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Les diagrammes 9uivants iliustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 s MA Frei '"gt * fflo.'s €noH«h §fhool Slaeoits. /^^^ - SELECTIONS FROM COLERIDGE'S POEMS AND MAGAULAY'S ESSAY ON WARREN HASTINGS Prescribed for Matrlctdation into the University of Toronto, and for Teachers' Examinations, 18«a. ANNOTATED BT GEO. A. CHASE, B.A., HKAD MA8TKR HIGH SCHOOL, ttluai/fOWN. TORONTO : W. J. GAGE & COMPANY. 1885. PREFACE. In the notes appended to Coleridge's poems, the anno- tator has had in view only the poems themselves, for he considers that the aim of the study of literature will be missed if extraneous matter is introduced any farther than is absolutely required for the full understanding of the work in hand. The introductory remarks are different in character from the explanatory notes, and arise from a Btudy of the poem as a whole ; they should be taken up only after the poem has been gone over carefully. Some critical remarks have been added along with a sketch of the author's life ; but the best criticism will be found in a study of the author's works. A sketch of literary history is inserted, not because the annotator thinks such history is of value in education, but because the departmental examinations seem to require it. Such a study is almost worthless when unaccompanied with a personal knowledge of the works of the authors referred to. The notes to '* Warren Hasting, » are mainly literaiy iy • -calling repeated attention to peculiarities in the au- thor's style. This has been done on the ground that students are to draw themes from this essay. Extraneous matter has been excluded for reasons referred to above. It is ta be hoped that no student mil strive to imitate in Macaulay's writings anything but his clearneaa 'and vigor of expression. INTRODUCTION, I.— Life of Colbridob. mKmTdflh^^^^^^^^^^^ the student Bhould thor wrote them with nSif ' ^^f t^° ^^^^"^ »« tli« au- tory notes^ Other' oTthe authoK'n"""^ reference to the explaua- the remarka oXs life cham^^^^^^^ "^""^ ^^'°> read while Kubla Khan, Franoerarode Od« fn V^ n^'"^ « u^i^d-such ag at Midnight, Pains of SleeDHvmnL^ ^^^'^^^^^S Year, Frost tion witfi the remarks on th^^'^L^fr ?"S"«^- I" ^onneo- worth's poems should beTead-such as T^nt^n 't?^ °' Words- of Poor §u8an, Lucy, Yarrow Unvisited-llo ^}'^^^' ^«^«"^ inferior work, Alice Fell iinS r^^A i^^' °'^^^i ^^ illustrating his Pope's Rape oilLV looiZiE^^^^^^^ ^^ile Cowper'8 Table Talk, should be reftd«ll? ^/.^"tl^not, and also the eighteenth century In connec?k>nw^fH'I!*\^^^."*^^^^^« «" read also WordswortJ. n^Ti:^^^:^:^^''^^^^^^^^^ on ?p?et etc^.'^y t'nothii^^^^^^^ t^e criticism' and c^arefully stiid^Tng ti,e w "rk^iS Tm^K ^^^Z °^ ^««^^"g can be accomplished is a mire meS^^inl f '" '^u^^V^' *" t^^«t having no educational^alue. g^fn" nrlr°/^?^^ ^ student, producing no advance fnlrn.?, i f^''^*'',*'^^ '« *he Criticism, taken in connecSorwith an atZo^'"' °i iterature. value; but till the work itsdf^s maste ^^^^^^^^ of tt.n injurious. Ward's " British p^^Lm'-^ .P"*'°»«"^ '« useless, student can have. It is a ^Scon^afnl '' *^^ 7-"^^ ^''^ ^^^^ a characteristic of the writerrand in nn^ f.^. selections eminently Se?^ consulted, and ''al^r^t^^l^^ri Jol^ x^^eSl. O LIFE OF CWLBRIDOB. him that clearly shows "the boy is father of tne man. ''Come back," savs Lamb in "Elia," "like as thou wert in the day-spring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee— the dark pillar not yet turned— Samuel Taylor Coleridge— logician, metaphysician, bard. How have I seen the casual passer through the cloisters stand still entranced with admiration (while he weighed the disproportion between the speech and the garb of the young Miiandula) to hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of Jambhchus or Plotinus (for even in such years thou waxedat not pale at such philosophic draughts), or reciting Homer in Greek, or Pindar— while the walls of the old Grey Friars re- echoed to the accents of the inspired charity boy !" In 1791 Coleridge went to Cambridge, and was as noted there as at school for the rapidity and accuracy with which he mastered books, even being able after one reading to repeat whole pages verbatim. Along with other enthusiastic young students he warmly supported the principles of the French Revolutionists, and regarded France as the regenerator and saviour of the world, praying for the defeat of the coalition against her, although his native country was one of its members. Cambridge having become distasteful to him, he left (1794) without taking a degree. Soon after we find him, along with the young poet Southey and a few others, planning the forma- tion of a community on the banks of the Susquehanna, in which all should be equal and all dwell in perfect brotherly harmony. The scheme came to nothing. Meanwhile Cole- ridge began a course of lectures in Bristol, chiefly upon politi- cal and religious questions. Next year (1795) he married, and lived first at Clevedon, on the Bristol Channel, and then at Nether Stowey, near the Quantock Hills, in Somersetshire. An effort at journalism in 1796 failed : the Watchman ceased after the publication of the tenth number. His first volume of poems appeared in April, 1797. Later in the same year he met with Wordsworth and his sister, and an intimacy sprang up that lasted for life, and that has coupled their names ever since. Together the two poets walked and talked, discussed the theory of poetry, planned and executed the "Lyrical Ballads," and finally started together in 1798 for Germany. They soon parted, however, Coleridge going to GSttingen to UFB OP OOLBRIDGa 7 attend lecture* and to learn German. Here he entered deen nto German literature and philogophy, and acJ^i^anT/ timate knowledge of the German iSngiage, w2?ch showed iAal^ ^^% meantime, in both politics and religion, Coleridge's fch P^Tf* * '^*"^^' '^^^^ g^"^'-^"^ impulses orthe French Revolution at its outset had degenerated into a lonirin^ for power, and France fell under the dominbn of ambZus sTiblaS' S^^h'-^^K^V^^^^^ *^^ L^eYomt^o afT/f,t5 * Fl"^"" ^^'!?J2 *^« ^^"«^ assailant of Pitt for his attitude toward France, dSleridge became his warm supported decknng that when the country was threatened f^om^Kd a^l questions of political reform should be kept in abeyance He became a Tory, but not of the bigoted type We ai tt C'in'tr'^ Unitarianismfand. o^n^the f^u : S fh!f ^k ^?'