Chapter IV (1)

COLERIDGE'S ARRIVAL AT HIGHGATE--PUBLICATION OF CHRISTABEL--BIOGRAPHIA LITERARIA, &C.

I now approach one of the most eventful epochs in the Life of Coleridge, and, I may well add, of my own.

In the year 1816, the following letter was addressed to me by a physician: [1]

Hatton Garden, 9th April, 1816.

DEAR SIR,

A very learned, but in one respect an unfortunate gentleman, has
applied to me on a singular occasion. He has for several years been in
the habit of taking large quantities of opium. For some time past, he
has been in vain endeavouring to break himself off it. It is
apprehended his friends are not firm enough, from a dread, lest he
should suffer by suddenly leaving it off, though he is conscious of
the contrary; and has proposed to me to submit himself to any regimen,
however severe. With this view, he wishes to fix himself in the house
of some medical gentleman, who will have courage to refuse him any
laudanum, and under whose assistance, should he be the worse for it,
he may be relieved. As he is desirous of retirement, and a garden, I
could think of no one so readily as yourself. Be so good as to inform
me, whether such a proposal is absolutely inconsistent with your
family arrangements. I should not have proposed it, but on account of
the great importance of the character, as a literary man. His
communicative temper will make his society very interesting, as well
as useful. Have the goodness to favour me with an immediate answer;
and believe me, dear sir, your faithful humble servant,

JOSEPH ADAMS.

I had seen the writer of this letter but twice in my life, and had no intention of receiving an inmate into my house. I however determined on seeing Dr. Adams, for whether the person referred to had taken opium from choice or necessity, to me he was equally an object of commiseration and interest. Dr. Adams informed me that the patient had been warned of the danger of discontinuing opium by several eminent medical men, who, at the same time, represented the frightful consequences that would most probably ensue. I had heard of the failure of Mr. Wilberforce's case, under an eminent physician at Bath, in addition to which, the doctor gave me an account of several others within his own knowledge. After some further conversation it was agreed that Dr. Adams should drive Coleridge to Highgate the following evening. On the following evening came Coleridge 'himself' and alone. An old gentleman, of more than ordinary acquirements, was sitting by the fireside when he entered.--We met, indeed, for the first time, but as friends long since parted, and who had now the happiness to see each other again. Coleridge took his seat--his manner, his appearance, and above all, his conversation were captivating. We listened with delight, and upon the first pause, when courtesy permitted, my visitor withdrew, saying in a low voice, "I see by your manners, an old friend has arrived, and I shall therefore retire." Coleridge proposed to come the following evening, but he 'first' informed me of the painful opinion which he had received concerning his case, especially from one medical man of celebrity. The tale was sad, and the opinion given unprofessional and cruel--sufficient to have deterred most men so afflicted from making the attempt Coleridge was contemplating, and in which his whole soul was so deeply and so earnestly engaged. In the course of our conversation, he repeated some exquisite but desponding lines of his own. It was an evening of painful and pleasurable feeling, which I can never forget. We parted with each other, understanding in a few minutes what perhaps under different circumstances, would have cost many hours to arrange; and I looked with impatience for the morrow, still wondering at the apparent chance that had brought him under my roof. I felt indeed almost spell-bound, without the desire of release. My situation was new, and there was something affecting in the thought, that one of such amiable manners, and at the same time so highly gifted, should seek comfort and medical aid in our quiet home. Deeply interested, I began to reflect seriously on the duties imposed upon me, and with anxiety to expect the approaching day. It brought me the following letter:

42, Norfolk Street, Strand, Saturday Noon.

[April 13, 1816.]

"MY DEAR SIR,

The first half hour I was with you convinced me that I should owe my
reception into your family exclusively to motives not less flattering
to me than honourable to yourself. I trust we shall ever in matters of
intellect be reciprocally serviceable to each other. Men of sense
generally come to the same conclusions; but they are likely to
contribute to each other's enlargement of view, in proportion to the
distance or even opposition of the points from which they set out.
Travel and the strange variety of situations and employments on which
chance has thrown me, in the course of my life, might have made me a
mere man of 'observation', if pain and sorrow and
self-miscomplacence had not forced my mind in on itself, and so formed
habits of 'meditation'. It is now as much my nature to evolve the
fact from the law, as that of a practical man to deduce the law from
the fact.

