Part 2 (1/2)

The years 1797 and 1798 are generally and justly regarded as the blossoming-time of Coleridge's poetic genius. It would be scarcely an exaggeration to say that they were even more than this, and that within the brief period covered by them is included not only the development of the poet's powers to their full maturity but the untimely beginnings of their decline. For to pa.s.s from the poems written by Coleridge within these two years to those of later origin is like pa.s.sing from among the green wealth of summer foliage into the well-nigh naked woods of later autumn. During 1797 and 1798 the _Ancient Mariner_, the first part of _Christabel_, the fine ode to France, the _Fears in Solitude_, the beautiful lines ent.i.tled _Frost at Midnight_, the _Nightingale_, the _Circa.s.sian Love-Chant_, the piece known as _Love_ from the poem of the _Dark Ladie_, and that strange fragment _Kubla Khan_, were all of them written and nearly all of them published; while between the last composed of these and that swan-song of his dying Muse, the _Dejection_, of 1802, there is but one piece to be added to the list of his greater works. This therefore, the second part of _Christabel_ (1800), may almost be described by the picturesque image in the first part of the same poem as

”The one red leaf, the last of its clan, Hanging so light and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.”

The first to fail him of his sources of inspiration was his revolutionary enthusiasm; and the ode to France--the _Recantation_, as it was styled on its first appearance in the _Morning Post_--is the record of a reaction which, as has been said, was as much speedier in Coleridge's case than in that of the other ardent young minds which had come under the spell of the Revolution as his enthusiasm had been more pa.s.sionate than theirs. In the winter of 1797-98 the Directory had plunged France into an unnatural conflict with her sister Republic of Switzerland, and Coleridge, who could pardon and had pardoned her fierce animosity against a country which he considered not so much his own as Pitt's, was unable to forgive her this. In the _Recantation_ he casts her off for ever; he perceives at last that true liberty is not to be obtained through political, but only through spiritual emanc.i.p.ation; that--

”The sensual and the dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles, and wear the name Of Freedom graven on a heavier chain”;

and arrives in a n.o.ble peroration at the somewhat unsatisfactory conclusion, that the spirit of liberty, ”the guide of homeless winds and playmate of the waves,” is to be found only among the elements, and not in the inst.i.tutions of man. And in the same quaintly ingenuous spirit which half touches and half amuses us in his earlier poems he lets us perceive a few weeks later, in his _Fears in Solitude_, that sympathy with a foreign nation threatened by the invader may gradually develop into an almost filial regard for one's own similarly situated land. He has been deemed, he says, an enemy of his country.

”But, O dear Britain! O my mother Isle,”

once, it may be remembered, ”doomed to fall enslaved and vile,” but now--

”Needs must them prove a name most dear and holy, To me a son, a brother, and a friend, A husband and a father! who revere All bonds of natural love, and find them all Within the limits of thy rocky sh.o.r.es.”

After all, it has occurred to him, England is not only the England of Pitt and Grenville, and in that capacity the fitting prey of the insulted French Republic: she is also the England of Sara Coleridge, and little Hartley, and of Mr. Thomas Poole of Nether Stowey. And so, to be sure, she was in 1796 when her downfall was predicted, and in the spirit rather of the Old Testament than of the New. But there is something very engaging in the candour with which the young poet hastens to apprise us of this his first awakening to the fact.

_France_ may be regarded as the last ode, and _Fears in Solitude_ as the last blank-verse poem of any importance, that owe their origin to Coleridge's early political sentiments. Henceforth, and for the too brief period of his poetic activity, he was to derive his inspiration from other sources. The most fruitful and important of these was unquestionably his intercourse with Wordsworth, from whom, although there was doubtless a reciprocation of influence between them, his much more receptive nature took a far deeper impression than it made. [1] At the time of their meeting he had already for some three years been acquainted with Wordsworth's works as a poet, and it speaks highly for his discrimination that he was able to discern the great powers of his future friend, even in work so immature in many respects as the _Descriptive Sketches_. It was during the last year of his residence at Cambridge that he first met with these poems, of which he says in the _Biographia Literaria_ that ”seldom, if ever, was the emergence of an original poetic genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced;” and the effect produced by this volume was steadily enhanced by further acquaintance both with the poet and his works. Nothing, indeed, is so honourably noticeable and even touching in Coleridge's relation to his friend as the tone of reverence with which, even in the days of his highest self-confidence and even almost haughty belief in the greatness of his own poetic mission, he was accustomed to speak of Wordsworth. A witness, to be more fully cited hereafter, and whose testimony is especially valuable as that of one who was by no means blind to Coleridge's early foible of self- complacency, has testified to this unbounded admiration of his brother- poet. ”When,” records this gentleman, ”we have sometimes spoken complimentarily to Coleridge of himself he has said that he was nothing in comparison with Wordsworth.” And two years before this, at a time when they had not yet tested each other's power in literary collaboration, he had written to Cottle to inform him of his introduction to the author of ”near twelve hundred lines of blank verse, superior, I dare aver, to anything in our language which in any way resembles it,” and had declared with evident sincerity that he felt ”a little man” by Wordsworth's side.