- ^'^1.®''®" preached; but the same causes that changed his political views changed his religi^s Wews Church. "''° ^"""^^ "^ *'^^"* supporter of the^EstabUshed After his return from Germany he led a desultory life- Hp was in London, Malta. Rome ; at the Cumberland la7es where Wordswor h and Southey now lived ; somSes Sr sometimes lecturing, but always unsettled, and alwaysToiS plans for literary work, never to be carried out UnhSv Coleridge had in early manhood made use of opium to S reief from pain; the practice grew to a haW^ which^ h^ struggled m vain to overcome, Ind his failure cave ris« tn melancholy and dejection. At last he resolved ?o^puth?msel? of Mr Cir^ of a physician, and entered, in 1816rthe Tomo wh^re he waT'tn ^''^^f^'lu ^^^">^^ '«"< ^^^ ^emaS wnere he was tiU his death, editing his works writinir reading, but above all. talking, especially on m^tanhvS?- and poetry, filling with enthusiafm those who Hste^edTLC and only to the jealous or cynical seeming to S'' s^ra^e things, uncertain whether oracles or jargon " "range The character of Coleridge was peculiar: his mind was active, powerful, many-sided; in politics, relicion mrtT physics, poetry, and literary criticism he troS deTplt' and few spoke more wisely ; but of all he thought and of^aH he uttered only fragments remain. He was naturally of a 8 LIFE OP OOLEaiDOB. dreamy diapositioii ; and a feeble will, accompanied, or rather cauged, by a diseased sUte of body, left all he planned either incomplete or untouched. Tlie conaciouhneHs of thia weakness and hiH failure to overcome! it often produced deep despond • ency and gloom, only too evident in many of his poems. In metaphysics, as in most other subjects, Coleridge's views were largely original, though ho is regarded as the follower of the German metaphysicians and the expounder in England of thoir doctrines. In poetical criticism he had no superior. His exposition in the "iiiographia Literaria" of the nature and principles of poetry, his discriminating defence of Wordsworth in the application of those principles, and his criticism on particular poems of Wordsworth, are worth far more than "all the reviews that have been written in English on poets and their works from Addison to the present hour." Coleridge's command of language was marvellous; he " could talk on forever, and you wished him to talk." In his prose writings ho is never at a loss for the right word ; he ex- presses his meaning accurately and clearly; his style is flowing and warm; refined, but free from the cold polish which characterizes intellect unattended by feeling. As a poet Coleridge ranks among the highest. He is un- surpassed for melody and richness of verse, for vivid and terse expression, for exquisitely selected word and moulded phrase, and for extraordinary imagination- -an imagination that con- jures up scenes, and persons, and actions, and, while compel- ling us to look upon them as real, makes us feel that the reality belongs to another world rather than to ours. His close observation of nature, even in minute features, is abundantly illustrated in his poems, often, indeed, with startling effect. Chief Worka.— Juvenile Poems (1796), Ancient Manner (1797), Christahel (1797-lSOO), Kuhla Khan (1797)— a mere fragment, regarded as the most exquisitely melodious poem in the language, and the most faultless in metrical form. It is as gorgeous and wild in fancy as it is musical in language. The poet had been unwell, and just after reading a passage in a book of travels briefly descriptive of a city built by Kubla Khan, had fallen asleep in his chair .: while asleep this poem was composed. On awakening he began to write down the poem as he dreamed it ; unfortunately he was interrupted be- UFB OF OOLKHIDOB. 9 f.»ro fini8h,ng it. and when after the lapse of an hour or so he resume. I In. peu tUo words and the viLn had vaui hed from h ts memory Love. (l797)-the introductory part of "T e Dark Ladie." a poem planned but never written; it is re ^'H. ( ed by many aa t»ie .nost exquisitely tender love-ballad in rTi/r^r^V tT''-' r^"^' (1797)-In this the poot de scribes the high hopes ho once had formed of the French «iX F^err onlr ''''-''' '' -^' '^--^' - "*^""^'^«'.^ ^^'^"^ -^^* ColerTdge ha" laut down. The Literary Remains, " besides the lectures on ture^'of''''-?"^ ^'' contemporaries, contain notes and i^^^^ ■%■:■ <•! 10 LIFE OF OOLBRIDQE. Pi faculty ; the old iniaginat'on. tha poatical fe:rvor, is gone. wo fi'^AT fX^""'^ l\abit was at last cured or greatly checked, we find that the poet had sunk into the metaphysician. Coleridge Wordsworth, and Soutliey were called in de- nsion the "Lake Poets" by Lord Jeffrey, a noted critical writer in the '♦Edinburgh Review," because -they haunted the lakes of Cumberland/' Jeffrey vehemently attacked the doctrine of poetry as laid down by Wordsworth in an intro- r«no ^Vi? *h,^«««o°d edition of the "Lyrical Ballads" in ISO J. The statements chiefly ar.sailed were :—'♦ There is no difference between the language of poetry and common life "; vf f «J^,^J^°*« of poetry should be taken from low and rustic lite ; thfje IS no essential difference between the language of prose and that of metrical composition." A long and some- what bitter dispute followed, which Wordsworth was bv nature unfitted to conduct successfully. Coleridge, in the Biographia Literaria," took up his friend's