With respect to pecuniary remuneration, allow me to say, I must not at
least be suffered to make any addition to your family expences--
though I cannot offer any thing that would be in any way adequate to
my sense of the service; for that indeed there could not be a
compensation, as it must be returned in kind, by esteem and grateful
affection.

And now of myself. My ever wakeful reason, and the keenness of my
moral feelings, will secure you from all unpleasant circumstances
connected with me save only one, viz. the evasion of a specific
madness. You will never 'hear' any thing but truth from
me:--prior habits render it out of my power to tell an untruth, but
unless carefully observed, I dare not promise that I should not, with
regard to this detested poison, be capable of acting one. No sixty
hours have yet passed without my having taken laudanum, though for the
last week comparatively trifling doses. I have full belief that your
anxiety need not be extended beyond the first week, and for the first
week, I shall not, I must not be permitted to leave your house, unless
with you. Delicately or indelicately, this must be done, and both the
servants and the assistant must receive absolute commands from you.
The stimulus of conversation suspends the terror that haunts my mind;
but when I am alone, the horrors I have suffered from laudanum, the
degradation, the blighted utility, almost overwhelm me. If (as I feel
for the 'first time' a soothing confidence it will prove) I
should leave you restored to my moral and bodily health, it is not
myself only that will love and honour you; every friend I have, (and
thank God! in spite of this wretched vice [2] I have many and warm
ones, who were friends of my youth, and have never deserted me,) will
thank you with reverence. I have taken no notice of your kind
apologies. If I could not be comfortable in your house, and with your
family, I should deserve to be miserable. If you could make it
convenient, I should wish to be with you by Monday evening, as it
would prevent the necessity of taking fresh lodgings in town.

With respectful compliments to Mrs. Gillman and her sister, I remain,
dear sir,

Your much obliged,

S.T. COLERIDGE."

On the evening appointed, Coleridge came, bringing in his hand the proof sheets of 'Christabel', which was now for the first time printed. The fragment in manuscript was already known to many, for to many had Coleridge read it, who had listened to it with delight--a delight so marked that its success seemed certain. But the approbation of those whom, in the worldly acceptation of the term, we call 'friends', is not always to be relied upon. Among the most plausible connexions, there is often a rivalship, both political and literary, which constrains the sacrifice of sincerity, and substitutes secret for open censure. Of this melancholy fact Coleridge had seen proof. The Fragment had not long been published before he was informed, that an individual had been selected (who was in truth a great admirer of his writings; and whose very life had been saved through the exertions of Coleridge and Mr. Southey,) to "'cut up'" Christabel in the Edinburgh Review. The subject being afterwards mentioned in conversation, the reviewer confessed that he was the writer of the article, but observed, that as he wrote for the Edinburgh Review, he was compelled to write in accordance with the character and tone of that periodical. This confession took place after he had been extolling the Christabel as the finest poem of its kind in the language, and ridiculing the public for their want of taste and discrimination in not admiring it.--Truly has it been said,

"Critics upon all writers there are many,
Planters of truth or knowledge scarcely any."

Sir Walter Scott always spoke in high praise of the Christabel, and more than once of his obligations to Coleridge; of this we have proof in his Ivanhoe, in which the lines by Coleridge, entitled "The Knight's Tomb," were quoted by Scott before they were published, from which circumstance, Coleridge was convinced that Sir Walter was the author of the Waverly Novels. The lines were composed as an experiment for a metre, and repeated by him to a mutual friend--this gentleman the following day dined in company with Sir Walter Scott, and spoke of his visit to Highgate, repeating Coleridge's lines to Scott, and observing at the same time, that they might be acceptable to the author of Waverley.

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?--
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The Oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year;
And whistled and roar'd in the winter alone,
Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown.--
The Knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust;--
His soul is with the saints, I trust.

'Poetical Works', Vol. ii. p. 64.

The late Mr. Sotheby informed me, that, at his house in a large party, Sir Walter made the following remark:

"I am indebted to Coleridge for the mode of telling a tale by question
and answer. This was a new light to me, and I was greatly struck by
it."

Yet when Sir Walter said this, he must surely have forgotten many of our ancient and most beautiful ballads, in which the questions are so significant, and are made to develope the progress of the fable more clearly than could be affected by the ordinary course of narration. In fact every lover of our old poetry will recollect a hundred pieces in which the same form of evolution is observed. Thus in 'Johnie of Breadis Lee':

"What news, what news, ye grey-headed carle,
What news bring ye to me?"

