applying any extra-
ordinary pressure, he might easily have obtained from the
zemindars of the Company's provinces and from neigh-
bouring princes, in the course of thirteen years, more than
three millions sterling, and might have outshone the
splendour of Carlton House and of the Palais Royal. He
brought home a fortune such as a Governor-General, fond
of state, and careless of thrift, might easily, during so long
a tenure of office, save out of his legal salary. Mrs. Hast-
ings, we are afraid, was less scrupulous. It was generally
believed that she accepted presents with great alacrity,
and that she thus formed, without the connivance of her
husband, a private hoard amounting to several lacs of
rupees. We are the more inclined to give credit to this

iij'

WARRfIN HASTINGS.

story, because Mr. Gleig, who cannot but have heard it,
does not, as far as we have obsj^rved, notice or contra-
dict it.

The influence of Mrs. Hastings over her husband was
indeed such that she might easily have obtained much
larger sums than she was ever accused of receiving. At
length her health began to give way ; and the Governor-
General, much against his will, was compelled to send her
to England. He seems to have loved her with that love
which is peculiar to men of strong minds, to men whose
affection is not easily won or widely diffused. The talk of
Calcutta ran for some time on the luxurious manner in
which he fitted up the round-house of an Indiaman for her
accommodation, on the profusion of sandal-wood and
carved ivory which adorned her cabin, and on the thou-
sands of rupees which had been expended in order to pro-
cure for her the society of an agreeable female companion
curing the voyage. We may remark here that the letters
of Hastings to his wife are exceedingly characteristic
They are tender, and full of indications of esteem and con-
fidence ; but, at the same time, a little more ceremonious
than is usual in so intimate a relation. The solemn cour-
t^r.^^ with which he compliments *' his elegant Marian "
re. liinds us now and then of the dignified air with which
Sir Charles Grandison bowed over Miss Byron's hand in
the cedar parlour.

After some months, Hastings prepared to follow his
wife to England. When it was announced that he was
about to quit his office, the feehng of the society whici he
had so long governed manifested itself by many signs.
Addiesses poured in from Europeans and Asiatics, from
civil functionaries, soldiers, and traders. On the day on
which he delivered up the keys of oifice, a crowd of friends
and admirers formed a lane to the quay where he
embarked. Several barges escorted him far down the
river ; and some attached friends refused to quit him till
the low coast of Bengal was fading from the view, and till
the pilot was leaving the ship.

Of his voyage little is known, except that he amused
himself with books and with his pen ; and that, among
the compositions- by which he beguiled the tcdiousness of

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WARREN HASTINGS.

that long leisure, was a pleasing imitation of Horace's
Otinm divos rogat. This little poem was inscribed to Mr.
Shore, afterwards Lord Teignmouth, a man of whose
integrity, humanity, and honour, it is impossible to speak
too highly, but who, like some other excellent members of
the civil service, extended to the conduct of his friend
Hastings an indulgence of which his own conduct never
stood in need.

The voyage was, for those times, very speedy. Hast-
ings was little more than four months on the sea^ In
June, 1785, he landed at Plymouth, posted to London,
appeared at Court, paid his respects in Leadenhall Street,
and then retired with his wife to Cheltenh n.

He was greatly pleased with his reception. The King
treated him with marked distinction. The Queen, who
had already incurred much censure on account of the
favour which, in spite of the ordinary severity of her
virtue, she had shown to the "elegant Marian," was not
less gracious to Hastings. The Directors received him in
a solemn sitting ; and their chairman read to him a vote of
thanks which they had passed without one dissentient
voice. " I find myself," said Hastings, in a letter written
about a quarter of a year after his arrival in England, " I
find myself everywhere, and universally, treated with
evidences, apparent even to my own observation, that I
possess the good opinion of my country."

The confident and exulting tone of his correspondence
about this time is the more remarkable, because he had
already received ample notice of the attack which was in
preparation. Within a week after he landed at Plymouth,
Burke gave notice in the House of Commons of a motion
seriously affecting a gentleman lately returned from India.
The session, however, was then so far advanced, that it
was impossible to entej: on so extensive and important a
subject.

Hastings, it is clear, was not sensible of the danger o^
his position. Indeed that sagacity, that judgment, that
readiness in devising expedients, which had distinguished
him in the East, seemed now to have forsaken him ; not
that his abilities were at all impaired ; not that he was not
still the same man who had triumphed over Francis and

04 WARREN HASTINGS.

Nuncomar, who had made the Chief Justice and the
Nabob Vizier his tools, who had deposed Cheyte Sing, and
repelled Hyder Ali. But an oak, as Mr. Grattan finely
said, should not be transplanted at fifty. A man who,
having left England when a boy, returns to it after thirty
or forty years passed in India, will find, be his talents what
they may, that he has much both to learn and to unlearn
before he can take a place among English statesmen.
The working of a representative system, the war of
parties, the arts of debate, the influence of the press, are
startling novelties to him. Surrounded on every side by
new machines and new tactics, he is as much bewildered
as Hannibal would have been at Waterloo, or Themis-
tocles at Trafalgar. His very acuteness deludes him.
His very vigour causes him to stumble. The more correct
his maxims, when applied to the state of society to which
he is accustomed, the more certain they are to lead him
astray. This was strikingly the case with Hastings. In
India he had a bad hand ; but he was master of the game,
and he won every stake. In England he held excellent
cards, if he had known how to play them ; and it was
chiefly by his own errors that he was brought to the verge
of ruin.

Of all his errors the most serious was perhaps the
choice of a champion. Clive, in similar circumstances,
had made a singularly happy selection. He put himself
into the hands of Wedderburn, afterwards Lord Lough-
borough, one of the few great advocates who have also
been great in the House of Commons. To the defence of
Clive, therefore, nothing was wanting, neither learning
nor knowledge of the world, neither forensic acuteness
nor that eloquence which charms political assemblies.
Hastings intrusted his interests to a very different person,
a major in the Bengal army, named Scott. This gentle-
man had been sent over from India some time before as
the agent of the Governor-General. It was rumoured
that his services were rewarded with Oriental munificence ;
and we believe that he received much more than Hastings
could conveniently spare. The Major obtained a seat in
Parliament, and was there regarded as the organ of his
tmployer. It was evidently impossible that a gentleman

WARREN HASTTNGS.

SO situated could speak with the authority which belongs
to an independent position. Nor had the agent of Hast-
ings the talents necessary for obtaining the ear of an
assembly which, accustomed to listen to great orators, had
naturally become fastidious. He was always on his legs ;
he was very tedious ; and he had only one topic, the
merits and wrongs of Hastings. Every body who knows
the House of Commons will easily guess what followed.
The Major was soon considered the greatest bore of his
time. His v^xertions were not confined to Parliament,
There was hardly a day on w ich the newspapers did not
contain some puff upon Hastings, signed A sialic us or
Bengalensis, but known to be written by the indefatigable
Scott ; and hardly a month in which some bulky pamphlet
on the same subject, and from the same pen, did not pass
to the trunk-makers and the pastry-cooks. As to this
gentleman's capacity for conductir:,:jj a delicate question
through Parliament, our readers will want no evidence
beyond that which they will find in letters preserved in
these volumes. We will give a single specimen of his
temper and judgment. He designated the greatest man
then living as " that reptile Mr. Burke."

In spite, however, of this unfortunate choice, the
general aspect of affairs was favourable to Hastings. The
King was on his side. The Company and its servants
were zealous in his cause. Amonc' public men he had
many ardent friends. Such were L jrd Mansfield, who
had outlived the vigour of his body, but not that of his
mind; and Lord Lansdowne, who, though unconnected
with any party, retained tlie importance which lielongs to
great talents and knowledge. The ministers were
generally believed to be favourable to the late Governor-
General. They owed their power to the clamour which
had been raised against Mr. Fox's East India Bill. The
authors of that bill, when accused of invading vested
rights, and of setting up powers unknown to the constitu-
tion, had defended themselves by pointing to the crimes of
Hastings, and by arguinjr that abuses so extraordinary
justified extraordinary measures. Those who, by opposing
that bill, had raised themselves to the head of affairs,
would naturally be inclined to extenuate the evils which

i.u

Warren Hastings.

had been made the plea for administering so violent a
remedy ; and such, in fact, was their general disposition.
The Lord Chancellor Thurlow, in particular, whose great
place and force of intellect gave him a weight in the
government inferior only to that of Mr. Pitt, espoused the
cause »f Hastings with indecorous violence. Mr. Pitt,
though he had censured many parts of the Indian system,
had studiously abstained from saying a word against the
late chief of the Indian Government. To Major Scott,
indeed, the young minister had in private extolled Hast-
ings as a great, a wonderful man, who had the highest
claims on the government. There was only one objection
to granting all that so eminent a servant of the public
could ask. The resolution of censure still remained on
the journals of the House of Commons. That resolution
was, indeed, unjust; but, till it was rescinded, could the
minister advise the King to bestow any mark of approba-
tion on the person censured? If Major Scott is to be
trusted, Mr. Pitt declared that this was the only reason
which prevented the advisers of the Crown from confer-
ring a peerage on the late Governor-General. Mr.
Dundas was the only important me'Tiber of the adminis-
tration who was deeply committed to a different view of
the subject. He had moved the resolution which created
the difficulty ; but even from him little was to be appre-
hended. Since he had presided over the committee on
Eastern affairs, great changes had taken place. He was
surrounded by new allies ; he had fixed his hopes on new
objects ; and whatever may have been his good qualities,
— and he had many — flattery itself never reckoned rigid
consistency in the number.