cause, and, while mamtaimng the soundness on the whole of the theory put forth, he demonstrate, by an exhaustive criticism of Words- worths own writings that the theory is not held in the absolute sense which two or three of the poems might seem to indicate-poems confessedly very inferior, and apparently written as a defiance to the supporters of the prevailing theory. Wordsworth, he thinks, disgusted with the stilted u- -English character of the language then deemed essentia m poetry, had gone to the opposite extreme ; and that while his language la totally different from the so-called "poetical diction of the time, it was also very different from the language of common life"— a term Coleridge considers quit- -nhappily chosen. On the same principle, his disgust at the artificialness, the insincerity, and unbelief of a town society types of which were seen in such men as Chesterfield and Horace Wal^ole, made him turn from the town and the unner inwiT t^??.^,^^?/^^^}.'"^^ ^" *h^ country and.among the lowly. But Coleridge shows that where Wordsworth intrr- duces subjects from "low and rustic life," either their joys and sorrows, love, hopes, and feara are such as are common to mankind m every condition of life, or the peison^ges intro- duced are men altogether different from the ignorant boor- men such as the contemplation of nature, thought, and the great questions of life, death, and eternity would make them '.A- tilPB O? OOLERlDOa 11 This was Wordsworth's ideal man, such as he was himself. He forgot, however, that there are other types of man as high, or even higher. As to the third point in dispute Coleridge says:— "The true question must be, whether there are not modes of expression, a construction and an order of sentences, which are in their fit and natural place in a serious prose composition, but would be disproportionate and heterogeneous in metrical poetry ; and vice versa, whether in the language of a serious poem there may not be an arrangement both of words and sentences, and a use and selection of (what are called) figures of speech, both as to their kind, their frequency, and their occasions, which on a subject of equal weight would be vicious and alien in correct and manly prose. I contend that in both cases this unfitness of each for the place of the other frequently will and ought to exist. " In only one short passage, however, of Wordsworth's then published poetry does Coleridge find the language not essen- tially different from that of prose. The chief characteristics of the poets of the "Lake school' are contemplation and reflection, a habit of introspection and of watching the operations of the mind and of th« emo- tional faculties ; "subjective" or 'philosophical" we call such poets now. Coleridge is regarded as belonging to these only through his chance association with Wordsworth, and through a few months' residence in the lake country. But a careful study of his poetry, apart altogether from the fact of his being a profound metaphysician, will show a closer connection than this, as Coleridge himself intimates (See his introduction to ' * Ancient Mariner "). Another leading feature of this * * Lake school" was the altogether peculiar view entertained of Nature and Nature's connection with man. (See below.) Coleridge was in full accord with this highly philosophical view ; and through and beneath all his poetry, however romantic the exterior form may be, is seen this philosophy of Nature, either as Nature realljr exists or in imagination is conceived to exist. Remove this idea regarding Nature from the Ancient Mariner and Christabel and nothing is left but the magic charm of language. A comparison instituted be- tween Scott's poems— The Lady of the Lake, for instance— and Coleridge's ao-called romantic poems, will clearly indicate the difference between the pure romance and the philosophical I 12 EIGHTEENTH OENTURY. poem m romance form. The same thing, though not so inarJtedly and in a diflurent way, will be shown by comparing Byron s early romances— such as the Bride of Abydos and the Giaour— with his subsequent Childe Harold's Pilgrimage oj Don Juan. What Wordsworth saya directly, or puts into yf "i°V*^-^^ ^^^ characters, regarding the great questions of life, Coleridge works out in his great poems by representing man m conflict with supernatural powers: in the Ancient jVIariner, a guilty man in conflict with the avenging spirits; in Christabel, a pure woman in conflict with an evil spirit in lovely form. Such a method of treating the subject har- monized with the wholly imaginative character of Coleridge's genius. ^ n.— The Eighteenth Centuet. In order to understand the great change that passed over poetical literature about the beginning of the present cen- tury, one feature of which Coleridge so brilliantly represents, It 18 necessary to have some knowledge of the condition of the preceding century 4^nd of the influences that brought about the change. ^ It is a well-established fact that no great outburst of literature has ever taken place without some remarkable national movement and a special preparation having preceded It. It IS also true that the literature of an age reflects the character of that age, whatever it may be. The age of Charles II. was characterized by licentiousness and irrelii-ion lu private life, and by recklessness, faithlessness, and treachery in public life ; the literature is so vile or so worthless to us that, excepting the poetry of Dryden, very little of it is republished at the present day. Poetry, the highest form that literature can take, is represented chiefly by satire. Such may excite the admiration of posterity by its keenness or by the force of the language in which it is couched, but nothing higher. Ihe party strife and hatred and vindictiveness of the period following is a^ain fully displayed in its abundant literature. Poetry, when not enlisted on the side of party was