His own impression upon his new friend was more distinctively personal in its origin. It was by Coleridge's total individuality, by the sum of his vast and varied intellectual powers, rather than by the specific poetic element contained in them, that Wordsworth, like the rest of the world indeed, was in the main attracted; but it is clear enough that this attraction was from the first most powerful. On that point we have not only the weighty testimony of Dorothy Wordsworth, as conveyed in her often-quoted description [2] of her brother's new acquaintance, but the still more conclusive evidence of her brother's own acts. He gave the best possible proof of the fascination which had been exercised over him by quitting Racedown with his sister for Alfoxden near Nether Stowey within a few weeks of his first introduction to Coleridge, a change of abode for which, as Miss Wordsworth has expressly recorded, ”our princ.i.p.al inducement was Coleridge's society.”

By a curious coincidence the two poets were at this time simultaneously sickening for what may perhaps be appropriately called the ”poetic measles.” They were each engaged in the composition of a five-act tragedy, and read scenes to each other, and to each other's admiration, from their respective dramas. Neither play was fortunate in its immediate destiny. Wordsworth's tragedy, the _Borderers_, was greatly commended by London critics and decisively rejected by the management of Covent Garden. As for Coleridge, the negligent Sheridan did not even condescend to acknowledge the receipt of his ma.n.u.script; his play was pa.s.sed from hand to hand among the Drury Lane Committee; but not till many years afterwards did _Osorio_ find its way under another name to the footlights.

For the next twelvemonth the intercourse between the two poets was close and constant, and most fruitful in results of high moment to English literature. It was in their daily rambles among the Quantock Hills that they excogitated that twofold theory of the essence and functions of poetry which was to receive such notable ill.u.s.tration in their joint volume of verse, the _Lyrical Ballads_; it was during a walk over the Quantock Hills that by far the most famous poem of that series, the _Ancient Mariner_, was conceived and in part composed.

The publication of the _Lyrical Ballads_ in the spring of the year 1798 was, indeed, an event of double significance for English poetry.

It marked an epoch in the creative life of Coleridge, and a no less important one in the critical life of Wordsworth. In the _Biographia Literaria_ the origination of the plan of the work is thus described:--

”During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbours our conversation turned frequently on the two cardinal points of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and the power of giving the interest of novelty by the modifying colours of the imagination. The sudden charm which accidents of light and shade, which moonlight or sunset diffused 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 interest aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions as would naturally accompany such situations, supposing them real.... For the second cla.s.s, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life; the characters and incidents were to be such as will be found in every village and its vicinity where there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice them when they present themselves. In this idea originated the plan of the _Lyrical Ballads_, in which it was agreed that my endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic, yet so as to transfer from our 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 const.i.tutes poetic faith. Mr.

Wordsworth, on the other hand, was to propose to himself, as his object, to give the charm of novelty to things of everyday, and to excite a feeling a.n.a.logous to the supernatural by awakening the mind's attention from the lethargy of custom 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 which see not, ears that hear not, and hearts which neither feel nor understand.”

We may measure the extent to which the poetic teaching and practice of Wordsworth have influenced subsequent taste and criticism by noting how completely the latter of these two functions of poetry has overshadowed the former. To lend the charm of imagination to the real will appear to many people to be not one function of poetry merely but its very essence. To them it is poetry, and the only thing worthy of the name; while the correlative function of lending the force of reality to the imaginary will appear at best but a superior kind of metrical romancing, or clever telling of fairy tales. Nor of course can there, from the point of view of the highest conception of the poet's office, be any comparison between the two. In so far as we regard poetry as contributing not merely to the pleasure of the mind but to its health and strength--in so far as we regard it in its capacity not only to delight but to sustain, console, and tranquillise the human spirit-- there is, of course, as much difference between the idealistic and the realistic forms of poetry as there is between a narcotic potion and a healing drug. The one, at best, can only enable a man to forget his burdens; the other fortifies him to endure them. It is perhaps no more than was naturally to be expected of our brooding and melancholy age, that poetry (when it is not a mere voluptuous record of the subjective impressions of sense) should have become almost limited in its very meaning to the exposition of the imaginative or spiritual aspect of the world of realities; but so it is now, and so in Coleridge's time it clearly was _not_. Coleridge, in the pa.s.sage above quoted, shows no signs of regarding one of the two functions which he attributes to poetry as any more accidental or occasional than the other; and the fact that the realistic portion of the _Lyrical Ballads_ so far exceeded in amount its supernatural element, he attributes not to any inherent supremacy in the claims of the former to attention but simply to the greater industry which Wordsworth had displayed in his special department of the volume. For his own part, he says, ”I wrote the _Ancient Mariner_, and was preparing, among other poems, the _Dark Ladie_ and the _Christabel_, in which I should have more nearly realised my ideal than I had done in my first attempt. But Mr. Wordsworth's industry had proved so much more successful, and the number of the poems so much greater, that my compositions, instead of forming a balance, appeared rather an interpolation of heterogeneous matter.” There was certainly a considerable disparity between the amount of their respective contributions to the volume, which, in fact, contained nineteen pieces by Wordsworth and only four by Coleridge.

