No More Learning

»
The little volume appealed to but a small band of readers. The
poems it contained did not allure by fluency of fancy or richness of
diction; they were not of a kind to win sudden popularity: but they
gave evidence of a poet who, though not complete master of his art,
arrived at a complete understanding of himself, had yet a
rare power of reflection and expression and a still rarer sincerity of
imaginative vision. They were poems that gave large promise, and
that promise was already in part fulfilled by the 'Bothie. '
and not
Early
in 1849 the headship of University Hall in London was
offered to Clough and accepted by him. This was an institution pro-
fessedly
non-sectarian, established for the purpose of receiving
students in attendance upon the lectures at University College. He
was not to enter upon the duties of the place until October, and he
spent the greater part of the intervening period in a fruitful visit to
VII-240


## p. 3826 (#188) ###########################################

3826
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
Italy. He reached Rome in April. All Italy was in revolution. The
Pope had fled from Rome. The Republic had been declared, and
Mazzini was in control of the government. The French army was
approaching to besiege the city, and Clough resolved to await the
event. No more vivid and picturesque account of aspects of the
siege exists than is to be found in his poem of 'Amours de Voyage,'
written in great part at Rome, under the pressure and excitement of
the moment; then laid aside in the poet's desk, and not published
till long afterward. It consists of a series of letters supposed to be
written by various persons, in which a narrative of passing events is
interwoven with a love story. The hero of the story is a creation
of extraordinary subtlety and interest. He has much of the tempera-
ment of Hamlet: not wanting in personal courage, nor in resolution
when forced to action, but hesitating through sensitiveness of con-
science, through dread of mistaking momentary impulse for fixed con-
viction, through the clearness with which diverging paths of conduct
present themselves to his imagination, with the inevitable doubt as
to which be the right one to follow. The character, though by no
means an exact or complete image of the poet's own, is yet drawn in
part from himself, and affords glimpses of his inner nature, of the
delicacy of his sensitive poetic spirit, of his tendency to discriminat-
ing introspective reflection, of his honesty in dealing with facts and
with himself. To see things as they are, to keep his eyes clear, to
be true to
"The living central inmost I
Within the scales of mere exterior me»
was the principle of his life. The charm of 'Amours de Voyage,'
however, consists not merely in animated description, in delicate
sentiment, and in the poetic representation of sensitive, impression-
able, and high-minded youth, but in its delicate humor in the delin-
eation of character, and in its powerful, imaginative, picturesque
reproduction of the atmosphere and influence of Rome, and of the
spirit of the moment to which the poem relates. It is as unique and
as original in its kind as the 'Bothie. ' It is a poem that appeals
strongly to the lovers of the poetry of high culture, and is not likely
to lack such readers in future generations.
From Rome in July Clough went to Naples, and there wrote
another of his most striking poems, 'Easter Day. ' In the autumn
of 1850 he again went, during a short vacation, to Italy, but now
to Venice; and while there began his third long poem, 'Dipsychus,'
of which the scene is in that city. In this poem, which repre-
sents the conflict of the soul in its struggles to maintain itself
against the temptations of the world and the Devil, Clough again


## p. 3827 (#189) ###########################################

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
3827
wrote out much of his inner life. It is not so much a piece of strict
autobiography of the spirit of an individual, as an imaginative drama
of the spiritual experience common in all times to men of fine na-
ture, seeking a solution of the puzzle of their own hearts.
In none
of his other poems is there such variety of tone, or such an exhibi-
tion of mature poetic power. It is indeed loosely constructed; but its
separate parts, each contributing to the development of its main
theme, with their diversity of imagination, reflection, wit, and senti-
ment, combine in an impressive unity of effect.
The position at University Hall proved not altogether satisfactory;
and no other opening for him offering itself in England, Clough
determined after much hesitation and deliberation to try his fortune
as a teacher and writer in America. He sailed in October, 1852, on
a steamer on which he had Lowell and Thackeray for fellow passen-
gers.
He spent the next eight months at Cambridge, employed in
tutoring and in literary work, winning the warm regard of the
remarkable group of men of letters who then gave distinction to the
society of Cambridge and of Boston, and especially keeping up his
friendship with Emerson by frequent visits. to Concord. There
seemed a fair prospect of success for him in his new career. But his
friends at home, deeply attached to him, and ill content that he
should leave them, obtained for him an appointment as examiner in
the Education Department of the Council Office. The salary would
give to him a secure though moderate income. He was the more
drawn to accept the place, because shortly before leaving England he
had become engaged to be married; and accordingly in July, 1853, he
returned home and at once entered on the duties of his office.
In
June 1854 he married. For the next seven years his life was tran-
quil, laborious, and happy. The account of these years contained in
the beautiful sketch of his life by his wife, which is prefixed to the
collection of his 'Letters, Poems and Prose Remains,' * gives a
picture of Clough's domestic felicity, and of the various interests
which engaged him outside of the regular drudgery of official work.
His own letters bear witness to the content of his days. He had
little leisure for poetry. He was overworked, and in 1860 his health
gave way. Leave of absence from the office was given to him. He
went to the seashore; he visited the Continent: but though at times
he seemed to gain strength, there was no steady recovery. In the
autumn of 1861 he went to Italy, accompanied by his wife; he
enjoyed the journey, but they had only reached the Lakes when he
experienced a touch of fever. They went on to Florence; he became
more seriously ill. He began however apparently to recover, but a
* It is on this sketch of his life that the present account of him is
mainly based.