From the Ministry, therefore, Hastings had every
reason to expect support ; and the Ministry was very
powerful. The Opposition was loud and vehement against
him. But the Opposition, though formidable from the
wealth and influence of some of its members, and from the
admirable talents and eloquence of others, was outnum-
bered in Parliament, and odious throughout the country.
Nor, as far as we judge, was the Opposition generally
desirous to engage in so serious an undertaking as the
impeachment of an Indian Governor. Such an impeach-

WARREN HASTINGS.

•a V

ment must last for years. It must impose on the chiefs of
the party an immense load of labour. Yet it could
scarcely, in any manner, affect the event of the great
political game. The followers of the coalition were there-
fore more inclined to revile Hastings than to prosecute
him. They lost no opportunity of coupling his name with
the names of the most hateful tyrants of whom history
makes mention. The wits of Brooks's aimed their keenest
sarcasms both at his public and at his domestic life. Some
fine diamonds which he had presented, as it was rumoured,
to the royal family, and a certain richly carved ivory bed
which the Queen had done him the honour to accept from
him, were favourite subjects of ridicule. One lively poet
proposed, that the great acts of the fair Marian's present
husband should be immortalized by the pencil of his
predecessor ; and that Imhoff should be employed to
embellish the House of Commons with paintings of the
bleeding Rohillas, of Nuncomar swinging, of Cheyte Sing
letting himself down to the Ganges. Another, in an
exquisitely humorous parody of Virgil's third eclogue,
propounded the question, what that mineral could be of
which the rays had power to make the most austere of
princesses the friend of a wanton. A third described,
with gay malevolence, the gorgeous appearance of Mrs.
Hastings at St. James's, the galaxy of jewels, torn from
Indian Begums, which adorned her head dress, her neck-
lace gjeaming with future votes, and the depending ques-
tions that shone upon her ears. Satirical attacks of this
description, and perhaps a motion for a vote of censure,
would have satisfied the great body of the Opposition.
But there were two men whose indignation was not to be
so appeased, Philip Francis and Edmund Burke.

Francis had recently entered the House of Commons,
and had already established a character there for industry
and ability. He laboured indeed under one most unfor-
tunate defect, want of fluency. But he occasionally
expressed himself with a dignity and energy worthy of the
greatest orators. Before he had been many days in par-
liament, he incurred the bitter dislike of Pitt, who con-
stantly treated him vith as much asperity as the laws of
debate would al' iW. Neither lapse of years nor change

WARREN HASTINGS.

of scene had mitigated tiie eiiinities which Francis had
brought back from the East. After his usual fashion, he
Tnistook his malevolence for virtue, nursed it, as preachers
tell us that we ought to nurse our good dispositions, and
paraded it, on all occasions, with Pharisaical ostentation.
The zeal of Burke was still fiercer ; but it was far
purer. Men unable to understand the elevation of his
mind have tried to find out some discreditable motive for
the vehemence and pertinacity which he showed on this
occasion. But they have altogether failed. The idle
story that he had some private slight to revenge has long
been given up, even by the advocates of Hastings. Mr.
Gleig supposes that Burke was actuated by party spirit,
that he retained a bitter remembrance of the fall of the
coalition, that he attributed that fall to the exertions of the
East India interest, and that he considered Hastings as
the head and the representative of that interest. This
explanation seems to be sufficientl}'^ refuted by a reference
to dates. The hostility of Burke to Hastings commenced
long before the coalition ; and lasted long after Burke had
become a strenuous supporter of those by whom the
coalition had been defeated. It began when Burke and
Fox, close) y allied together, were attacking the influence
of the crown, and calling for peace with the American
republic. It continued till Burke, alienated from Fox, and
loaded with the favours of the crown, died, preaching a
crusade against the French republic. We surely cannot
attribute to the events of 1784 an enmity which began in
1 78 1, and which retained undiminished force long after
persons far more deeply implicated than Hastings in the
events of 1784 had been cordially forgiven. And why
should we look for any other explanation of Burke's con-
diict than that which we find on the surface ? The plain
truth is that Hastings had committed some great crimes,
and that the thouglit of those crimes made the blood of
Burke boil in his veins. For Burke was a man in whom
compassion for suffering, and hatred of injustice and
tyranny, were as strong as in Las Casas or Clarkson. And
although in him, as in Las Casas and in Clarkson, these
noble feelings were alloyed with the infirmity which
belongs tc hv.rr.an nature, he is, like them, entitled to this

WARREN HASTINGS.

great praise, that he devoted years of intense labour to the
service of a people with whom he had neither blood nor
language, neither religion nor manners in common, and
from whom no requital, no thanks, no applause could be
expected.

His knowledge of India was such as few, even of those
Europeans who have passed many years in that country,
have attained, and such as certainly was never attained by
any public man who had not quitted Europe. He had
studied the history, the laws, and the usages of the East
with an industry, such as is seldom found united to so
much genius and so much sensibility. Others have
perhaps been equally laborious, and have collected an
equal mass of materials. But the manner in which Burke
brought his higher powers of intellect to work on state-
ments of facts, and on tables of figures, was peculiar to
himself. In every part of those huge bales of Indian
information which repelled almost all other readers, his
mind, at once philosophical and poetical, found something
to instruct or to delight. His reason analysed and
digested those vast and shapeless masses ; his imagination
animated and coloured them. Out of darkness, and
dulness, and confusion, he formed a multitude of ingenious
theories and vivid pictures. He had, in the highest
degree, that noble faculty whereby man is able to live in
the past and in the future, in the distant and in the unreal.
India and its inhabitants were not to him, as to most
Englishmen, mere names and abstractions, but a real
country and a real people. The burning sun, the strange
vegetation of the palm and the cocoa tree, the ricefield,
the tank, the huge trees, older than the Mogul empire,
under which the village crowds assemble, the thatched
roof of the peasant's hut, the rich tracery of the mosque
where the imaum prays with his face to Mecca, the drums,
and banners, and gaudy idols, the devotee swinging in the
air, the graceful maiden, with the pitcher on her head,
descending the steps to the riverside, the black faces, the
long beards, the yellow streaks of sect, the turbans and
the flowing robes, the spears and the silver maces, the
elephants with their canopies of state, the gorgeous
palanquin of the prince, and the close litter of the nobl^

fii

WARREN HASTINGS.

!:!'

lady, all these things were to him as the objects amidst
which his own life had been passed, as the objects which
lay on the road between Beaconsfield and St. James's
Street. All India was present to the eye of his mind,
from the halls where suitors laid gold and perfume at the
feet of sovereigns to the wild moor where the gipsy camp
was pitched, from the bazaar, humming like a beehive with
the crowd of buyers and sellers, to the jungle where the
lonely courier shakes his bunch of iron rings to scare
away the hyaenas. He had just as lively an idea of the
insurrection at Benares as of Lord George Gordon's riots,
and of the execution of Nuncomar as of the execution of
Dr. Dodd. Oppression in Bengal was to him the same
thing as oppression in the streets of London.