Practically, indeed, we may reduce this four to one; for, of the three others, the two scenes from _Osorio_ are without special distinction, and the _Nightingale_, though a graceful poem, and containing an admirably-studied description of the bird's note, is too slight and short to claim any importance in the series. But the one long poem which Coleridge contributed to the collection is alone sufficient to a.s.sociate it for ever with his name. _Unum sed leonem._ To any one who should have taunted him with the comparative infertility of his Muse he might well have returned the haughty answer of the lioness in the fable, when he could point in justification of it to the _Rime of the Ancient Marinere_.

There is, I may a.s.sume, no need at the present day to discuss the true place in English literature of this unique product of the human imagination. One is bound, however, to attempt to correlate and adjust it to the rest of the poet's work, and this, it must be admitted, is a most difficult piece of business. Never was there a poem so irritating to a critic of the ”pigeon-holing” variety. It simply defies him; and yet the instinct which he obeys is so excusable, because in fact so universal, that one feels guilty of something like disloyalty to the very principles of order in smiling at his disappointment. Complete and symmetrical cla.s.sification is so fascinating an amus.e.m.e.nt; it would simplify so many subjects of study, if men and things would only consent to rank themselves under different categories, and remain there; it would, in particular, be so inexpressibly convenient to be able to lay your hand upon your poet whenever you wanted him by merely turning to a shelf labelled ”Realistic” or ”Imaginative” (nay, perhaps, to the still greater saving of labour--Objective or Subjective), that we cannot be surprised at the strength of the aforesaid instinct in many a critical mind. Nor should it be hard to realise its revolt against those single exceptions which bring its generalisations to nought. When the pigeon-hole will admit every ”doc.u.ment” but one, the case is hard indeed; and it is not too much to say that the _Ancient Mariner_ is the one doc.u.ment which the pigeon-hole in this instance declines to admit. If Coleridge had only refrained from writing this remarkable poem, or if, having done so, he had written more poems like it, the critic might have ticketed him with a quiet mind, and gone on his way complacent. As it is, however, the poet has contrived in virtue of this performance not only to defeat cla.s.sification but to defy it.

For the weird ballad abounds in those very qualities in which Coleridge's poetry with all its merits is most conspicuously deficient, while on the other hand it is wholly free from the faults with which he is most frequently and justly chargeable. One would not have said in the first place that the author of _Religious Musings_, still less of the _Monody on the Death of Chatterton_, was by any means the man to have compa.s.sed triumphantly at the very first attempt the terseness, vigour, and _navete_ of the true ballad-manner. To attain this, Coleridge, the student of his early verse must feel, would have rather more to retrench and much more to restrain than might be the case with many other youthful poets. The exuberance of immaturity, the want of measure, the ”not knowing where to stop,” are certainly even more conspicuous in the poems of 1796 than they are in most productions of the same stage of poetic development; and these qualities, it is needless to say, require very stern chastening from him who would succeed in the style which Coleridge attempted for the first time in the _Ancient Mariner_.

The circ.u.mstances of this immortal ballad's birth have been related with such fulness of detail by Wordsworth, and Coleridge's own references to them are so completely reconcilable with that account, that it must have required all De Quincey's consummate ingenuity as a mischief-maker to detect any discrepancy between the two.

In the autumn of 1797, records Wordsworth in the MS. notes which he left behind him, ”Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself started from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon with a view to visit Linton and the Valley of Stones near to it; and as our united funds were very small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by writing a poem to be sent to the _New Monthly Magazine_. Accordingly we set off, and proceeded along the Quantock Hills towards Watchet; and in the course of this walk was planned the poem of the _Ancient Mariner_, founded on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend Mr.

Cruikshank. Much the greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's invention, but certain parts I suggested; for example, some crime was to be committed which should bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence of that crime and his own wanderings. I had been reading in Shelvocke's _Voyages_, a day or two before, that while doubling Cape Horn they frequently saw albatrosses in that lat.i.tude, the largest sort of sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet.