## p. 3828 (#190) ###########################################

3828
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
sudden blow of paralysis struck him down, and on the 13th day of
November he died.
Among the most original and beautiful of Matthew Arnold's poems
is his Thyrsis, a Monody,' to commemorate his friend Arthur Hugh
Clough. Thyrsis his mate has gone:-
"No purer or more subtle soul»
than he ever sought the light that
"leaves its seeker still untired,-
Still onward faring by his own heart inspired. »
The lament is as true as it is tender. The singer continues:
"What though the music of thy rustic flute
Kept not for long its happy country tone;
Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note
Of men contention-tost, of men who groan,
Which tasked thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat,-
It failed, and thou wast mute!
Yet hadst thou always visions of our light. "
Yes, always visions of the light! But Arnold's usual felicity of
discrimination is lacking in this last stanza. The stormy note is not
the characteristic note of Clough's mature song, nor does his art
betray the overtasked pipe. His pipe indeed is not attuned, as was
Arnold's own, to the soft melancholy of regret at leaving behind the
happy fields of the past in the quest for the light that shines beyond
and across the untraveled and dim waste which lies before them; its
tone was less pathetic, but not less clear. The music of each is the
song of travelers whose road is difficult, whose goal is uncertain.
Their only guide is the fugitive light, now faint, now distinct, which
allures them with irresistible attraction. Their pathways at times
diverge; but when most divergent, the notes of their accordant pipes
are heard in the same direction.
The memory of Clough remains, with those who had the happi-
ness of knowing him in life, distinct and precious. It is that of one
of the highest and purest souls. Sensitive, simple, tender, manly,
his figure stands as one of the ideal figures of the past, the image of
the true poet, the true friend, the true man. He died too young for
his full fame, but not too young for the love which is better than
fame.
C. E. Morton.


## p. 3829 (#191) ###########################################

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
3829
THERE IS NO GOD
HERE is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what he might have done with us
It's better only guessing. "
"T
"There is no God," a youngster thinks,
"Or really, if there may be,
He surely didn't mean a man
Always to be a baby. "
"There is no God, or if there is,"
The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny
If he should take it ill in me
To make a little money. "
"Whether there be," the rich man says,
"It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual. "
Some others, also, to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.
But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and the parson's wife,
And mostly married people;
Youths green and happy in first love,
So thankful for illusion;
And men caught out in what the world
Calls guilt, in first confusion;
And almost every one when age,
Disease, or sorrows strike him,-
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or something very like him.


## p. 3830 (#192) ###########################################

3830
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
THE LATEST DECALOGUE
HOU shalt have one God only: who
Would be at the expense of two?
No graven images may be
Worshiped, save in the currency.
Swear not at all; since for thy curse
Thine enemy is none the worse.
At church on Sunday to attend
Will serve to keep the world thy friend:
Honor thy parents; that is, all
From whom advancement may befall.
Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive
Officiously to keep alive.
Adultery it is not fit
Or safe (for woman) to commit.
Thou shalt not steal: an empty feat,
When 'tis as lucrative to cheat.
Bear not false witness: let the lie
Have time on its own wings to fly.
Thou shalt not covet; but tradition
Approves all forms of competition.
THO
TO THE UNKNOWN GOD
O
THOU whose image in the shrine
Of human spirits dwells divine;
Which from that precinct once conveyed,
To be to outer day displayed,
Doth vanish, part, and leave behind
Mere blank and void of empty mind,
Which willful fancy seeks in vain
With casual shapes to fill again!
O Thou that in our bosom's shrine
Dost dwell, unknown because divine!
I thought to speak, I thought to say,
"The light is here,”- "Behold the way,".
"The voice was thus," and "Thus the word,".
And "Thus I saw," and "That I heard,”.
But from the lips that half assayed
The imperfect utterance fell unmade.
-
-
-


## p. 3831 (#193) ###########################################

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
3831
O Thou, in that mysterious shrine
Enthroned, as I must say, divine!
I will not frame one thought of what
Thou mayest either be or not.
I will not prate of "thus" and "so,"
And be profane with "yes" and "no";
Enough that in our soul and heart
Thou, whatsoe'er Thou may'st be, art.
Unseen, secure in that high shrine
Acknowledged present and divine,
I will not ask some upper air,
Some future day to place Thee there;
Nor say, nor yet deny, such men
And women say Thee thus and then:
Thy name was such, and there or here
To him or her Thou didst appear.
Do only Thou in that dim shrine,
Unknown or known, remain, divine;
There, or if not, at least in eyes
That scan the fact that round them lies,
The hand to sway, the judgment guide,
In sight and sense Thyself divide:
Be Thou but there, in soul and heart,-
I will not ask to feel Thou art.
EASTER DAY
NAPLES, 1849
THE
HROUGH the great sinful streets of Naples as I past,
With fiercer heat than flamed above my head,
My heart was hot within me; till at last
My brain was lightened when my tongue had said.
Christ is not risen!
Christ is not risen, no-
He lies and molders low;
Christ is not risen!
What though the stone were rolled away, and though
The grave found empty there? —
If not there, then elsewhere;
If not where Joseph laid him first, why then
Where other men