He saw that Hastings had been guilty of some most
unjustifiable acts. All that followed was natural and
necessary in a mind like Burke's. His imagination and
his passions, once excited, hurried him beyond the bounds
of justice and good sense. His reason, powerful as it was,
became the slave of feelings which it should have con-
trolled. His indignation, virtuous in its origin, acquired
too much of the character of personal aversion. He could
see no mitigating circumstances, no redeeming merit. His
temper, which, though generous and affectionate, had
always been irritable, had now been made almost savage
by bodily infirmities and mental vexations. Conscious of
great powers and great virtues, he found himself, in age and
poverty, a mark for the hatred of a perfidious court and a
deluded people. In Parliament his eloquence was out of
date. A young generation, which knew him not, had filled
the House. Whenever he rose to speak, his voice was
drowned by the unseemly interruption of lads who were in
their cradles when his orations on the Stamp Act called
forth the applause of the great Earl of Chatham. These
things had produced on his proud and sensitive spirit an
effect at which we cannot wonder. He could no longer
discuss any question with calmness, or make allowance ^or
honest differences of opinion. Those who think that he
was more violent and acrimonious in debates about India
than on other occasions, are ill-informed respecting the last
years of his life. lo the discussions on the Commercial

WARREN HASTINGS.

Treaty with the Court of Versailles, on the Regency, on
the French Revolution, he showed even more virulence
than in conducting the impeachment. Indeed it may be
remarked that the very persons who called him a mis-
chievous maniac, for condemning in burning words the
Rohilla war and the spoliation of the Begums, exalted him
into a prophet as soon as he began to declaim, with greater
vehemence, and not with greater reason, against the taking
of the Bastille and the insults offered to Marie Antoinette.
To us he appears to have been neither a maniac in th#
former case, nor a prophet in the latter, but in both cases
a great and good man, led into extravagance by a sensi-
bihty which domineered over all his faculties.

It may be doubted whether the personal antipathy of
Francis, or the nobler indignation of Burke, would have
led their party to adopt extreme measures against Hastings,
if his own conduct had been judicious. He should have
felt that, great as his public services had been, he was not
faultless, and should have been content to make his escape,
without aspiring to the honours of a triumph. He and
his agent took a different view. They were impai'ient for
the rewards which, as they conceived, were deferred only
till Burke's attack should be over. They accordingly re-
solved to force on a decisive action with an enemy for
whom, if they had been wise, they would have made a
bridge of gold. On the first day of the session of 1786,
Major Scott reminded Burke of the notice given in the pre-
ceding year, and asked whether it was seriously intended
to bring any charge against the late Governor-General.
This challenge left no course open to the Opposition,
except to come forward as accusers, or to acknowledge
themselves calumniators. The administration of Hastings
had not been so blameless, nor was the great party of Fox
and North so feeble, that it could be prudent to venture on
so bold a defiance. The leaders of the Opposition instantly
returned the only answer which they could with honour
return ; and the whole party was irrevocably pledged to a
prosecution.

Burke began his operations by applying for papers.
Some of the documents for which he asked were refused
by the ministers, who, in the debate, held language such a?

WARREN HASTINGS.

stronjEfly co'-^rmcd the prevailing opinion, that they in-
tended to su^.^jort Hastings. In April the charges wero
laid on the table. They had been drawn by Burke with
great ability, thoup^h in a form too much resembling that
of a pamphlet. Hastings was furnished with a copy of the
accusation ; and it was intimated to him that he might, if
he thought fit, be heard in his own'^defence at the bar of
the Commons.

Here again Hastings was pursued by the same fatal-
ity which had attended him ever since the day when he
set foot on English ground. It seemed to be decreed that
this man, so politic and so successful in the East, should
comr "t nothing but blunders in Europe. Any judicious
adviser would have told him that the best thing which he
could do would be to make an eloquent, forcible, and
affecting oration at the bar of the House ; but, that if he
could not trust himself to speak, and found it necessary to
read, he ought to be as concise as possible. Audiences
accustomed to extemporaneous debating of the highest
excellence are always impatient of long written composi-
tions. Hastings, however, sat down as he would have
done at the Government-house in Bengal, and prepared a
paper of immense length. That paper, if recorded on the
consultations of an Indian administration, would have been
justly praised as a very able minute. But it was now out
of place. It fell flat, as the best written defence must have
fallen flat, on an assembly accustomed to the animated uud
strenuous conflicts of I'ittand Fox. The members, as soon
as their curiosity about the face and demeanour of so
eminent a stranger was satisfied, walked away to dinner,
and left Hastings to tell his story till midnight to the clerks
and the Serjeant-at-arms.

All preliminary steps having been duly taken, Burke,
in the beginning of June, brought forward the charge re-
lating to the Rohilla war. Ke acted discreetly in placifig
this accusation in the van ; fo . Dimdas had formerly moved,
and the House had adopte^i, a resolution condemning, in
the most severe terms, the policy followed by Hastings
with regard to Rohilcund. Dundas had little, or rather
nothing, to say '.n defence of his own consistency ; bu' he
put a bold face on the matter, and opposed the motion.

WARRRN HASTINGS.

Among other things, he declaiod that, though he still
thought the Rohilla war unjustifiable, he considered the
service!, which Hastings had subsequently rendered to tin;
State as sufficient to atone even for so great an offence.
Pitt did not speak, but voted wit ) Dundas ; and Hastings
was absolved by a hundred and nineteen, votes against
sixty-seven.

Hastings was now confident of victory. It seemed,
indeed, that he had reason to be so. The Rohilla war was,
of all his measures, that which his accusers might with
greatest advantage assail. It had been condemned by the
Court of Directors. It had been condemned by the House
of Commons. It had been condemned by Mr. Dundas,
who had since become the chief minister of the Crown for
Indian Affairs. Yet Burke, having chosen this strong
ground, had been completely defeated on it. That having
failed here, he should succeed on any point, was generally
thought impossible. It was rumoured at the clubs -md
coffee-houses that one or perhaps two more charges would
be brought forward, that if, on those charges, the sense of
the House of Commons should be against impeachmcft,
the Opposition would let the matter drop, that Hastings
would be immediately raised to the peerage,- decorated with
the star of the Bath, sworn of the Privy Council, and in-
vited to lend the assistance of his talents and experience to
the India Board. Lord Thurlow, indeed, some months
before, had spoken with contempt of the scruples which
prevented Pitt from calling Hastings to the House of
Lords ; and had even said that, if the Chancellor of the
Exchequer was afraid of the Commons, there was nothing
to prevent the Keeper of the Great Seal from taking the
royal pleasure about a patent of peerage. The very title
was chosen. Hastings was to be Lord Daylesford. For,
through all changes of scene and changes of fortune, re-
mained unchanged his attachment to the spot which had
witnessed the greatness and the fall of his family, and
which had borne so great a part in the first dreams of his
young ambition.

But in a very few days these fair prospects were over-
cast. On the thirteenth of Junej Mr. Fox brought forward,
with great ability and elo(^uence, the charge respecting the

WARREN HASTINGS.

I !|

treatment of Cheyte Sing. Francis followed on the same
side. The friends of Hastings were in high spirits when
Pitt rose. With his usual abundance and felicity of lan-
guage, the Minister gave his opinion on the case. He
maintained that the Governor-General was justified in
calling on the Rajah of Benares for pecuniary assistance,
and in imposing a fine when the assistance was contu-
maciously withheld. He also thought that the conduct of
the Governor-General during the insurrection had been
distinguished by ability and presence of mind. He cen-
sured, with great bitterness, the conduct of Francis, both
in India and in Parliament, as most dishonest and malig-
nant. The necessary inference from Pitt's arguments
seemed to be that Hastings ought to be honourably
acquitted ; a ^ both the friends and the opponents of the
Minister expee ed from him a declaration to that effect.
To the astonishment of all parties, he concluded by saying
that, though he thought it right in Hastings to fine Cheyte
Sing for contumacy, yet the amount of tlie fine was too
great for the occasion. On this ground, and on this ground
alone, did Mr. Pitt, applauding every other part of the
conduct of Hastings with regard to Benares, declare that
he should vote in favour of Mr. Fox's motion.