gay, sportive, witty, often licentious, or coldly didactic ; but when supporting party it was satirical in the extreme EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 13 rendered all the more effective when in the hands of such a master of language and versification as Pope. We cannot but admire in Pope the sm«5othness and harmony of the verse, the brilliancy and force of expression, and the keenness of the satire. But the satire was intended to serve no useful pur- pose ; it was the offspring of party hatred and personal malignity, and our admiration for the ability displ.yed is mingled with indignation at the author for thus prostituting his powers to such base ends. With Pope a new feature was established in poetry. The versification became exact ; the words must flow smoothly and regularly ; the position of the accent must not vary ; the lines must rhyme in couplets and be of the same length ; no matter how expressive a word might be, unless it sounded smoothly it would be rejected. Versification thus became purely mechanical and wholly divorced from the influence of the emotional faculties. The genius, or cleverness, of Pope prevents this defect from being noticed to any extent in his own works, but in the writings of his followers and imitators it becomes intolerable monotony. Besides this mechanical versification, the idea arose that poetry must have a language or diction peculiar to itself, and that unless such a diction were employed there could be no poetry. Plain, simple, straightforward language was discarded for a strained, stilted, unnatural form. A woman was a ••fair"ora **nymph"; a man was a "swain" or a "shepherd"; the sun was "Ihcebus" and the moon was " Luna"; persons, imaginary or real, were referred to by names borrowed from Greek or Latin writers, or made up of Greek or Latin words to suit the occasion ; Roman and Greek history, never English, furnished all tLe personal illustrations. Even Gray in his "Elegy " first wrote Brutus, Tully, and Gcesar where Hampden, Milton, and Crom- well now stand. The language of poetry soon became as stereotyped as the versification. With writers of such poetry, as Cowper says, " Manner is all in ail, whate'er is writ, The substitute for genius, sense, and wit." As in style, so in matter — everything was imitation ; natural feeling, as well as natural expression, was dead. There was a great deal of " good " writing ; " sentimental writers " were abundant. Mournful elegies, moral fables, reflections u BIGHT i-BNTH OBNTURY, yf on the vanities of life, the very hest of "sentiment," were numerous— but lieartless and Boulles-s as were the services of the Church. The feeling expressed did not spring from the heart then, and hence cannot speak to our heart now. Both style and sentiment were "put on"; they were artiJiciaL not natural. The only theme of the poets was society such as they saw around them ; nature, mankind at large, did not concern them. Society was polished, witty, heartless, artificial; devoid of everything that was noble, it could offer no noble subject for poetry ; as was the society, bo was the poetry. But yet there was some genuine poetry, though often marred by the vicious tashion of the time. Thompson's Seasons, much of the writings of Colhns, Gray's Elegt/, and Goldsmith's Deserted Village at least, are full of true, deep human feelings, and at the same time are polished and harmonious. The first, however, that openly proclaimed his dislike for the verse that " Without a creamy smoothness has no charms," was Cowper. Declaring that Pope had " Made poetry a mere mpchanic art, And every warbler had his tune by heart," he states his own creed in the well-known lines : ♦* Give me the line that ploughs its stately course Like a proud swan, conquering the stream by force, That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart All unindebted to the tricks of art." though, unfortunately, "force" is too often wanting, and the tricks of art" are not always absent from his writings But Cowper's taste was not his alone; it was the definite statement of what many really felt. A liking for the poetry of an earl, r age began to arise. This was further increased by the appearance of a remarkable book, the influence of which m bringing a,bout a great reform in poetry, both in style and m matter, can scarcely be overrated. In 1765 Bishop Percy published the " iieliques of Ancient Poetry, a collection of ballads for the most part by unknown authors. They contain, in simple, straightforward style the expression of the true, natural feeling of an age before thit of over-refinement. The purely imaginative and romantic ele- ment, so characteristic of Coleridge, exists very largely in BIGflTEENTH CENTURY. 15 these ballads, alongside of, and often in union with, tales of woe find love, adventure and battle. Burns, who in Scotland fr,ad felt the new impulse, himself says that he was " Fired by the simple, art).eHs lava Of other times. ' Following these "Keliques" came a crowd of imitations, among which those of Chatterton contain mnch real poetry. The great actor, Garrick, had again brought the plays of Shake- speare on the stage ; they kept their place, and different editions of the works of the great dramatist prove that once more a taste for the natural was rising. A "History of English Poetry," by Thomas Wharton, gave to most, for the first time, a knowledge that poetry had existed before their day and Pope's. . The specimens of poetry quoted in this book were like a revelation to Englislnnen. But the spirit of these was not now to Cowper. Almost the whole of his poetry is instinct with natural feeling. His «« Lines to my Mother's Picture" caimot be read without tears ; we feel that all comes directly from the heart, and that any language other than the simplest and most direct would be unsuitable and make us suspect that the feeling expressed was not real. In Gowper also