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M.A., Pnncipal Upper Ca.u.^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 .theiled, 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. \B 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. IP 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^^^ ^i LIOWAur h ^■;- 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 i4ioui 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— 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 M .: ■> :'if' sion, forki.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 /, 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. ;:,::■! 'A b. 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." f 'I 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. x\ INTRODUCTION— UTERATURB. ti3, n. ■ IS m {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. xh (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, 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. TO 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:::-. 4j 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-!'- 20 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. 8 The lli.Mi: ov Tin: Anciknt Mahineh. ii 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 ! 70 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." Hi 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." 80 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. 70 8o 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. ' 10 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 ! r; 19 lit t ft Ik 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. 10 90 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 ; 30 TiiK Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 11 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. 40 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. 60 I li \, 12 The Rime of the Ancient Mariniui. m- I: r ..i -i IS ? 1 :■ ^ 1 ft ' > 1 1 |;|j i 1" , {■ 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. 13 to 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. 60 14 "^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. 15 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. >0 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. 80 I 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. i 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^ n : I , f^ir i lt ! 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, 40 60 The iviMK OF THE Ancient Mariner. 17 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. lU I 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. 10 " 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 ; 20 Till-: lliMB OF Tiiic Anciknt Maion-^r I 1 I 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. 21 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.' M rl 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. 1 i 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 <■ ■■■ 'I 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 \m ?.6 Tiri'. EiMF*. OF THE Ancient Marineii. V 1 I I i * l\ 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. 40 5° 6o 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