The house was thunderstruck ; and it well might be so.
For the wrong done to Cheyte Sing, even had it been as
flagitious as Fox and Francis contended, was a trifle when
compared with the horrors which had been inflicted on
Rohilcund. But if Mr. Pitt's view of the case of Cheyte
Sing were correct, there was no ground for an impeach-
ment, or even for a vote of censure. If the offence of
Hastings was really no more than this, that, having a right
to impose a mulct, the amount of which mulct was not
defined, but was left to be settled by his discretion, he had,
not for his own advantage, but for that of the State, de-
manded too much, was this an off"ence which required a
criminal proceeding of the highest solemnity, a crmiinal
proceeding, to which, during sixty years, no public func-
tionary had been subjected ? We can see, we think, in
what way a man of sense and integrity might have been
induced to take any course respectmg Hastings, except the
course which Mr. Pitt took. Such a man might have

WARREN HASTINGS.

thought a great example necessary, for the preventing of
injustice, and for the vindicating of the national honour,
and might, on that ground, have voted for impeachment
both on the Rohilla charge and on the Benares charge.
Such a man might have thought that the offences of
Hastings had been atoned for by great services, and
might, on that ground, have voted against the impeach-
ment, on both charges. Witli great diffidence, we give it
as our opinion that the most correct course would, on the
whole, have been to impeach on the Rohilla charge, and
to acquit on the Benares charge. Had the lienares charge
appeared to us in the same light in which it appeared to
Mr. Pitt, we should, without hesitation, have voted for
acquittal on that charge. The one course which it is in-
conceivable that any man of a tenth part of Mr. Pitt's
abilities can have honestly taken was the course which he
took. He acquitted Hastings on the Rohilla charge. He
softened down the Benares charge till it became no charge
at all ; and then he pronounced that it contained matter
for impeachment.

Nor must it be forgotten that the principal reason
assigned by the ministry for not impeji.ching Hastings on
account of the Rohilla war was this, that the delinquencies
of the early part of his administration had been atoned for
by the excellence of the later part. Was it not most extra-
ordinary that men who had held this language could after-
wards vote that the latter part of his administration
furnished matter for no less than twenty articles of
impeachment ? They first represented the conduct of
Hastings in 1780 and 1781 as so highly meritorious that,
like works of supererogation in the Catholic theology, it
ought to be efficacious for the cancelling of former offences;
and they then prosecuted him for his conduct in 1780 and
1781.

The general astonishment was the greater, because,
only twenty-four hours before, the members on whom the
minister could depend had received the usual notes from
the Treasury, begging them to be in their places and to
vote against Mr. Fox's motion. It was asserted by Mr.
Hastings, that, early on the morning of the very day on
which the debate took place, Dundas called on Pitt, woke

WARREN HASTINGS.

him, and was closeted with him many hours. The result
of this conference was a determination to give up the late
Governor-General to the vengeance of the Opposition. It
was impossible even for the most powerful minister to carry
all his followers with him in so strange a course. Several
persons higli in office, the Attorney-General, Mr. Grenville
and Lord Mulgrave, divided against Mr. Pitt. But the devot-
ed adherents who stood by the head of the government
without asking questions, were sufficiently numerous to
turn the scale. A hundred and nineteen members voted
for Mr. Fox's motion ; seventy-nine against it. Dundas
silently followed Pitt.

That good and great man, the late William Wilberforce,
often related the events of this remarkable night. He des-
cribed the amazement of the House, and the bitter reflec-
tions which were muttered against the Prime Minister by
some of the habitual supporters of the government. Pitt
himself appeared to feel that his conduct required some ex-
planation. He left the treasury bench, sat for some time
next to Mr. Wilberforce, and very earnestly declared that
he had found it impossible, as a man of conscience, to stand
any longer by Hastings. The business, he said, was too
bad. Mr. Wilberforce, we are bound to add, fully believed
that his friend was sincere, and that the suspicions to
which this mysterious affair gave rise were altogether un-
founded.

Those suspicions, indeed, were such as it is painful to
mention. The friends of Hastings, most of whom, it is to
be observed, generally supported the administration,
affirmed that the motive of Pitt and Dundas wa? jealousy.
Hastings was personally a favourite with the Kmg. He
was the idol of the East India Company and of its servants.
If he were absolved by the Commons, seated among the
Lords, admitted to the Board of Control, closely allied with
the strong-minded and imperious Thurlow, was it not
almost certain that he would soon draw to himself the
entire mauagemont of Eastern affairs ? Was it not possible
that he might become a formidable rival in the cabinet ?
It had probably got abroad that very singular con'imunica-
tions had taken place between Thurlow and Major Scott,
and that, if the First Lord of the Treasury was afraid t'^

Warren Hastings.

recommend Hastings for a peerage, the Chancellor was
ready to take the responsibility of that step on himself. Of
all ministers Pitt was the least likely to submit with
patience to such an encroachment on his functions. If the
Commons impeached Hastings, all danger was at an end.
The proceeding, however it might terminate, would pro-
bably last some years. In the meantime, the accused
person would be excluded from honours and public employ-
m£;nts and could scarcely venture even to pay his duty at
court. Such were the motives attributed by a great part
of the public to the young minister, whose ruling passion
was generally believed to be avarice of power.

The prorogation soon interrupted the discussions re-
specting Hastings. In the following year, those discus-
sions were resumed. The charge touching the spoliation
of the Begums was brought forward by Sheridan, in a
speech which was so imperfectly reported that it may be
said to be wholly lost, but which was, without doubt, the
most elaborately brilliant of all the productions of his
ingenious mind. The impression which it produced was
such as nas never been equalled. He sat down, not merely
amidst cheering, but amidst the loud clapping of hands, in
which the Lords below the bar and the strangers in the
gallery joined. The excitement of the House was such
that no other speaker could obtain a hearing; and the
debate was adjourned. The ferment spread fast through
the town. Within four and twenty hours, Sheridan was
offered a thousand pounds for the copyright of his speech,
if he would himself correct it for the press. The impres-
sion made by this remarkable display of eloquence on
severe and experienced critics, whose discernment may be
supposed to have been quickened by emulation, was deep
and permanent. Mr. Windham, twenty years later, said
that the speech deserved all its fame, and was, in spite of
some faults of taste, such as were seldom wanting either in
the literary or in the parliamentary performances of
Sheridan, the finest that had been delivered within the
memory of man. Mr. Fox, about the same time, being
asked by the late Lord Holland what was the best speech
ever made in the House of Commons, assigned the first
place, without hesitation, to the great oration of Sheridan
on the Oude charge.

m
M

WARREN HASTINGS.

When the debate was resumed, the tide ran so strongly
against the accused that his friends were coughed and
scraped down. Pitt declared himself for Sheridan's
motion ; and the question was carried by a hundred and
seventy-five votes against sixty-eight.

The Opposition, flushed with victory and strongly
supported by the public sympathy, proceeded to bring
forward a succession of charges relating chiefly to pecuniary
transactions. The friends of Hastings were discouraged,
and, having now no hope of being able to avert an impeach-
ment, were not very strenuous in their exertions. At length
the House, having agreed to twenty articles of charge,
directed Burke to go before the Lords, and to impeach the
late Governor-General of high crimes and misdemeanours.
Hastings was at the same time arrested by the Serjeant-at-
arms, and carried to the bar of the Peers.

The session was now within ten days of its close. It
was, therefore, impossible that any progress could be made
in the trial till the next year. Hastings was admitted to
bail ; and further proceedings were postponed till the
Houses should re-assemble.

When Parliament met in the following winter, the
Commons proceeded to elec^; a committee for managing the
impeachment. Burke stood at the head ; and with liim
were associated most of the leading members of the Oppo-
sition. But when the name of Francis was read a fierce
contention arose. It was said that Francis and Hastings
were notoriously on bad terms, that they had been at feud
during many years, that on one occasion their mutual
a"*' .*"sion had impelled them to seek each other's lives, and
that it would be improper and indelicate to select a private
enemy to be a public accuser. It was urged on the other
side with great force, particularly by Mr. Windham, that
impartiality, though the first duty of a judge, had never
been reckoned among the qualities of an advocate ; that in
the ordinary administration of criminal justice among the
English, the aggrieved party, the very last person who
ought to be admitted into the jur; box, is the prosecutor ;
that what was wanted in a manager was, not that he should
be free from bias, but that he should be able, well-informed,
energetic, and active. The ability and information of

WARREN HASTINGS.

Francis were admitted ; and the very animosity with which
he was reproached, whether a virtue or a vice, was at least
a pledge for his energy and activity. It seems difficult to
refute these arguments. But the inveterate hatred borne
by Francis to Hastings had excited general disgust. The
House decided that Francis should not be a manager.
Pitt voted with the majority, Dundas with the minority.