we have the strong love of nature and natural scenery for itself. It is the subject of almost the whole of *'The Task." He loves scenery and to reflect upon it; he sympathizes with the animal world from the lowest forms of animal life to the highest ; he loves not only English- men, but all mankind ; and though he satirizes society around him, and society in general, it is with the desire to better it. His love of freedom and righteousness, his pity for the poor and down-trodden, and his hatred of tyranny and wrong and hypocrisy reach as near to a passion as such a nature as his would permit. These facts and many others indicate a decided change in taste ; but there were still other causes at work to produce the marked change that passed over poetry. The spirit of deep earnestness and of sympathy with the suffering, so char- acteristic of the poetry of the early part of this century, had its origin in the great religious movement headed by White- field and the Wesleys, and in the philanthropic labors of Howard and others, Indeed, the two went hand in hand ; 16 EIGHTEENTH OBNTURT. ro^l^toTr!n by hoi, mg up the boundless love and mercy oi God to fahen and guilty man, appealed to the noblest feeli...^ we pnsseas-love and gratitude. The teaching of the New n^dv"'R«n nr.r^'l"'" l^'-^^ ^^ ^«^^^« love towards th^ needy Hence the interest in prison reform inaugurated by Howard and continued by others; hence, too, the^movement the abolition of slavery itself. The insane were put under ZnVnlT/'^nT.*"'^".*' '*^"°''"«^ criminal laws, so bitterly denounced by Goldsmith, were greatly mitigated ; and warm^ hearted Christian men left home and friendt to teach he^S TtTn*^!.''^^^^^" ''^^' ^^^y t'^-'H^elves loved so deeply The philanthropic movement did not confine itself to prisons and to slaves ; ,t aimed at bettering the condition ^of ?he wu* ""'^^ socially and politically f^ S'^\u^^^^ changes were in progress and were beginning U.Zh themselves felt, the French Revolution broke out^ new order T.v ^* ''^^T J^ ^^^ ^^^•^^- ^here was to be a w!-« fn!f ""^'.Jh^^S^^ ''Liberty, equality, and fraternity" h^^JZ ^''T'^ everywhere ; tyrants and oppressors were to be destroyed, and mankind was to go on to perfection and aappiness; France wa. to be not onl/the great ttcher" bu^ the defender and deliverer of down-trodden peoples. . Ihe young and enthusiastic entertained high hopes from nLn^'f^f'^.'S^'t^ ^°'^- ?""• imagination revelled n th^ prospect of the happiness that was in store for man. None re joiced more than young Coleridge, the fullness of whose bitter disappointment, when France became the conqueror and oppressor of other nations and sank under the splendid de^spot^m of Bonaparte, is poured forth in his - France? an * O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind. And patriot only in pernicious toils, Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind ? lo mix with kings in the low lust of sway, Yell m the hunt and share the murderous prey; lo insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From^ freemen torn; to tempt and to betray? ^. T, , * * * and wear the name Ui Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! " The French Revolution certainly stirred Europe to its BiaHTBENTH OENTUBY. 17 depths, but it alone was not the sole or even the chief cause of the marked change that passed over literature at the time. In the political and social v/orld it checked reform. To litera- ture it doubtless added an important element— enthuHiasm, fervor, vivid imagination— which showed itself in other direc- tions when admiration for France had passed away. The number of great poets at the beginning of the century is surprisingly large. Each illustrates a particular phase of the change from tlie preceding age, while all love nature en- thusiastically and reject the pedantic and conventional. In VVordsworth there is the deep, fervid earnestness which never rises into an uncontrolled passion ; in Shelley there is even deeper earnestness, but passionate and despairing- -a longing for something better than what he sees around him— united with almost miraculous power over language, and with a splendor of imagery unequalled except by Coleridge; in Scott . the joyous love of outdoor life in contact with nature in all its freshness as a thing for enjoyment, not as an instructress or a theme for moralizing on, is united with the romantic love of the antique, semi- historical, legendary, or wholly imaginative* Coleridge gives us romance of the purest imagination, the creature of his dreamy fancy, but involving the peculiar doc- trine of the mutual relation of man and nature so definitely taught by Wordsworth. Byron is the French Revolution personified— romantic, wild, lawless, at war with everything and everybody ; capricious, yet full of power and splendor • not lackmg in mtense, though too often short-lived, feeling' Keats is all beauty ; with him "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever," whether it be of nature around him in flower, plant insect, or season, in the myths of Greece or the legends of the Middle Ages, or in the lusciousness " Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd, With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferred • From Fez, and spiced dainties, every one From silken Samarkand to cedar'd Lebanon." Thus, in poetical literature, the two periods were in marked contrast. In the first the chief, if no^the only, aim in verse was smoothness and harmony ; the language was stereotyped strained, and Unnatural j satirical or spoi-tive descriptions of 18 BiaUTEBNTH OUNTURT. persons and aociety, superficial or cold moralizing, or "aonti- ment," and dull losson-giving, were the chief themes of its poets. Tho past had no charm for these writers ; if dealt with at all, it had to be dressed up in tlie fashion of the day ; nature and the love of nature in its fullest sense seemed almost