## p. 3832 (#194) ###########################################

3832
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
Translaid him after, in some humbler clay.
Long ere to-day
Corruption that sad perfect work hath done,
Which here she scarcely, lightly, had begun:
The foul engendered worm
Feeds on the flesh of the life-giving form
Of our most Holy and Anointed One.
He is not risen, no-
He lies and molders low;
Christ is not risen!
What if the women, ere the dawn was gray,
Saw one or more great angels, as they say
(Angels, or Him himself)? Yet neither there, nor then,
Nor afterwards, nor elsewhere, nor at all,
Hath he appeared to Peter or the Ten;
Nor, save in thunderous terror, to blind Saul;
Save in an after-Gospel and late Creed,
He is not risen, indeed,-
Christ is not risen!
Or what if e'en, as runs a tale, the Ten
Saw, heard, and touched, again and yet again?
What if at Emmaüs's inn, and by Capernaum's Lake,
Came One, the bread that brake-
Came One that spake as never mortal spake,
And with them ate, and drank, and stood, and walked about?
Ah! "some" did well to "doubt"!
Ah! the true Christ, while these things came to pass,
Nor heard, nor spake, nor walked, nor lived, alas!
He was not risen, no-
He lay and moldered low;
Christ was not risen!
As circulates in some great city crowd
A rumor changeful, vague, importunate, and loud,
From no determined centre, or of fact
Or authorship exact,
Which no man can deny
Nor verify;
So spread the wondrous fame;
He all the same
Lay senseless, moldering low;
He was not risen, no-
Christ was not risen!


## p. 3833 (#195) ###########################################

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
3833
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
As of the unjust, also of the just-
Yea, of that Just One, too!
This is the one sad Gospel that is true-
Christ is not risen!
Is he not risen, and shall we not rise?
Oh, we unwise!
What did we dream, what wake we to discover?
Ye hills, fall on us, and ye mountains, cover!
In darkness and great gloom
Come ere we thought it is our day of doom;
From the cursed world, which is one tomb,
Christ is not risen!
Eat, drink, and play, and think that this is bliss:
There is no heaven but this;
There is no hell,
Save earth, which serves the purpose doubly well,
Seeing it visits still
With equalest apportionment of ill
Both good and bad alike, and brings to one same dust
The unjust and the just
With Christ, who is not risen.
Eat, drink, and die, for we are souls bereaved:
Of all the creatures under heaven's wide cope
We are most hopeless, who had once most hope,
And most beliefless, that had most believed.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
As of the unjust, also of the just-
Yea, of that Just One, too!
It is the one sad Gospel that is true---
Christ is not risen!
Weep not beside the tomb,
Ye women, unto whom
He was great solace while ye tended him;
Ye who with napkin o'er the head
And folds of linen round each wounded limb
Laid out the Sacred Dead;
And thou that bar'st him in thy wondering womb;
Yea, Daughters of Jerusalem, depart,
Bind up as best you may your own sad bleeding heart:


## p. 3834 (#196) ###########################################

3834
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
Go to your homes, your living children tend,
Your earthly spouses love;
Set your affections not on things above,
Which moth and rust corrupt, which quickliest come to end:
Or pray, if pray ye must, and pray, if pray ye can,
For death; since dead is he whom ye deemed more than man,
Who is not risen: no-
But lies and molders low-
Who is not risen!
――
Ye men of Galilee!
Why stand ye looking up to heaven, where him ye ne'er may see,
Neither ascending hence, nor returning hither again?
Ye ignorant and idle fishermen!
Hence to your huts, and boats, and inland native shore,
And catch not men, but fish;
Whate'er things ye might wish,
Him neither here nor there ye e'er shall meet with more.
Ye poor deluded youths, go home,
Mend the old nets ye left to roam,
Tie the split oar, patch the torn sail:
It was indeed an "idle tale».
He was not risen!
And oh, good men of ages yet to be,
Who shall believe because ye did not see
Oh, be ye warned, be wise!
No more with pleading eyes,
And sobs of strong desire,
――――――
Unto the empty vacant void aspire,
Seeking another and impossible birth
That is not of your own, and only mother earth.
But if there is no other life for you,
Sit down and be content, since this must even do;
He is not risen!
One look and then depart,
Ye humble and ye holy men of heart;
And ye ye ministers and stewards of a Word
Which ye would preach, because another heard
Ye worshipers of that ye do not know,
Take these things hence and go:-
He is not risen!


## p. 3835 (#197) ###########################################

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
3835
Here, on our Easter Day
We rise, we come, and lo! we find Him not,
Gardener nor other, on the sacred spot:
Where they have laid Him there is none to say;
No sound, nor in, nor out-no word
Of where to seek the dead or meet the living Lord.
There is no glistering of an angel's wings,
There is no voice of heavenly clear behest:
Let us go hence, and think upon these things
In silence, which is best.
Is He not risen? No-
But lies and molders low?
Christ is not risen?
IT FORTIFIES MY SOUL TO KNOW
T FORTIFIES my soul to know
IT
That though I perish, Truth is so;
That howsoe'er I stray and range,
Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change;
I steadier step when I recall
That if I slip, Thou dost not fall!
SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NAUGHT AVAILETH
SAY
AY not, the struggle naught availeth,
The labor and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been, they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light;
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright.