In the meantime, the preparations for the trial had pro-
ceeded rapidly; and on the thirteenth of February, 1788,
the sittings of the Court commenced. Thet;j have been
spectacles more dazzling to the eye, more gorgeous with
jewellery and cloth of gold, more attractive to grcwn-up
children, than that which was then exhibited at West-
minster ; but, perhaps, there never was a spectacle so well
calculated to strike a highly cultivated, a reflecting, an
imaginative mind. All the various kinds of interest which
belong to the near and to the distant, to the present and
to the past, were collected on one spot and in one hour.
All the talents and all the accomplishments which are
developed by liberty and civilization were now displayed,
with every advantage that could be derived both from co-
operation and from contrast. Every step in the proceed-
ings carried the mind either backward, through many
troubled centuries, to the days when the foundations of our
constitution were laid ; or far away, over boundless seas
and deserts, to dusky nations living under strange stars,
worshipping strange gods, and writmg strange characters
from right to left. The High Court of Parliament was to
sit, according to forms handed down from the days of the
Plantagenets, on an Englishman, accused of exercising
tyranny over the lord of the holy city of Benares, and over
the ladies of the princely house of Oude.

The place was worthy of such a trial. It was the great
hall of William Rufus, the hall which had resounded with
acclamations at the inauguration of thirty kings, the hall
which had witnessed the just sentence of Bacon and the
just absolution ot Somers, the hall where the eloquence of
Strafford had for a moment awed and melted a victorious
party inflamed with just resentment, the hall where Charles
had confronted the High Court of Justice with the placid
courage which has half redeemed his fame. Neither miii-

100

WARREN HASTINGS.

^'1

tary nor civil pomp was wanting. The avenues were lined
with grenadiers. The streets were kept clear by cavalry.
The peers, robed in gold and ermine, were marshalled by
the heralds under Garter King-at-arms. The judges in
their vestments of state attended to give advice on points
of law. Near a hundred and seventy lords, three fourths
of the Upper House as the Upper House then was, walked
in solemn order from their usual place of assembling to the
tribunal. The junior baron present led the way, George
Eliott, Lord Heathfield, recently ennobled for his memor-
able defence of Gibraltar against the fleets and armies of
France and Spain. The long procession was closed by
the Duke of Norfolk, Earl Marshal of the realm, by the
great dignitaries, and b}^ the brothers and sons of the King.
Last of all came the Prince of Wales, conspicuous by his
fine person and noble bearing. The grey old walls were
hung with scarlet. The long galleries were crowded by an
audience such as has rarely excited the fears or the emula-
tion of an orator. There were gatliered together, from all
parts of a great, free, enlightened, and prosperous empire,
grace, and female loveliness, wit and learnmg, the repre-
sentatives of every science and of every art. There were
seated round the Queen the fair-haired young daughters of
the house of Brunswick. There the ambassadors of great
kings and commonwealths gazed with admiration on a
spectacle which no other country in the world could pre-
sent. There Siddons, in the prime ol her majestic beauty,
looked with emotion on a scene surpassing all the imitations
of the stage. There the historian of the Roman Empire
thought of the days when Cicero pleaded the cause of Sicily
against Verres, and when, before a senate which still re-
tained some show of freedom, Tacitus thundered against
the oppressor of Africa. There were seen, side by side, the
greatest painter and the greatest scholar of the age. The
spectacle had allured Reynolds from that easel which has
preserved to us the thoughtful foreheads of so many writers
and statesmen, and the sweet smiles of so many noble
aiatrons. It had induced Parr to suspend his labours in
that dark and profound mine from which he had extracted
a vast treasure of erudition, a, treasure too often buried in
the earth, too often paraded with injudicious and inelegant

WARREN HASTINGS.

lOT

'5i

ostentation, but still precious, massiv^e, and splei.did.
There appeared the -^'oluptuous charms of her to whom the
heir of the throne had in secret phghted his faith. There
too was she, the beautiful motlier of a beautiful rr.ce, the
Saint Ceciha, wliose delicate features, lighted up by love
and music, art has rescued from the common decay. There
were the members of that brilliant society which quoted,
criticized, and exchanged repartees, under the rich peacock
hangings of Mrs. INIontague. And there the ladies whose
lips, more persuasive than those of Fox himself, had carried
the Westminster election against palace and treasury,
shone round Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.

The Serjeants made prockimation. Hastings advanced
to the bar, and bent his knee. The culprit was indeed not
unworthy of that great presence. He had ruled an exten-
sive and populous country, had made laws and treaties,
had sent forth armies, had set up and pulled down princes.
And in liis high place he had so borne himself, that all had
feared him, that most had loved him, and that hatred itself
could deny him no title to glory, except virtue. He looked
like a great man, and not like a bad man. A person small
and emaciated, yet deriving dignity from a carriage which,
while it indicated deference to the court, indicated also
habitual self-possession and self-respect, a high and intel-
lectual foreliead, a brow pensive, but not gloomy, a mouth
ot inflexible decision, a face pale and worn, but serene, on
which was written, as legibly as under the picture in the
council-chamber at Calcutta, Mens ccqiia in ardiiis : such
was the aspect with which the great proconsul presented
himself to his judges.

His counsel accompanied him, men all of whom were
afterwards raised by their talents and learning to the
highest posts in their profession : the bold and strong-
minded Law, afterwards Chief Justice of the King's Bench;
the more humane and eloquent Dallas, afterwards Chief
Justice of the Common Pleas ; and Plomer wiio, near
twenty years later, successfully conducted in the same high
court the delence of L'^rd Melville, and subsequently
bf'came Vice-Chancellor and Master of the Rolls.

jf ut neither the culprit nor his advocates attracted so
mucn i- .jtice as the accusers. In the midst of the biaz«

102

WARREN HASTINGS.

of red drapery, a space had been fitted up with green
benches and tables for the Commons. The managers, with
Burke at their head, appeared in full dress. The collectors
of gossip did not fail t*^ remark that even Fox, generally so
regardless of his appearance, had paid to the illustrious
tribunal the compliment of wearing a bag and sword. Pitt
had refused to be one of the conductors of the impeach-
ment ; and his commanding, copious, and sonorous elo-
quence was wanting to that great muster of various talents.
Age and blindness had unfitted Lord North for the duties
of a public prosecutor ; and his friends were left without
the help of his excellent sense, his tact and his urbanity.
But, in spite of the absence of these two distinguished
members of the Lower House, the box in which the
managers stood contained an array of speakers such as
perhaps had not appeared together since the great age of
Athenian eloquence. There were Fox and Slieridan, the
English Demosthenes and the English Hyperides. There
was Burke, ignorant, indeed, or negligent of the art of
adapting his reasonings and his style to the capacity and
taste of his hearers, but in amplitude of comprehension
and richness of imagination superior to every orator^
ancient or modern. There, with eyes reverentially fixed
on Burke, appeared the finest gentleman of the age, his
form developed by every manly exercise, his face beaming
with intelligence and spirit, the ingenious, the chivalrous,
the high-souled Windham. Nor, Lhough surrounded by
such men, did the youngest manager pass unnoticed. At
an age when most of those who distinguish themselves in
life are still contending for prizes and fellowships at college,
he had won for himself a conspicuous place in Parliament.
No advantage of fortune or connection was wanting tliat
could set off to the height his splendid talents and his
unblemished honour. At twenty-three he had been thought
worthy to be ranked with the veteran statesmen whc
appeared as the delegates of the British Commons, at tlie
bar of the Britisli nobility. All who stood at that bar,
save him alone, are gone, culprit, advocates, accusers. To
the generation which is now in tlie vigour of life, he is the
tole representative of a great age which has passed away.
But those who, within the last ten years, have listened

WARREN HASTINGS.

103

irous,
3d by
At
;es ill

iient.
tliat
his
)ug'b t
whc
t tlie
bar,
lo

th
iiiec

with delight, till the morning sun shone on the tapestries
of the House of Lords, to the lofty and animated eloquence
of Charles, Earl Grey, are able to form some estimate of
the powers of a race of men among whom he was not the
foremost.

Tiie charges and the answers of Hastings were first
read. The ceremony occupied two whole days, and was
rendered less tedious than it would otherwise have been by
the silver voice and just emphasis of Cowper, the clerk of
the court, a near relation of the amiable poet. On the
third day Burke rose. Four sittings were occupied by his
opening speech, which was intended to be a general intro-
duction to all the charges. With an exuberance of thought
and a splendour of diction which more than satisfied the
highly raised expectation of the audience, he described the
character and institutions of the natives of India, recounted
the circumstances in which the Asiatic empire of Britain
had originated, and set forth the constitution of the Com-
pany and of the English Presidencies. Having thus
attempted to communicate to his hearers an idea of Eastern
society, as vivid as that which existed in his own mind, he
proceeded to arraign the administration of Hastings as
systematically conducted in defiance of morality and public
law. The energy and pathos of the great orator extorted
expressions of unwonted admiration from the stern and
hostile Chancellor, and, for a moment, seemed to pierce
even the resolute heart of the defendant. The ladies in the
galleries, unaccustomed to such displays of eloquence,
excited by the solemnity of the occasion, and perhaps not
unwilling to display their taste and sensibility, were in a
state of uncontrollable emotion. Handkerchiefs were pulled
out ; smelling bottles were handed round ; hysterical sobs
and screams were heard : and Mrs. Sheridan was carried
out in a fit. At length the orator concluded. Raising his
voice till the old arches of Irish oak resounded, '* There-
fore," said he, '* hath it with all confia>?nce been ordered,
by ihe Commons of Great Britain, that I impeach Warren
Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanours. I impeach
him in the name of the Commons' House of Parliament,
whose trust he has betrayed. I impeach him in the name
of the Englisli nation, whose ancient honour he has sullied.