unkjjown. In the second period, while harmony and melody of verse were for the most part carefully studied, worth of matter and force and vigor of expression were chiefly sought. The language was fresh, direct, and natural; the themes of the poets were the deepest questions that concern iran every- where—his struggles, his triuniplis, liis hopes and his fears — narrated and dwelt upon with the fervor of an intense per- sonal interest, and pervaded by the subtle vitalizing power of imagination; the past had all the charm of romance, the imagination revelled in it, and the writers endeavored to pre- sent it as it really was ; and lastly, nature was the noblest of themes, passionately loved, not only for itself, but for the , communion it holds with the soul of man. Cowper, though belonging to the last century, ie the first poet in whom this change is seen. Lacking the fervor and the imaginative power of his successors, his feeling is as fine as theirs, his pathos as true, his love of nature in every sense as genuine, and his loiigiug for a higher life as earnest. THE ANCIENT MARINER. INTROUUCTOUY. Coleridge, in Chapter XIV. of the Biographla TAtf.raria, thus spcciks of the "occasion of the Lyrical Balhids": — ^ '• During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbors our conversation turned frequently on the two car- dnial points of poetry, the power of exciting the sympatliy of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature and the power of giving the interest of novelty by the modifyiiii,' colors of imagination. The sudden charm which accidents of light and shade, which moonlight or sunset ditFusod over a known and familiar landscape, appeared to represent the practicability 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 the one the incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural; and the excellence aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions as would naturally accompany such emotions supposing they were real. And real in this sense they have been to every human being who, from whatever source of delusion, has at any time believed himself under supernatural agency. 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 endeavors should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic, yet so as to transfer from our 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. Words- worth, on the other hand, was to propose to himself as his object to give the charm of novelty to things of every day, and to excite a feeling analogous to the supf^rnatural by I 20 ANCIENT MARINER. awakening the mind's attention to the lethargy of cuatom. and directing it to the loveliness and the wonders of the world before us— an inexhaustible treasure, but for which in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish 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, and was preparing, among other poems. The Dark Ladie and the Chrzstabel. * * • But Mr. Wordsworth's industry had proved so much more successful, and the number of his poems so much greater, that my compositions, instead of forminl; a matter^'" ^P^^""^^ '^^^^^'^ *" interpolation of heterogeneous The following is Wordsworth's account of the poem:— In the autumn of 1797 he (Coleridge), my sister, and my- self started froin Alfoxden pretty latetn the afternoon Wh 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 tZnT'^fu "^Ir*^^ ^P"" ^y ^"*^^« * PO^"^' *« be sent to the ^^ZflT^^^T''''' r* "P '^y Pb^l"P«' th« bookseller, and edited by Dr. Aikcn Accordingly we set off, and proceeded along the Quantock Hills towards Watchet, aid 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 ptrt of the story ^s Mr.' Coleridge s invention; but certain parts I suggested : for ex- ample some crime was to be committed which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to cail him, the spectral persecution as a consequence of that crime and his own wanderings. I had been reading in Sholvocke s Voyages a day or two before that while doubling Lape Horn they frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude! the largest sort of sea fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet. * Suppose,' said I, 'you represent him Is having 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 navi- gation 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 accompanied wa^ ANOIBNT MAUlNlSa not thought of by either of us at the time, at least not a hint of it waa 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 th« beginning of the poem, in particular: ' And listened like a three years' child, The Mariner hath his will.' " As we endeavored to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same evening) our respective manners proved so widely dif- ferent that it would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog. * * The ' Ancient Mariner ' grew and grew till it became too important for our first ob- ject, which was limited to our expectation of five pounds; and we began to think of a volume which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the world, of poems chiefly on super- natural subjects, taken from common life, but looked at, as much "as might be, through an imaginative medium." Such was the occasion of the writing of the ** Ancient Mariner." The plan proposed was one that carried out the theory of poetry entertained by the two friends, and more fully elaborated by Wordsworth subsequently. To them Nature apart from man was no lifeless, inert object, pleasing indeed at times to the eye, but nothing more. It was instinct witn a life of its own ; it held communication with the soul of man, taught him deep truths, sympathized in his sorrows and in his joys, and in some way punished him for crimes against herself. The "happy living things" of animal life, "so beautiful" and so harmless in their own sphere, and the dumb though conscious benefactors of man, were under the special protection, not precisely