## p. 3836 (#198) ###########################################

3836
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
COME BACK
C
OME back, come back! behold with straining mast
And swelling sail, behold her steaming fast:
With one new sun to see her voyage o'er,
With morning light to touch her native shore.
Come back, come back!
Come back, come back! while westward laboring by,
With sailless yards, a bare black hulk we fly.
See how the gale we fight with sweeps her back
To our lost home, on our forsaken track.
Come back, come back!
Come back, come back! across the flying foam
We hear faint far-off voices call us home:
Come back! ye seem to say; ye seek in vain;
We went, we sought, and homeward turned again.
Come back, come back!
Come back, come back! and whither back, or why?
To fan quenched hopes, forsaken schemes to try;
Walk the old fields; pace the familiar street;
Dream with the idlers, with the bards compete.
Come back, come back!
Come back, come back! and whither and for what?
To finger idly some old Gordian knot,
Unskilled to sunder, and too weak to cleave,
And with much toil attain to half-believe.
Come back, come back!
Come back, come back! yea, back indeed do go
Sighs panting thick, and tears that want to flow;
Fond fluttering hopes upraise their useless wings,
And wishes idly struggle in the strings.
Come back, come back!
Come back, come back! more eager than the breeze
The flying fancies sweep across the seas,
And lighter far than ocean's flying foam
The heart's fond message hurries to its home.
Come back, come back!


## p. 3837 (#199) ###########################################

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
3837
Come back, come back!
Back flies the foam; the hoisted flag streams back;
The long smoke wavers on the homeward track;
Back fly with winds things which the wind obey:
The strong ship follows its appointed way.
AS SHIPS BECALMED
S SHIPS becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail, at dawn of day,
Are scarce long leagues apart descried.
A$
When fell the night, up sprang the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied;
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was clearing, side by side:
E'en so- but why the tale reveal
Of those whom, year by year unchanged,
Brief absence joined anew, to feel,
Astounded, soul from soul estranged?
At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered;
Ah! neither blame, for neither willed
Or wist what first with dawn appeared.
To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! -in light, in darkness too!
Through winds and tides one compass guides
To that and your own selves be true.
But O blithe breeze! and O great seas!
Though ne'er that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last.
One port, methought, alike they sought,-
One purpose hold, where'er they fare;
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At last, at last, unite them there.


## p. 3838 (#200) ###########################################

3838
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
THE UNKNOWN COURSE
W
HERE lies the land to which the ship would go?
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know;
And where the land she travels from? Away,
Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face,
Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace!
Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below
The foaming wake far widening as we go.
On stormy nights, when wild Northwesters rave,
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.
Where lies the land to which the ship would go?
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.
And where the land she travels from? Away,
Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
THE GONDOLA
A
FLOAT; we move-delicious! Ah,
What else is like the gondola ?
This level flow of liquid glass
Begins beneath us swift to pass.
It goes as though it went alone
By some impulsion of its own.
(How light it moves, how softly! Ah,
Were all things like the gondola! )
How light it moves, how softly! Ah,
Could life, as does our gondola,
Unvexed with quarrels, aims, and cares,
And moral duties and affairs,
Unswaying, noiseless, swift, and strong,
For ever thus- thus glide along!
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola! )
With no more motion than should bear
A freshness to the languid air;


## p. 3839 (#201) ###########################################

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
3839
With no more effort than expressed
The need and naturalness of rest,
Which we beneath a grateful shade
Should take on peaceful pillows laid!
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola ! )
In one unbroken passage borne
To closing night from opening morn,
Uplift at whiles slow eyes to mark
Some palace-front, some passing bark;
Through windows catch the varying shore,
And hear the soft turns of the oar!
(How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola! )
THE POET'S PLACE IN LIFE
OME, Poet, come!
COME,
A thousand laborers ply their task
And what it tends to, scarcely ask,
And trembling thinkers on the brink
Shiver, and know not what to think.
To tell the purport of their pain,
And what our silly joys contain;
In lasting lineaments portray
The substance of the shadowy day;
Our real and inner deeds rehearse,
And make our meaning clear in verse
Come, Poet, come! for but in vain
We do the work or feel the pain,
And gather up the evening gain,
Unless before the end thou come
To take, ere they are lost, their sum.
Come, Poet, come!
To give an utterance to the dumb,
And make vain babblers silent, come;
A thousand dupes point here and there,
Bewildered by the show and glare;
And wise men half have learnt to doubt
Whether we are not best without.
Come, Poet; both but wait to see
Their error proved to them in thee.


## p. 3840 (#202) ###########################################

3840
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
And yet
Come, Poet, come!
In vain I seem to call.
Think not the living times forget.
Ages of heroes fought and fell
That Homer in the end might tell;
O'er groveling generations past
Upstood the Doric fane at last;
And countless hearts on countless years
Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears,
Rude laughter and unmeaning tears,—
Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome
The pure perfection of her dome.
Others, I doubt not, if not we,
The issue of our toils shall see;
Young children gather as their own
The harvest that the dead had sown
The dead forgotten and unknown,
―
ON KEEPING WITHIN ONE'S PROPER SPHERE
From The Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich
[A party of Oxford men spend their long vacation in Scotland.
course they return to their colleges. Adam, one of the party,—
"The grave man nicknamed Adam,
White-tied, clerical, silent, with antique square-cut waistcoat,»
receives a letter at Christmas from Philip (Hewson),
"The Chartist, the poet, the eloquent speaker. "]
In due
WHA
HAT I said at Balloch has truth in it; only distorted.
Plants are some for fruit, and some for flowering only;
Let there be deer in parks as well as kine in paddocks,
Grecian buildings upon the earth, as well as Gothic.
There may be men perhaps whose vocation it is to be idle,
Idle, sumptuous even, luxurious, if it must be:
Only let each man seek to be that for which Nature meant him,
Independent surely of pleasure, if not regardless,
Independent also of station, if not regardless;
Irrespective also of station, as of enjoyment;
Do his duty in that state of life to which God, not man, shall
call him.
If you were meant to plow, Lord Marquis, out with you and do it;
If you were meant to be idle, O beggar, behold I will feed thee:


## p. 3841 (#203) ###########################################

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
3841
Take my purse; you have far better right to it, friend, than the
Marquis.
If you were born for a groom,- and you seem by your dress to
believe so,—
Do it like a man, Sir George, for pay, in a livery-stable;
Yes, you may so release that slip of a boy at the corner,
Fingering books at the window, misdoubting the Eighth Command-
ment.
What, a mere Dean with those wits, that debtor-and-creditor head-
piece!
Go, my detective D. D. , take the place of Burns the gauger.
Ah, fair Lady Maria, God meant you to live and be lovely:
Be so then, and I bless you. But ye, ye spurious ware, who
Might be plain women, and can be by no possibility better!
Ye unhappy statuettes, ye miserable trinkets,
Poor alabaster chimney-piece ornaments under glass cases,
Come, in God's name, come down! the very French clock by you
Puts you to shame with ticking; the fire-irons deride you.
Break your glasses; ye can! come down; ye are not really plaster,
Come, in God's name, come down! do anything, be but some-
thing!
You, young girl, who have had such advantages, learnt so quickly,
Can you not teach? Oh, yes, and she likes Sunday-school extremely,
Only it's soon in the morning. Away! if to teach be your calling,
It is no play, but a business: off! go teach and be paid for it.
Surely that fussy old dowager yonder was meant for the counter;
Oh, she is notable very, and keeps her servants in order
Past admiration. Indeed, and keeps to employ her talent
How many, pray? to what use? Away! the hotel's her vocation.
Lady Sophie's so good to the sick, so firm and so gentle :
Is there a nobler sphere than of hospital nurse and matron ?
Hast thou for cooking a turn, little Lady Clarissa? in with them,
In with your fingers! Their beauty it spoils, but your own it
enhances;
For it is beautiful only to do the thing we are meant for.
But they will marry, have husbands, and children, and guests, and
households
Are there so many trades for a man,- for women one only,
First to look out for a husband and then to preside at his table?
VII-241
-


## p. 3842 (#204) ###########################################

3842
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
!
Have you ever, Philip, my boy, looked at it in this way?
When the armies are set in array, and the battle beginning,
Is it well that the soldier whose post is far to the leftward
Say, I will go to the right, it is there I shall do best service?
There is a great Field-Marshal, my friend, who arrays our battalions;
Let us to Providence trust, and abide and work in our stations.
CONSIDER IT AGAIN
LD things need not be therefore true. "
O brother men, nor yet the new;
Ah! still awhile the old thought retain,
And yet consider it again!
«<
Ο
The souls of now two thousand years
Have laid up here their toils and fears,
And all the earnings of their pain,—
Ah, yet consider it again!
We! what do you see? each a space
Of some few yards before his face;
Does that the whole wide plan explain?
Ah, yet consider it again!
Alas! the great world goes its way,
And takes its truth from each new day;
They do not quit, nor yet retain,
Far less consider it again.


## p. 3842 (#205) ###########################################



## p. 3842 (#206) ###########################################


SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.


## p. 3842 (#207) ###########################################

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**


## p. 3842 (#208) ###########################################


3. TAYLOR COLERIDGE.


## p. 3843 (#209) ###########################################

3843
-
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
(1772-1834)
BY GEORGE E. WOODBERRY
-
AMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, the English poet and philosopher,
was born at Ottery St. Mary, in Devonshire, October 21st,
1772. He was the ninth and youngest son of the vicar of
the parish, a man characterized by learning and also by some of its
foibles, under whose care he passed his childhood; but on the death
of his father he was sent up to London to be educated at Christ's
Hospital, and there spent, in companionship with Lamb, his school
days from 1782 to 1791. He went in the latter year to Jesus College
Cambridge. His career as an undergraduate was marked by an esca-
pade, his enlistment in the King's Regiment of Light Dragoons in
the winter of 1793-94, from which he was released by the influence
of his relatives; and in more important ways by his friendship with
Southey, whom he found on a visit to Oxford, and his engagement
to Sarah Fricker in the summer of 1794. He had already been at-
tached to another young lady, Mary Evans, with whose family he
had been intimate. In December 1794 he left Cambridge without
taking a degree, and on October 21st, 1795, he was married. His
biography from this point is one of confused and intricate detail,
which only a long story could set forth plainly and exactly. Its
leading external events were a residence in Germany in 1798-99 and
a voyage to Malta, with travel in Sicily and Italy in 1804-6; in its
inward development, the turning-points of his life were his first inti-
macy with the Wordsworths in 1797, during which his best poems
were composed; his subjection to the opium habit, with increasing
domestic unhappiness, in 1801-2; and his retreat under medical con-
trol to Highgate in 1816. He was practically separated from his.
family from the time of his voyage to Malta. Troubles of many
kinds filled all these years, but he had always a power to attract
friends who were deeply interested in his welfare, and he was never
without admirers and helpers. Before he withdrew to Highgate he
had resided first at Stowey in the neighborhood of Tom Poole, and
later at Greta Hall near the Wordsworths; but he was often away
from home, and after he ceased to be an inmate there, from 1806 to
1816, he led a wandering life, either in lodgings frequently changed,
or in visits to his friends. His resources were always small, and