104

WARREN HASTINGS.

I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose
rights he has trodden under foot, and whose country he
has turned into a desert. Lastly, in the name of human
nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of
every age, in the name of every rank, I impeach the com-
mon enemy and oppressor of all !"

When the deep murmur of various emotions had sub-
sided, Mr. Fox rose to address the Lords respecting the
course of proceeding to be followed. The wish of the
accusers was that the Court would bring to a close the
investigation of the first charge before the second was
opened. The wish of Hastings and of his council was that
the managers should open all the charges, and produce all
the evidence for the prosecution, before the defence began.
The Lords retired to their own House to consider the
question. The Chancellor took the side of Hastn^igs.
Lord Loughborough, who was now in opposition, sup-
ported the demand of the managers. The division showed
which way the inclination of the tribunal leaned. A
majority of near three to one decided in favour of the course
for which Hastings contended.

When the Court sat again, Mr. Fox, assisted by Mr.
Grey, opened the charge respecting Cheyte Sing, and
several days were spent in reading papers and hearing
witnesses. The next article was that relating to the Prin-
cesses of Oude. The conduct of this part of the case was
intrusted to Sheridan. Tiie curiosity of the public to hear
him was unbounded. His sparkling and highly finished
declamation lasted two days ; but the Hall was crowded
to suifocation during the whole time. It was said that
fifty guineas had been paid for a single ticket. Sheridan,
when he concluded, contrived, with a knowledge of stage
effect which his father might have envied, to sink back, as
if exhausted, into the arms of Burke, who hugged him with
the energy of generous admiration.

June was now far advanced. The session could not
last much longer ; and tlie progress which had been made
in the impeachment was not very satisfactory. Tliere
',:ere twenty charges. On two only of tliese had even the
case for the prosecution been heard ; and it was now a
year since Hastings had been admitted to bail.

The interest taken by the public in the trial was great

WARRRN ttAStlNGS.

105

when the Court began to sit, and rose to the height when
Sheridan spoke on the charge relating to the Begums.
From that time the excitement went down fast. The
spectacle had lost the attraction of novelty. The great
displays of rhuloric were over. What was beliind was not
of a nature to entice men of letters from ihei* books in the
morning, or to tcmjjt ladies who had left tlie masquerade
at two to be out of bed before eight. There remained
examinations and cross-examinations. There remained
statements of accounts. There remained tli'^ reading of
papers, filled with words unintelligible to English t-ars,
with lacs and crores, zemindars and aumils, suiinuds and
perwannahs, jaghires and nuzzurs. There remained bick-
erings, not always carried on v/ith the best taste or with
the best temper, between the managers of the impeachment
and the counsel for the defence, particularly bi;tween Mr.
Burke and Mr. Law. There remained the endless marches
and countermarches of the Peers between their House and
the Hail : for as often as a point of law was to be discussed,
their Lordships retired to discuss it apart ; and the conse-
quence was, as a Peer wittily said, that the judges walked
and the trial stood still.

It is to be added that, in the spring of 1788, when the
trial commenced, no important question, either of domestic
or foreign policy, occupied the public mind. The proceed-
ing in Westminster Hall, therefore, naturally attracted
most of the attention of Parliament and of the country.
It was the one great event of that season. But in the
following year the King's illness, the debates on the
Regency, the expectation of a change of ministry, com-
pletely diverted public attention from Indian affairs ; and
within a fortnight after George the Third had returned
thanks in St. Paul's for his recovery, the States-General of
France met at Versailles. In the midst of the agitation
produced by these events, the impeachment was for a time
almost forgotten.

The trial in the Hall went on languidly. In the session
of 1788, when the proceedings had the interest of novelty,
and when the Peers had little other business before them,
only thirty-five days were given to the impeachment. In
1789, the Regency Bill occupied the Upper House till the

io6

WARREN HASTINGS.

I**"

session was far advanced. When the King recovered, the
circuits were beginninj^f. The judges left town ; the Lords
waited for the return of the oracles of jurisprudence ; and
the consequence was that during the whole year only
reventeen days were given to the case of Hastings. It
wn^- clear that the matter would be protracted to a length
unprecedented in the annals of criminal law.

In truth, it is impossible to deny that impeachment,
though it is a fine ceremony, and though it may have been
useful in the seventeenth century, is not a proceeding from
which much good can now be expected. Whatever confi-
dence may be placed in the decision of the Peers on an
appeal arising out of ordinary litigation, it is certain that
no man has the least confidence in their impartiality, when
a great public functionary, charged with a great state
crime is brought to their bar. They are all politicians.
There is hardly one among them whose vote on an
impeachment may not be confidently predicted before a
witness has been examined ; and, even if it were possible
to rely on their justice, they would still be quite unfit to try
such a cause as that of Hastings. They sit only during
half the year. They have to transact much legislative and
much judicial business. The law-lords, whose advice is
required to guide the unlearned majority, are employed
daily in administering justice elsewhere. It is impossible,
therefore, that during a busy session, the Upper House
should give more than a few days to an impeachment. To
expect that their Lordships w<7iild give up partridge-
shooting, in order to bring the greatest dclmquent to
speedy justice, or to relieve accused innocence by speedy
acquittal, would be unreasonable indeed. A well consti-
tuted tribunal, sitting regularly six r^.nys in the week, and
nine hours in the day, would have brought the trial of
Hastings to a close in less than three months. The Lords
had not finished their work in seven yesrs.

The result ceased to be matter of doubt, from the time
when the Lords resolved that they would be guided by
the rules of evidence which are received in the inferior
courts of the realm. Those rules, it is well ki?own, exclude
much information which would be quite sufficiert to deter«
mine the conduct of any reasonable man, iiv tbe most

WARREN HASTINGS.

107

ge-
to

edy

sti-

and

)rds

important transactions of private life. Those rules, at
every assizes, save scores of culprits whom jud^'es, jury,
and spectators firmly believe to be guilty. But when those
rules were rigidly apjilied to offences committed many
years befure, at the distance of many thousands of miles,
conviction was, of course, out of the question. We do
not blame the accused and his counsel for availing them-
selves of every legal advantage in order to obtain an
acquittal. But it is clear that an acquittal so obtained
cannot be pleaded in bar of the judgment of history.

Several attempts were made by tlie friends of Hastings
to put a stop to the trial. In lySg they proposed a vote of
censure upon Burke, for some violent language which he
had used respecting the death of Nuncomar and the con-
nection between Hastings and Impey. Burke was then
unpopular in the last degree both with the House and with
the country. The asperity and indecency of some expres-
sions which he had used during the debates on the
Regency hv :1 annoyed even his warmest friends. The vote
of censure was carried ; and those who had moved it hoped
that the managers would resign in disgust. Burke was
deeply hurt. But his zeal for what he considered as the
cause of justice and mercy triumphed over his personal
feelings. He received the censure of the House with
dignity and meekness, and declared that no personal mor-
tification or humiliation should induce him to flinch from
the sacred duty which he had undertaken.

In the following year the Parliament was dissolved ;
and the friends of Hastings entertained a hope that the
new House of Commons might not be disposed to go on
with the impeachment. They began by maintaining that
the whole. proceeding was terminated by the dissolution.
Defeated on this point, they made a direct motion that the
impeachment should be dropped ; but they were defeated
by the combined forces of the Government and the Oppo-
sition. It was, however, resolved that, for the sake of
expedition, many of the articles should be withdrawn. In
truth, had not some such measure been adopted, the trial
would have lasted till the defendant was in his grave.

At length, in the spring of 1795, the decision was
pronounced, near eight years after Hastings had been

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WARREN HASTINGS.

brought by the Serjeant-at-arms of the Commons to the
bar of the Lords. On the last day of this great procedure
the public curiosity, long suspended, seemed to be revived.
Anxiety about the judgment there could be no"?e : for it
had been fully ascertained that there was a great majority
for the defendant. Nevertheless many wished to see the
pageant, and the Hall was as much crowded as on the
first day. But those who, having been present on the first
day, now bore a part in tlia proceedings of U^e last, were
few ; and most of those few were altered men.