of the Creator, but of Nature ; and wrong done to these was an offence to the moral world, and was punished in such a way and to such an extent as Nature saw fit, since Nature alone was able to judge of the extent of the guilt and of the amount of punishment deserved. Wordsworth, in "Hart-Leap Well," works out the same idea, though in a different form, as Coleridge does in the "Ancient Mariner." The Hart, after a terrible race, in the agony of death makes three fearful leaps and falls dead by the side of a spring, the waters of which are ruffled by the last gasp of the dying brute. The noble hunter, in admiration for I n ANOIBNT MARtNEB. the Hart, vows buildings and pleasure grounds around th« place to coiiiinomorato its wonderful leap. In after years the poet-pilgrim finds the buildings and trees gone and the whole plac« barren. "But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade* The sun on drearier hollow never shone ; So will it be, as I have often said, lill trees and stones and fountain are all gone.** Thus speaks the *' grey-neaded shepherd," who is the pil- giim's guide, and who further supposes that the Hart with true human feeling sought this spot to die because his earliest and tenderest associations may have been connected with it. Then the pilgrim answers : '• This beaat not unohaerved of Nature fell ; Ilia death was mourned by sympathy divine.** " The Being that is in the clouds and air, That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep avl reverential care For the unoffending creatures whom ha loveg," The lesson to be drawn is: " Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." In this case Nature herself in revenge curses the spot where the Hart was so wantonly "done to death"; but we see only the result, not the process, nor is the reason definitely stated. In the "Ancient Mariner," on the other hand, a similarly wanton act is committed, but in circumstances in which gratitude should have prevailed. The punishment is iiiilicted and the reasons pointedly stated ; but the punish- ment is inflicted, in part at least, through the instrumentality of supernatural beings who sympathize with Nature, or who are the special guardians or ministers of Nature. Coleridge prefixes t^o the "Ancient Mariner" by way of introduction a quotation from a work in Latin that, after stating the writer's belief in the existence of more invisible than visible natures in the universe, asks, "Who can te*. their ranks, relationship, difference, and functions, what they do and where they dwell?" The poet accepts the belief, a^u answers some of the questions. He thinks that there are spirits of different kinds. "The spirit that dwelleth by him- ANOIBNT MARINBR 23 re, or who J*! self"! the ""brother" apirita, from whom came tlie ''two voices in the air, ' and one of whom seems righteously indk/nant at the Marmer, but ^^ e> " The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey dewt" and the two monsters in the skeleton ship, to say nothing of the "troop of spirits blest." The poet also tells what the spirits do They do the wiU of a higher power, as the spirits blest did caring for a man's welfare; they sym- pathize wich wronged Nature, and become her instruments of punishment; because, being higher natures than ours, they see moi . clearly the moral guilt of a crime that may indeed appear to us very trivial, but that is in reality an enormity Honce the objection made against the "Ancient Mariner" thr.|i rrVi f^rc c white Glimmered the white moon-shine." Tillajrreat ^^' fccabird, called the Albatross, came through the8iio\v-f( J' 17 and was re- coived with j>reat joy 1)11(1 liuspi* tality. And lo ! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward throuuh fog and floatiug ice. THE lllME 01' THE ANCIENT MAUINEII. 29 20. ** God Kavo tlico, ancient Mariner, Tho ancient From the fiends, thatpla^mo tl.eo tlius!- ^j:):^!,^,^ Why look'sb thou so ?"— " With my cross- Knicfii the bow pious bird of I shot the Albatross. good omen. PART II. 1. The snn now rose upon the right; Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into tho sea. 2. And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo ! 8. 4. 6. And I liad done a hbUish thing, And it would work 'em woe : For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow ! Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, Tho glorious Sun uprist : Then all averred, I killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. That bring the log and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, l\Z!fl The furrow followed free ; tii;ues; i His ship- ujatos cry out a^'ainst the ancient Mariner for killinfr the l)ird of good lutk. lUit when the fo]L( cleared off Wiey justify the same, and thus nialie tficm- selves ac- complices in the crime. Wo were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea* con- the sliip enters the Pacific Ocean, and I ^ 30 THE KIME OF THE ANCIENT MAHINER. I sails north- war I, evoii till it< reaches the Liuo. And the Al- batross 1)0- u'lii.s to be avciiucd. 0. 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 1 7. All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. 8. Day after day, day after day, Wo stuck, nor breath or motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. 9. Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink ; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink. 10. The very deep did rot : O Christ ! That ever tllis sliould bo ! Yea, slimy thint^s did crawl with legs Upon the sUmy sea. 11. 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. A Spirit foi- 12. And some in dreams assured were onTof ^tJie" ' Of the Spirit that plagued us so ; invisible in- Nine fathom deep he had followed us habitants of From the land of mist and snow. this planet, neither de- p.vrted spirits nor anprels : concerning whom the learned Jew, Joeephus, and the'Piatonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more. THE RIME OP THE ANCIENT MARINER. 