## p. 3844 (#210) ###########################################

3844
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
from the start his friends were his patrons, making up subscriptions,
loans, and gifts for him; in 1798 the Wedgwoods gave him a pension
of £150 for life, which was soon secured for the support of his fam-
ily, and in 1812 one-half of this was withdrawn; in 1825 he was
granted a royal pension of one hundred guineas, and when this
lapsed in 1830 Frere made it up to him. De Quincey had distin-
guished himself by an act of singular and impulsive generosity to
him, upon first acquaintance. He was always cared for, though his
indulgence in opium made it difficult for those who knew the fact to
assist him directly in a wise way. His pecuniary embarrassment,
however, was constant and trying during a great part of his life; his
own wretchedness of spirit, under the painful conditions of his bodily
state and his moral as well as material position, was very great; but
through all these sufferings and trials he maintained sufficient energy
to leave behind him a considerable body of literary work. He died
July 25th, 1834.
The poetic genius of Coleridge, the highest of his many gifts.
found brilliant and fascinating expression. His poems-those in
which his fame lives-a are as unique as they are memorable; and
though their small number, their confined range, and the brief
period during which his faculty was exercised with full freedom
and power, seem to indicate a narrow vein, yet the remainder of
his work in prose and verse leaves an impression of extraordinary
and abundant intellectual force. In proportion as his imaginative
creations stand apart, the spirit out of which they came must have
possessed some singularity: and if the reader is not content with
simple æsthetic appreciation of what the gods provide, but has some
touch of curiosity leading him to look into the source of such re-
markable achievement and its human history, he is at once inter-
ested in the personality of the "subtle-souled psychologist," as
Shelley with his accurate critical insight first named him; in experi-
encing the fascination of the poetry one remembers the charm
which Coleridge had in life, that quality which arrested attention
in all companies and drew men's minds and hearts with a sense of
something marvelous in him "the most wonderful man," said
Wordsworth, "that I ever met. " The mind and heart of Coleridge,
his whole life, have been laid open by himself and his friends and
acquaintances without reserve in many volumes of letters and me-
moirs; it is easy to figure him as he lived and to recover his moods
and aspect: but in order to conceive his nature and define its traits,
it is necessary to take account especially of his incomplete and less
perfect work, of his miscellaneous interests, and those activities
which filled and confused his life without having any important
share in establishing his fame.
-


## p. 3845 (#211) ###########################################

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
3845
The intellectual precocity which is the leading trait of Coleridge's
boyhood, in the familiar portrait of "the inspired charity-boy" drawn
by Lamb from schoolboy memories, is not unusual in a youth of
genius; but the omnivorousness of knowledge which he then dis-
played continued into his manhood. He consumed vast quantities of
book-learning. It is a more remarkable characteristic that from the
earliest period in which he comes into clear view, he was accustomed
to give out his ideas with freedom in an inexhaustible stream of
talk. The activity of his mind was as phenomenal as its receptivity.
In his college days, too, he was fanatical in all his energies. The
remark of Southey after Shelley's visit to him, that here was a
young man who was just what he himself had been in his college
days, is illustrative; for if Southey was then inflamed with radical-
ism, Coleridge was yet more deeply infected and mastered by that
wild fever of the revolutionary dawn. The tumult of Coleridge's
mind, its incessant action, the lack of discipline in his thought, of
restraint in his expression, of judgment in his affairs, are all impor-
tant elements in his character at a time which in most men would be
called the formative period of manhood, but which in him seems to
have been intensely chaotic; what is most noticeable, however, is the
volume of his mental energy. He expressed himself, too, in ways
natural to such self-abundance. He was always a discourser, if the
name may be used, from the London days at the "Salutation and
the Cat" of which Lamb tells, saying that the landlord was ready to
retain him because of the attraction of his conversation for cus-
tomers; and as he went on to the more set forms of such monologue,
he became a preacher without pay in Unitarian chapels, a journalist
with unusual capacity for ready and sonorous writing in the press, a
composer of whole periodicals such as his ventures The Watchman
and The Friend, and a lecturer using only slight notes as the mate-
rial of his remarks upon literature, education, philosophy, theology, or
whatever the subject might be. In all these methods of expression
which he took up one after the other, he merely talked in an ample
way upon multifarious topics; in the conversation, sermon, leading
article, written discourse, or flowing address, he was master of a
swelling and often brilliant volubility, but he had neither the cer-
tainty of the orator nor the unfailing distinction of the author;
there was an occasional and impromptu quality, a colloquial and
episodical manner, the style of the irresponsible speaker. In his
earlier days especially, the dominant note in Coleridge's whole
nature was excitement. He was always animated, he was often vio-
lent, he was always without the principle of control. Indeed, a
weakness of moral power seems to have been congenital, in the
sense that he was not permanently bound by a practical sense of