AsHastingshimself said,thearraignment had taken place
before one generation, and the judgment was pronounced by
another. The spectator could not look at the woolsack, or
at the red benches of the Peers, or at the green benches of
the Commons, without seeing something that reminded him
of the instability of all human things, of the instability of
power and fame and life, and of the more lamentable
instability of friendship. The great seal was borne before
Lord Loughborough, who, when the tr'al commenced, was
a fierce opponent of Mr. Pitt's government, and who was
now a member of that government, while Thurlow, who
presided in the court when it first sat, estranged from all
his old allies, sat scowling among the junior barons. Of
about a hundred and sixty nobles who walked in the pro-
cession on the first day, sixty had been laid in their family
vaults. Still more affecting must have been the sight of
the managers' box. What had become of that fair fellow-
ship, so closely bound together by public and private ties,
so resplendent with every talent and accomplishment ? It
had been scattered by calamities more bitter than the
bitterness of death. The great chiefs were still living, and
still in the full vigour of their genius. But their friendship
was at an end. It had been violently and publicly
dissolved, with tears and stormy reproaches. If those
men, once so dear to each other, were now compelled to
meet for the purpose of managing the impeachment, they
met as strangers whom public business had brought
together, and behaved to each other with cold and distant
civility. Burke had in his vortex whirled away Windham.
Fox had been followed by Sheridan and Grey.

Only twenty -nine Peers voted. Of these only six found

WAftREN HASTINGS.

tdo

Hastings guilty on the charges relatinif to Cheyte Sing and
to the Begums. On other charges, the majority in his
favour was still greater. On some he was unanimously
absolved. He was then called to the bar, was informed
frtjm the woolsack that the Lords had acquitted him,
and was solemnly discharged. He bowed respectfully
and retired.

We have snid that the decision had been fully expected.
It was also generally approved. At the commencement of
the trial there had been a strong and indeed unreasonable
feeling against Hastings. At the close of the trial there was
a feeling equally strong and equally unreasonable in his
favour. One cause of the change, was, no doubt, what is
commonly called the fickleness of the multitude, but what
seems to us to be merely the general law of human nature.
Both in individuals and in masses violent excitement is
always followed by remission, and often by reaction. We
are all inclined to depreciate whatever we have overpraised,
and, on the other hand, to show undue indulgence where
we have shown undue rigour. It was thus in the case of
Hastings. The length of his trial, moreover, made him an
ol)ject of comp.'ssion. It was thought, and not without
rccson, that, even if he was guilty, he was still an ill-used
man, and that an impeachment of eight years was more
than a sufficient punishment. It was also felt that, though,
in the ordinary course of criminal law, a defendant is not
allowed to set off his good actions against his crimes, a
great political crime should be tried on different principles,
and that a man who had governed an empire during
thirteen years might have done some very reprehensible
things, and yet might be on the whole deserving of rewards
and honours rather than of fine and imprisonment. The
press, an instrument neglected by the prosecutors, was
used by Hastings and his friends with great effect. Every
ship, too, that arrived from Madras or Bengal, brought a
cuddy full of his admirers. Every gentleman from India
spoke of the late Governor-General as having deserved
better, and having been treated worse, than any man
living. The effect of this testimony unanimously given by
all persons who knew the East, was naturally very great.
Retired members of the Indian services, civil or military,

WARREN HASTINGS.

were settled in all corners of the kingdom. Each of them
was, of course, in his own little circle, regarded as an oracle
on an Indian question ; and they were, with scarcely one
exception, the zealous advocates of Hastings. It is to be
added, that the numerous addresses to the late Governor-
General, which his friends in Bengal obtained fiom the
natives and transmitted to England, made a considerable
impression. To these addresses we attach little or no
importance. That Hastings was beloved by the people
whom he governed is true ; but the eulogies of pundits,
zemindars, Mahommedan doctors, do not prove it to be true.
For an English collector or judge would have found it easy
to induce any native who could write to sign a panegyric on
the most odious ruler that ever was in India. It was said
that at Benares, the very place at which the act set forth
in the first article of impeachment had been committed, the
natives had erected a temple to Hastings ; and this story
excited a strong sensation in England. Burke's observa-
tions on the apotheosis were admirable. He saw no reason
for astonishment, he said, in the incident which had been
represented as so striking. He knew something of the
mythology of the Brahmins. He knew that as they
worshipped some gods from love, so they worshipped
others from fear. He knew that they erected shrines, not
only to the benignant deities of light and plenty, uut also
to the fiends who preside over smallpox and murder ; nor
did he at all dispute the claim of Mr. Hastings to be
admitted into such a Pantheon. This reply has always
struck us as one of the finest that ever was made in
Parliament. It is a grave and forcible argument, decorated
by the most brilliant wit and fancy.

Hastings was, however, safe. But in everything except
character, he would have been far better off if, when first
impeached, he had at once pleaded guilty, and paid a fine
of fifty thousand pounds. He was a ruined man. The
legal expenses of his defence had been enormous. The
expenses which did not appear in his attorney's bill were
perhaps larger still. Great sums had been paid to Major
Scott. Great sums had been laid out in bribing news-
papers, rewarding pamphleteers, and circulating tracts.
Burke, so early as 1790, declared in the House of Commons

WARREN HASTINGS.

fit

that twenty thousand pounds had been employed in
corrupting the press. It is certain that no controversial
weapon, from the gravest reasoning to • the coarsest
ribaldry, was left unemployed. Logan defended the
accused Governor with great ability in prose. For the
lovers of verse, the speeches of the managers were bur-
lesqued in Simpkin's letters. It is, we are afraid,
indisputable that Hastings stooped so low as to court tlie aid
of that malignant and filthy baboon John Williams, who
called himself Anthony Pasquin. It was necessary to
subsidize such allies largely. The private hoards of Mrs.
Hastings had disappeared. It is said that the banker to
whom they had been intrusted had failed. Still if
Hastings had practised strict economy, he would, after all
his losses, have had a moderate competence ; but in the
management of his private affairs he was imprudent. The
dearest wish of his heart had always been to regain
Daylesford. At length, in the very year in which his trial
commenced, the wish was accomplished ; and the domain,
alienated more than seventy years before, returned to the
descendant of its old lurds. But the manor house was a
ruin ; and the ground:, around it had, during many years,
been utterly neglected. Hastings proceeded to build, to
plant, to form a sheet of water, to excavate a grotto ; and,
before he was dismissed from the bar of the House of
Lords, he had expended more than forty thousand pounds
in adorning his seat.

The general feeling both of the Directors and of the
proprietors of the East India Company was that he had
great claims on them, that his services to them had been
eminent, and that his misfortunes had been the effect of
his zeal for their interest. His friends in Leadenhall
Street proposed to reimburse him the costs of his trial,
and to settle on him an annuity of five thousand pounds a
year. But the consent of the Board of Control was neces-
sary ; and at the head of the Board of Control was Mr.
Dundas, who had himself been a party to the impeachment,
who had, on that account, been reviled with great bitter-
ness by the adherents of Hastings, and who, therefore,
was not in a very complying mood. He refused to con-
sent to what the Directors suggested. The Directors

ttl

Warren MAStmcs.

remonstrated. A long controversy followed. Hastinf^s^
in the meantime, was reduced to such distress that he
could hardly pay his weekly bills. At length a compromise
was made. An annuity for life of four thousand pounds
was settled on Hastin,L(s; and in order to enable him to
meet pressing demands, he was to receive ten years'
annuity in advance. The Company was also permitted to
lend him fifty tliousand pounds, to be repaid by instal-
ments without interest. This relief, though given in the
most absurd manner, was sufficient to enable the retired
Governor to live in comfort, and even in luxury, if he had
been a skilful manager. But he was careless and profuse,
and was more than once under the necessity of apply-
ing to the Company for assistance, which was liberally
given.

He had security and affluence, but not the power and dig-
nity which, when he landed from India, he had reason to
expect. He had then looked forward to a coronet, a red
riband, a seat at the Council-board, an office at Whitehall.
He was then only fifty-two, and might hope for many years
of bodily and mental vigour. The case was widely different
when he left the bar of the Lords. He was now too old a
man to turn his mind to a new class of studies and duties.
He had no chance of receiving any mark of royal favour
while Mr. Pitt remained in power ; and, when Mr. Pitt
retired, Hastings was approaching his seventieth year.