'Suppose,' said I, 'you represent him as 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 navigation of the s.h.i.+p 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 was not thought of by either of us at the time, at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous afterthought. We began the composition together on that to me memorable evening. I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of the poem, in particular--

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

”These trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr. C. has with unnecessary scrupulosity recorded,[3] slipped out of his mind, as they well might. As we endeavoured to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same evening) our respective manners proved so widely different that it would have been quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog.... The _Ancient Mariner_ grew and grew till it became too important for our first object, 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 supernatural subjects.” Except that the volume ultimately determined on was to consist only ”partly” and not ”chiefly” of poems on supernatural subjects (in the result, as has been seen, it consisted ”chiefly” of poems upon natural subjects), there is nothing in this account which cannot be easily reconciled with the probable facts upon which De Quincey bases his hinted charge against Coleridge in his _Lake Poets_. It was not Coleridge who had been reading Shelvocke's _Voyages_, but Wordsworth, and it is quite conceivable, therefore, that the source from which his friend had derived the idea of the killing of the albatross may (if indeed he was informed of it at the time) have escaped his memory twelve years afterwards, when the conversation with De Quincey took place. Hence, in ”disowning his obligations to Shelvocke,” he may not by any means have intended to suggest that the albatross incident was his own thought. Moreover, De Quincey himself supplies another explanation of the matter, which we know, from the above-quoted notes of Wordsworth's, to be founded upon fact. ”It is possible,” he adds, ”from something which Coleridge said on another occasion, that before meeting a fable in which to embody his ideas he had meditated a poem on delirium, confounding its own dream- scenery with external things, and connected with the imagery of high lat.i.tudes.” Nothing, in fact, would be more natural than that Coleridge, whose idea of the haunted seafarer was primarily suggested by his friend's dream, and had no doubt been greatly elaborated in his own imagination before being communicated to Wordsworth at all, should have been unable, after a considerable lapse of time, to distinguish between incidents of his own imagining and those suggested to him by others. And, in any case, the ”unnecessary scrupulosity,” rightly attributed to him by Wordsworth with respect to this very poem, is quite incompatible with any intentional denial of obligations.

Such, then, was the singular and even prosaic origin of the _Ancient Mariner_--a poem written to defray the expenses of a tour; surely the most sublime of ”pot-boilers” to be found in all literature. It is difficult, from amid the astonis.h.i.+ng combination of the elements of power, to select that which is the most admirable; but, considering both the character of the story and of its particular vehicle, perhaps the greatest achievement of the poem is the simple realistic force of its narrative. To achieve this was of course Coleridge's main object: he had undertaken to ”transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imaginations that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment which const.i.tutes poetic faith.” But it is easier to undertake this than to perform it, and much easier to perform it in prose than in verse--with the a.s.sistance of the everyday and the commonplace than without it.

Balzac's _Peau de Chagrin_ is no doubt a great feat of the realistic-supernatural; but no one can help feeling how much the author is aided by his ”broker's clerk” style of description, and by the familiar Parisian scenes among which he makes his hero move. It is easier to compa.s.s verisimilitude in the Palais-Royal than on the South Pacific, to say nothing of the thousand a.s.sisting touches, out of place in rhyme and metre, which can be thrown into a prose narrative. The _Ancient Mariner_, however, in spite of all these drawbacks, is as real to the reader as is the hero of the _Peau de Chagrin_; we are as convinced of the curse upon one of the doomed wretches as upon the other; and the strange phantasmagoric haze which is thrown around the s.h.i.+p and the lonely voyager leaves their outlines as clear as if we saw them through the suns.h.i.+ne of the streets of Paris. Coleridge triumphs over his difficulties by sheer vividness of imagery and terse vigour of descriptive phrase--two qualities for which his previous poems did not prove him to possess by any means so complete a mastery. For among all the beauties of his earlier landscapes we can hardly reckon that of intense and convincing truth. He seems seldom before to have written, as Wordsworth nearly always seems to write, ”with his eye on the object;” and certainly he never before displayed any remarkable power of completing his word-picture with a few touches. In the _Ancient Mariner_ his eye seems never to wander from his object, and again and again the scene starts out upon the canvas in two or three strokes of the brush. The skeleton s.h.i.+p, with the dicing demons on its deck; the setting sun peering ”through its ribs, as if through a dungeon- grate;” the water-snakes under the moonbeams, with the ”elfish light”

falling off them ”in h.o.a.ry flakes” when they reared; the dead crew, who work the s.h.i.+p and ”raise their limbs like lifeless tools”--everything seems to have been actually _seen_, and we believe it all as the story of a truthful eye-witness. The details of the voyage, too, are all chronicled with such order and regularity, there is such a diary- like air about the whole thing, that we accept it almost as if it were a series of extracts from the s.h.i.+p's ”log.” Then again the execution--a great thing to be said of so long a poem--is marvellously equal throughout; the story never drags or flags for a moment, its felicities of diction are perpetual, and it is scarcely marred by a single weak line. What could have been better said of the instantaneous descent of the tropical night than