## p. 3846 (#212) ###########################################

3846
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
duty nor apparently observant of what place duty has in real life.
There was misdirection of his affairs from the time when they came
into his own hands; there was impulsiveness, thoughtlessness, a lack
of judgment which augured ill for him; and in its total effect this
amounted to folly. His intoxication with the scheme known as Pan-
tisocracy, by which he with Southey and a few like-minded project-
ors were to found a socialistic community on the banks of the
Susquehanna, is the most obvious comment on his practical sense.
But his marriage, with the anecdotes of its preliminaries (one of
which was that in those colloquies with Lamb at the London tavern,
so charmingly described by his boon companion, he had forgotten
his engagement or was indifferent to it), more strikingly exemplifies
the irresponsible course of his life, more particularly as it proved to
be ill-sorted, full of petty difficulties and makeshift expedients, and
in the end a disastrous failure. A radical social scheme and an im-
prudent marriage might have fallen to his share of human folly,
however, without exciting remark, if in other ways or at a later
time he had exhibited the qualities which would allow one to dismiss
these matters as mere instances of immaturity; but wherever Cole-
ridge's reasonable control over himself or his affairs is looked to, it
appears to have been feeble. On the other hand, the constancy of
his excitement is plain. It was not only mental, but physical. He
was, as a young man, full of energy and capable of a good deal of
hard exercise; he had animal spirits, and Wordsworth describes him
as "noisy" and "gamesome," as one who
"His limbs would toss about him with delight,
Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy;"
and from several passages of his own writing, which are usually dis-
regarded, the evidence of a spirit of rough humor and fun is easily
obtained. The truth is that Coleridge changed a great deal in his
life; he felt himself to be very different in later years from what
he was in the time when to his memory even he was a sort of glori-
fied spirit: and this earlier Coleridge had many traits which are
ignored sometimes, as Carlyle ignored them, and are sometimes
remembered rather as idealizations of his friends in their affectionate
thoughts of him, but any event are irreconcilable with the figure
of the last period of his life.
It has been suggested that there was something of disease or at
least of ill health in Coleridge always, and that it should be regarded
as influencing his temperament. Whether it were so or not, the plea
itself shows the fact. If excitement was the dominant note, as has
been said, in his whole nature, it could not exist without a physical
basis and accompaniment; and his bodily state appears to have been


## p. 3847 (#213) ###########################################

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
3847
often less one of animation than of agitation, and his correspondence
frequently discloses moods that seem almost frantic. In the issue,
under stress of pain and trouble, he became an opium-eater; but his
physical nature may fairly be described as predisposed to such states
as lead to the use of opium and also result from its use, with the
attendant mental moods. His susceptibility to sensuous impressions,
to a voluptuousness of the entire being, together with a certain lassi-
tude and languor, lead to the same conclusion, which thus seems to be
supported on all sides,- that Coleridge was, in his youth and early
manhood, fevered through all his intellectual and sensuous nature,
and deficient on the moral and practical sides in those matters that
related to his personal affairs. It is desirable to bring this out in
plain terms, because in Coleridge it is best to acknowledge at once
that his character was, so far as our part-the world's part-in
him is concerned, of less consequence than his temperament; a
subtler and more profound thing than character, though without
moral meaning. It is not unfair to say, since literature is to be
regarded most profitably as the expression of human personality,
that with Coleridge the modern literature of temperament, as it has
been lately recognized in extreme phases, begins; not that tempera-
ment is a new thing in the century now closing, nor that it has
been without influence hitherto, but that now it is more often con-
sidered, and has in fact more often been, an exclusive ground of
artistic expression. The temperament of Coleridge was one of dif-
fused sensuousness physically, and of abnormal mental moods,—
moods of weakness, languor, collapse, of visionary imaginative life
with a night atmosphere of the spectral, moonlit, swimming, scarcely
substantial world; and the poems he wrote, which are the contribu-
tions he made to the world's literature, are based on this tempera-
ment, like some Fata Morgana upon the sea. The apparent exclusion
of reality from the poems in which his genius was most manifest
finds its analogue in the detachment of his own mind from the
moral, the practical, the usual in life as he led it in his spirit; and
his work of the highest creative sort, which is all there is to his
enduring fame, stands amid his prose and verse composition of a
lower sort like an island in the waste of waters. This may be best
shown, perhaps, by a gradual approach through his cruder to his
more perfect compositions.
The cardinal fact in Coleridge's genius is that notwithstanding his
immense sensuous susceptibilities and mental receptivity, and the
continual excitement of his spirit, he never rose into the highest
sphere of creative activity except for the brief period called his
annus mirabilis, when his great poems were written; and with this is
the further related fact that in him we witness the spectacle of the


## p. 3848 (#214) ###########################################

3848
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
imaginative instinct overborne and supplanted by the intellectual fac-
ulty exercising its speculative and critical functions; and in addition,
one observes in his entire work an extraordinary inequality not only
of treatment, but also of subject-matter. In general, he was an ego-
istic writer. His sensitiveness to nature was twofold: in the first
place he noticed in the objects and movements of nature evanescent
and minute details, and as his sense of beauty was keen, he saw and
recorded truly the less obvious and less common loveliness in the
phenomena of the elements and the seasons, and this gave distinc-
tion to his mere description and record of fact; in the second place
he often felt in himself moods induced by nature, but yet subjective,
-states of his own spirit, which sometimes deepened the charm of
night, for example, by his enjoyment of its placid aspects, and some-
times imparted to the external world a despair reflected from his
personal melancholy. In his direct treatment of nature, however,
as Mr. Stopford Brooke points out, he seldom achieves more than a
catalogue of his sensations, which though touched with imaginative
detail are never lifted and harmonized into lyrical unity; though he
can moralize nature in Wordsworth's fashion, when he does so the
result remains Wordsworth's and is stamped with that poet's origi-
nality; and in his own original work Coleridge never equaled either
the genius of Shelley, who can identify nature with himself, or the
charm of Tennyson, who can at least parallel nature's phenomena
with his own human moods. Coleridge would not be thought of as
a poet of nature, except in so far as he describes what he observes
in the way of record, or gives a metaphysical interpretation to phe-
nomena. This is the more remarkable because he had to an eminent
degree that intellectual power, that overmastering desire of the mind,
to rationalize the facts of life. It was this quality that made him a
philosopher, an analyst, a critic on the great lines of Aristotle, seek-
ing to impose an order of ethics and metaphysics on all artistic pro-
ductions. But in those poems in which he describes nature directly
and without metaphysical thought, there is no trace of anything
more than a sensuous order of his own perceptions. Beautiful and
often unique as his nature poems are, they are not creative. They
are rather in the main autobiographic; and it is surprising to notice
how large a proportion of his verse is thus autobiographic, not in
those phases of his own life which may be, or at least are thought
of as representative of human life in the mass, but which are per-
sonal, such as the lines written after hearing Wordsworth read the
'Prelude,' or those entitled 'Dejection. ' When his verse is not con-
fined to autobiographic expression, it is often a product of his interest
in his friends or in his family. What is not personal in it, of this
sort, is apt to be domestic or social.