And in 'Halbert the Grim':

"There is pity in many,--
Is there any in him?
No! ruth is a strange guest
To Halbert the Grim."

Scott particularly admired Coleridge's management of the supernatural. The "flesh and blood reality," given to Geraldine, the life, the power of appearing and disappearing equally by day as by night, constitutes the peculiar merit of the Christabel: and those poets who admire, and have reflected much on the supernatural, have ever considered it one of the greatest efforts of genius. But the effect has ever been degraded by unnatural combinations. Thus on the stage, where such creations are the most frequent, it has been the custom for stage-managers to choose 'male' actors for the female parts. In 'Macbeth', men are called on to stir the caldron and other witcheries requiring muscular power. Again, when Macbeth listens to those extraordinary beings, who, with muttering spells, with charms, foreknowledge and incantations imperfectly announced to him his fate; he, with an air of command, says, "Speak!" &c. They shew their power, and give their best answer by disappearing. The manner of representing this is unnatural, as exhibited by our managers. Coleridge observed, that it would be better to withdraw the light from the stage, than to exhibit these miserable attempts at vanishing, [3] though could the thought have been well executed, he considered it a master-stroke of Shakspeare's. Yet it should be noticed, that Coleridge's opinion was, that some of the plays of our "myriad-minded" bard ought never to be acted, but looked on as poems to be read, and contemplated; and so fully was he impressed with this feeling, that in his gayer moments he would often say, "There should be an Act of Parliament to prohibit their representation." [4] Here 'he' excelled: he has no incongruities, no gross illusions. In the management of the supernatural, the only successful poets among our own countrymen have been Shakspeare and Coleridge. Scott has treated it well in the Bride of Lammermoor, and in one or two other works.

Of the Christabel, as now published, Coleridge says, "The first part was composed in 1797." This was the Annus Mirabilis of this great man; in it he was in his best and strongest health. He returned from Germany in 1799, and in the year following wrote the 'second' part, in the preface to which he observes, "Till very lately my poetic powers have been in a state of suspended animation." The subject indeed remained present to his mind, though from bad health and other causes, it was left as a mere fragment of his poetic power. When in health he sometimes said, "This poem comes upon me with all the loveliness of a vision;" and he declared, that though contrary to the advice of his friends, he should finish it: At other times when his bodily powers failed him, he would then say, "I am reserved for other works than making verse."

In the preface to the Christabel, he makes the following observation:

"It is probable," he says, "that if the poem had been finished at
either of the former periods, 'i.e'. 1797 and 1800, or if even the
first and second part of this fragment had been published in the year
1800, the impression of its originality would have been much greater
than I dare at present expect. But for this, I have only my own
indolence to blame. The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose
of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile imitation from myself.
For there is among us a set of critics who seem to hold, that every
possible thought and image is traditional; who have no notion that
there are such things as fountains in the world, small as well as
great; and who would therefore charitably derive every rill, they
behold flowing, from a perforation made in some other man's tank. I am
confident, however, that as far as the present poem is concerned, the
celebrated poets whose writings I might be suspected of having
imitated, either in particular passages, or in the tone and the spirit
of the whole, would be among the first to vindicate me from the
charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would permit me to
address them in this dogged version of two monkish Latin hexameters:

'Tis mine and it is likewise your's,
But an if this will not do;
Let it be mine, good friend! for I
Am the poorer of the two."

I have only to add, that the metre of the Christabel is not, properly
speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its being founded on a
new principle; namely, that of counting in each line the accents, not
the syllables. Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, yet in
each line the accents will be found to be only four. Nevertheless,
this occasional variation in the number of syllables is not introduced
wantonly, or for the mere ends of convenience, but in correspondence
with some transition in the nature of the imagery or passion."

In conversation many of his brother poets would, like the reviewer, echo his praises, while in secret, they were trying to deprive him of his fair fame.

It has been said, that "Coleridge never explained the story of Christabel." To his friends he did explain it; and in the Biographia Literaria, he has given an account of its origin. [5]

The story of the Christabel is partly founded on the notion, that the virtuous of this world save the wicked. The pious and good Christabel suffers and prays for

"The weal of her lover that is far away,"

exposed to various temptations in a foreign land; and she thus defeats the power of evil represented in the person of Geraldine. This is one main object of the tale.

At the opening of the poem all nature is laid under a spell:

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awak'ned the crowing cock;
Tu-whit!--Tu-whoo!
And hark, again! The crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew--

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff-bitch,
From her kennel beneath the rock
Maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The spell is laid by an evil being, not of this world, with whom Christabel, the heroine, is about to become connected; and who in the darkness of the forest is meditating the wreck of all her hopes

The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest misletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.