61 I H, And every tongue, through utter drouglit Was withered at the root ; We could not speak, no more tlian if We had been choked with soot. 14. Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looka Had I from old and young ! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. Thw .flip. niiifvjB, in their sore disfroas, would fain throw th'i ,. . ■ ., , whole n'lilt on the ancient Mariner : in sign whereof they hang the dead sea bird I uund his ueclc. PAHl' III. 1. There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each oyo. A weary time ! a weary time ! How glazed each weary eye. When looking westward I beheld A something in the sky. 2. 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. o o. Tho anoient Mariner bo- holdoth a ai'^n in the clcniunt afar oil. 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. /.f its nearer 4. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, '?o.'neti 'him We could not laugh nor wail ; ^ '^ea ship ; Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! JInVom he"'* I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, frocth his And cried, A sail ! a sail I fP^^ch from the iiorida of thirst. I I S2 THE RIME OP THE ANCIENT MARINER. 5. (J. 9. 10 11. ■ With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call : Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, ^ ^^^ ^^ And all at once their breath drew in, joy ;• As they were drinking all. And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes on- ward with- out wind or tide? See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! Hither to work us weal, — Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel ! 7. 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. 8. And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, P seemeth (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) ?i3l"n Si As if through a dungeon-grate he peered ship. With broad and burning face. Alas ! (thought I, and my he'art beat loud) How fast she nears and nears ! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres ? Are those her ribs through which the Sun And its ribs 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 were free, Her locks were yellow as gold : Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-mare Life-in-Deathwas she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. are seen as bars on the face of the setting sun. The Spectre- Woman and her Death- mate, and no other on board the slteleton- ship. Like vessel, like crew ! THE RIME OP THE ANCIENT MARINER. S3 12. And its ribs 13. 14. 15. 16 17 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 come* the dark ; With far-heard whisper o'er the sea, Oflf shot the spectre-bark. 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 steerman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; From the sails the dew did drip- Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned IVIoon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, SUfthlr^' Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. Dcnth and Life-in- Death have diced for the ship's crew, ami ahe » down dead. But Life-in- Death be- ifins her worlc on the ancient Ma- riner. H THE RIME OP THE ANCIKNT MAUINEa ' m TheWsd- dinpf-Oueat feareth that » Spirit ii talking to him. But the an- cient Mari- ner asHureth him of his bodily life, and prooeed- eth to relate his horrible penance. Hedeapiseth the crea- tures of the t'alm PART IV. 1. ** I fear thee, ancient Mariner I I fear thy skinny hand • And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed aea-sand.* 2. I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown. "- *'Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guost ! This body dropt not down. 3 Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony 4 The many men, so beautiful ! And they all dead did lie And M thousand thousand slimy things Lived on , and so did I ttat the?'*" ^' J ^«^'l^^d upon the rotting sea. should live. And drew my eyes away ; fit'de^'"*"^ I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay & I 'ooked .to heaven, and tried tc pray ; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. 7. I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat , For the last two lines of this stanza I am indebted to Mr Words- worth. It wa,« on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton , with hun and his siskr, in the autumn of 1707, that this poem was planned and in part K'\n(i to break. 15. By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Ma- riner is re- freshed with rain. 2. 3. I Within the shudow of tho ship I watched their rich attire : Blue, glossy green, and velvet blacii, rhey coiled and swam ; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. O happy living things ! no tongue llieir beauty might declare : A spring of J(,vo gushed from my heart. And 1 blessed them unaware : Sure my kind saint took pity on me. And I blessed them unaware. The selfsame moment I could pray • And from my neck so free ' The Alb.itross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. PAET V. sleep ! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole ! To Mary q!ieen the praise be given f Shu sent the gentle sleep from Heaven Ihat slid into my soul. The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, 1 dreamt that they were filled with dSw ; And when I awoke, it rained. My lips were wet, my throat was cold. My garments all were dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MAUINEU. 4. I moved, and could not fuel my limbs : I was HO li^'ht— almost I thou^'ht that 1 liud died m sleep, And was a blessed ghost. 6. 6. 87 And soon I heard a roaring wind ; It did not conio 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, To and fro they were hurried about I And to and fro, and in and out, Tlie wan stars danced between. He hearoth boufhIh urid Bccth fltian^o t