## p. 3849 (#215) ###########################################

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
3849
If we turn from the poems of nature to those concerned with
man, a similar shallowness, either of interest or of power, appears.
He was in early years a radical; he was stirred by the Revolution in
France, and he was emotionally charged with the ideas of the time,
-ideas of equality, fraternity, and liberty. But this interest died
out, as is shown by his political verse. He had none but a social
and a philosophical interest in any case. Man, the individual, did not
at any time attract him. There was nothing dramatic in his genius,
in the narrow and exact sense; he did not engage his curiosity or
his philosophy in individual fortunes. It results from this limitation
that his verse lacks human interest of the dramatic kind. The truth
was that he
was interested in thought rather than in deeds, in
human nature rather than in its concrete pity and terror. Thus he
did not seize on life itself as the material of his imagination and
reflection. In the case of man as in the case of nature he gives us
only an egoistic account, telling us of his own private fortune, his
fears, pains, and despairs, but only as a diary gives them; as he did
not transfer his nature impressions into the world of creative art,
so he did not transfer his personal experiences into that world.
What has been said would perhaps be accepted, were it not for
the existence of those poems, The Ancient Mariner,' 'Christabel,'
'Kubla Khan,' which are the marvelous creations of his genius. In
these it will be said there is both a world of nature new created, and
a dramatic method and interest. It is enough for the purpose of the
analysis if it be granted that nowhere else in Coleridge's work,
except in these and less noticeably in a few other instances, do these
high characteristics occur. The very point which is here to be
brought out is that Coleridge applied that intellectual power, that
overmastering desire of the mind to rationalize the phenomena of
life, which has been mentioned as his great mental trait,- that he
applied this faculty with different degrees of power at different
times, so that his poetry falls naturally into higher and inferior
categories; in the autobiographic verse, in the political and dramatic
verse which forms so large a part of his work, it appears that he
did not have sufficient feeling or exercise sufficient power to raise it
out of the lower levels of composition; in his great works of con-
structive and impersonal art, of moral intensity or romantic beauty
and fascination, he did so exercise the creative imagination as to
make these of the highest rank, or at least one of them.
'The Ancient Mariner,' apart from its many minor merits, has
this distinction in Coleridge's work, it is a poem of perfect unity.
'Christabel' is a fragment, 'Kubla Khan' is a glimpse; and though
the Ode to France, Love, Youth, and Age, and possibly a few
other short pieces, have this highest artistic virtue of unity, yet in


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3850
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
them it is of a simpler kind. The Ancient Mariner,' on the other
hand, is a marvel of construction in that its unity is less complex
than manifold; it exists, however the form be examined. In the
merely external sense, the telling of the tale to the Wedding
Guest, with the fact that the wedding is going on, gives it unity; in
the merely internal sense, the moral lesson of the salvation of the
slayer of the albatross by the medium of love felt toward living
things, subtly yet lucidly worked out as the notion is, gives it unity:
but in still other ways, as a story of connected and consequential
incidents with a plot, a change of fortune, a climax, and the other
essentials of this species of tale-telling, it has unity; and if its
conception either of the physical or the ethical world be analyzed,
these too - and these are the fundamental things-are found con-
sistent wholes. It nevertheless remains true that this system of
nature as a vitalized but not humanized mode of life, with its bird,
its spirit, its magical powers, is not the nature that we know or
believe to be, it is a modern presentation of an essentially primitive
and animistic belief; and similarly this system of human life,—if the
word human can be applied to it, with its dead men, its skeleton
ship, its spirit sailors, its whole miracle of spectral being,-is not the
life we know or believe to be; it is an incantation, a simulacrum.
It may still be true therefore that the imaginative faculty of Cole-
ridge was not applied either to nature or human life, in the ordinary
sense. And this it is that constitutes the uniqueness of the poem,
and its wonderful fascination. Coleridge fell heir, by the accidents
of time and the revolutions of taste, to the ballad style, its sim-
plicity, directness, and narrative power; he also was most attracted
to the machinery of the supernatural, the weird, the terrible, almost
to the grotesque and horrid, as these literary motives came into
fashion in the crude beginnings of romanticism in our time; his
subtle mind, his fine senses, his peculiar susceptibility to the mystic
and shadowy in nature,—as shown by his preference of the moon-
light, dreamy, or night aspects of real nature, to its brilliant beau-
ties in the waking world,—gave him ease and finesse in the handling
of such subject-matter; and he lived late enough to know that all
this eerie side of human experience and imaginative capacity,
inherited from primeval ages but by no means yet deprived of
plausibility, could be effectively used only as an allegoric or scenic
setting of what should be truth to the ethical sense; he combined
one of the highest lessons of advanced civilization, one of the last
results of spiritual perception,- the idea of love toward life in any
form, with the animistic beliefs and supernatural fancies of the
crude ages of the senses. This seems to be the substantial matter;
and in this he was, to repeat Shelley's phrase, the "subtle-souled
-


## p.