Once, and only once, after his acquittal, he interfered
in politics ; and that interference was not much to his
honour. In 1804 he exerted himself strenuously to prevent
Mr. Addington, against whom Fox and Pitt had combined,
from resigning the Treasury. It is difficult to believe that
a man, so able and energetic as Hastings, can have
thought that, when Bonaparte was at Boulogne with a
great army, the defence of our island could safely be
intrusted to a ministry which did not contain a single
person whom flattery could describe as a great statesman.
It is also certain that, on the important question which
had raised Mr. Addington to power, and on which he
differed from both Fox and Pitt, Hastings, as might have
been expected, agreed with Fox and Pitt, and was decid-
edly opposed to Addington. Religious intolerance has

WARREN HASTINGS.

never been the vice of the Indian service, and certainly
was not the vice of Hastings. But Mr. Addington hud
treated him with marked favour. Fox had been a prin-
cipal manager of the impeachment. To Pitt it was owing
that there had been an impeachment ; and Hastings, we
fear, was on this occasion guided by personal consider-
ations, rather than by a regard to the public interest.

The last twenty-four years of his life were chiefly passed
at Daylesford. He amused himself with embellishing his
grounds, riding fine Arab horses, fattening prize cattle,
and trying to rear Indian animals and vegetables in
England. He sent for seeds of a very fine custard-apple,
from the garden of what had once been his own villa,
among the green hedgerows of Allipore. He tried also to
naturalize in Worcestershire the delicious leechee, almost
the only fruit of Bengal which deserves to be regretted
even amidst the plenty of Covent Garden. The Mogul
emperors, in the time of their greatness, had in vain
attempted to introduce into Hindostan the goat of the
table-land of Thibet, whose down supplies the looms of
Cashmere with the materials of the finest shawls. Hast-
ings tried, with no better fortune, to rear a breed at Dayles-
ford ; nor does he seem to have succeeded better with the
cattle of Bootan, whose tails are in high esteem as the best
fans for brushing away the mosquitoes.

Literature divided his attention with his conservatories
and his menagerie. He had always loved books, and they
were now necessary to him. Though not a poet, in any
high sense of the word, he wrote neat and polished lines
with great facility, and was fond of exercising his talent.
Indeed, if we must speak out, he seems to have been more
of a Trissotin than was to be expected from the powers of
his mind, and from the great part which he had played in
life. We are assured in these Memoirs that the first thing
which he did in the morning was to write a copy of verses.
When the family and guests assembled, the poem made
its appearance as regularly as the eggs and rolls ; and Mr.
Gleig requires us to believe that, if from any accident
Hastings came to the breakfast-table without one of his
charming performances in his hand, the omission was felt
by all as a grievous disappointment. Tastes diHer widely.

ti4

WARRF.N HASTINGS.

For ourselves, we must say that, however good the break-
fasts at Daylesford may have been — and we are assured
that the tea was of tlie most aromatic flavour, and that
neither tongue nor venison-pasty was wanting — we should
have thought the reckoning high if we had been forced to
earn our repast by listening every day to a new madrigal
or sonnet composed by our host. We are glad, however,
that Mr. Gleig has preserved this little feature of character,
though we think it by no means a beauty. It is good to
be often reminded of the inconsistency of human nature,
and to look without wonder or disgust on the weaknesses
which are found in the strongest minds. Dionysius in the
old times, Frederic in the last century, with capacity and
vigour equal to the conduct of the greatest affairs, united
all the little vanities and affectations of provincial blue-
stockings. These great examples may console the ad-
mirers of Hastings for the affliction of seeing him reduced
to the level of the Hayleys and Sewards.

When Hastings had passed many years in retirement,
and had long outlived the common age of men, he again
became for a short time an object of general attention. In
1813 the charter of the East India Company was renewed ;
and much discussion about Indian affairs took place in
Parliament. It was determined to examine witnesses at
the bar of the Commons ; and Hastings was ordered to
attend. He had appeared at that bar once before. It was
when he read his answer to the charges which Burke had
laid on the table. Since that time twenty-seven years had
elapsed ; pubhc feeling had undergone a complete change ;
the nation had now forgotten his faults, and remembered
only hio services. The reappearance, too, of a man who
had been among the most distinguished of a generation
that had passed away, who now belonged to history, and
who seemed to have risen from the dead, could not but
produce a solemn and pathetic effect. The Commons
received him with acclamations, ordered a chair to be set
for him, and, when he retired, rose and uncovered. There
were, indeed, a few who did no- sympathize with the general
feeling. One or two of the managers of tho impeachment
were present. They state in the same seats vhich they
had occupied when they had been thanked for the services

WARREN HASTINGS.

which they had rendered in Westminster Hall : for, by the
courtesy of the House, a member who has been tlianked in
his place is considered as liavini^; a right always to occupy
that place. These gentlemen were not disposed to admit
that they had employed several of the best years of their
lives in persecuting an innocent man. They accordingly
kept their seats, and pulled their hats over their brows ;
but the exceptions only made the prevailing enthusiasm
more remarkable. The Lords received the old man with
similar tokens of respect. The UniveriLity of Oxford con-
ferred on him the degree of Doctor of Laws; ar i, in the
Sheldonian Theatre, t!ie undergraduates welcomed him
with tumultuous cheering.

These marks of public esteem were soon followed by
marks of royal favour. Hastings was sworn of the Privy
Council, and was admitted to a long private audience of
the Prince Regent, who treated him very graciously.
When the Emperor of Russia and the King of Prussia
visited England, Hastings appeared in their train both at
Oxford and in the Guildhall of London, and though sur-
rounded by a crowd of princes and great warriors, was
everywhere received with marks of respect and admiration.
He was presented by the Prince Regent both to Alexander
and to Frederic William ; and his Royal Highness went so
far as to declare in public that honours far higher than a
seat in the Privy Council were due, and would soon be paid
to the man who had saved the British dominions in Asia.
Hastings now confidently expected a peerage ; but, from
some unexplained cause, he was again disappointed.

He lived about four years longer, in the enjoyment of
good spirits, of faculties not impaired to any painful or
degrading extent, and of health such as is rarely enjoyed
by those who attain such an age. At length, on the twenty-
second of August, 1818, in the eighty-sixth year of his age,
he met death with the same tranquil and decorous fortitude
which he had opposed to all the trials of his various and
eventful life.

With all his faults — and they were neither few nor
small — only one cemetery was worthy to contain his re-
mains. In that temple of silence and reconciliation, where
the enmities of twenty generations lie buried, in the great '

!lG

WAnnCN HASTIN'CS.

Abbey which has during many ages afforded a quiet
resting-place to those wliose minds and boJies have been
shattered by the contentions of the great Hall, the dust of
the illustrious accused should iiave mingled with tho dust
of the illustrious accusers. This was not to be. Yet the
piace of interni;Mit was not ill chosen. Behind the chancel
of the parish church of D.iylesford, in earth which already
held the bones of many chiefs of theiiouse of Hastings, was
laid the coffin of the greatest man who has ever borne that
anci t and widely extended name. On that very spot,
probably, fourscore years before, the little Warren, meanly
clad and scantily fed, had played with the children of
ploughmen. Even then his young mind had revolved plans
which might be called romantic. Yet, however romantic,
it is not likely that they had been so strange as the truth.
Not only had the poor orphan retrieved the fallen fortunes
of his line. Not only had he repurchased the old lands, and
rebuilt the old dwelling. He had preserved and extended
an empire. He had founded a polity. He had admmis-
tered government and war with more than the capacity of
Richelieu. He had patronized learning with the judicious
liberality of Cosmo. He had been attacked by the most
formidable combination of enemies that ever sought the
destruction of a single victim ; and over that combination,
after a struggle of ten years, he had triumphed. He had
at length gone down to his grave in the fulness of age — in
peace, after so many troubles ; in honour, after so much
obloquy.

Those who look on his character without favour or
malevolence will pronounce that, in the two great elements
of all social virtue, in respect for the rights of others, and
in sympathy for the sufferings of others, he was deficienL
His principles were somewhat lax. His heart was some-
what hard. But, though we cannot with truth describe him
either as a righteous or as a mer'^iful ruler, we cannot re-
gard without admiration the amplitude and fertility of his
intellect, his rare talents for command, for administration,
and for controversy, his dauntless courage, his honourable
poverty, his fervent zeal for the interests of the State, his
noble equanimity, tried by both extremes of fortune, and
never disturbed by either.