There are persons who have considered the description of Christabel in the act of praying, so far from the baron's castle, too great a poetical license. He was fully aware that all baronial castles had their chapels and oratories attached to them,--and that in these lawless times, for such were the middle ages, the young lady who ventured unattended beyond the precincts of the castle, would have endangered her reputation. But to such an imaginative mind, it would have been scarcely possible to pass by the interesting image of Christabel, presenting itself before him, praying by moonlight at the old oak tree. But to proceed:

The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is, she cannot tell.--
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek--
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were.
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she--
Beautiful exceedingly!

This description is exquisite. Now for the mystic demon's tale of art:

Mary mother, save me now!
(Said Christabel,) And who art thou?
The lady strange made answer meet,
And her voice was faint and sweet:--
Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!
Said Christabel, How camest thou here?
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet:--

My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine:
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They chok'd my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
And once we crossed the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some muttered words his comrades spoke
He placed me underneath this oak,
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell--
I thought I heard, some minutes past,
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she)
And help a wretched maid to flee.

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand
And comforted fair Geraldine:
O well, bright dame! may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal,
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father's hall.
She rose: and forth with steps they passed
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest
And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
All our household are at rest,
The hall as silent as the cell;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not well awakened be,
But we will move as if in stealth,
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me.

They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
A little door she opened straight,
All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was ironed within and without,
Where an army in battle array had marched out.
The lady sank, belike through pain,
And Christabel with might and main
Lifted her up, a weary weight,
Over the threshold of the gate:
Then the lady rose again,
And moved, as she were not in pain.

So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.

Following the popular superstition that dogs are supposed to see ghosts, and therefore see the supernatural, the mastiff yells, when Geraldine appears:

Outside her kennell, the mastiff old
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake,
Yet she an angry moan did make!
And what can ail the mastiff bitch?
Never till now she uttered yell,
Beneath the eye of Christabel.

Geraldine had already worked upon the kindness of Christabel, so that she had lifted her over the threshold of the gate, which Geraldine's fallen power had prevented her passing of herself, the place being holy and under the influence of the Virgin.

"Praise we the Virgin all divine,
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress,
Alas! Alas! said Geraldine,
I cannot speak for weariness.
They pass the hall that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will!
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying;
But when the lady passed there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady's eye,
And nothing else saw she thereby
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old nitch in the wall.
O! softly tread, said Christabel,
My father seldom sleepeth well."

Geraldine, who affects to be weary, arrives at the chamber of Christabel--this room is beautifully ornamented,

"Carved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver's brain,
For a lady's chamber meet
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fasten'd to an angel's feet."

Such is the mysterious movement of this supernatural lady, that all this is visible, and when she passed the dying brands, there came a fit of flame, and Christabel saw the lady's eye.

The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But Christabel the lamp will trim.
She trimm'd the lamp and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.
O weary lady Geraldine,
I pray you drink this cordial wine,
It is a wine of virtuous powers;
My mother made it of wild flowers.
And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn?
Christabel answer'd--Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born,
I have heard the grey-hair'd friar tell,
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
O mother dear! that thou wert here!
I would, said Geraldine, she were!

The poet now introduces the real object of the supernatural transformation: the spirit of evil struggles with the deceased and sainted mother of Christabel for the possession of the lady. To render the scene more impressive, the mother instantly appears, though she is invisible to her daughter. Geraldine exclaims in a commanding voice

"Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!
I have power to bid thee flee?"
Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
Why stares she with unsettled eye
Can she the bodiless dead espy?
And why with hollow voice cries she,
"Off, woman, off! this hour is mine--
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
"Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me."

Here, Geraldine seems to be struggling with the spirit of Christabel's mother, over which for a time she obtains the mastery.

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
And rais'd to heaven her eyes so blue--
Alas! said she, this ghastly ride--
Dear lady! it hath wilder'd you!
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, "'Tis over now!"

Again the wild-flower wine she drank,
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countrée.

And thus the lofty lady spake--
All they who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake
And for the good which me befell,
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself: for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.

Quoth Christabel, so let it be!
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.

But all this had given rise to so many different thoughts and feelings, that she could not compose herself for sleep, so she sits up in her bed to look at Geraldine who drew in her breath aloud, and unbound her cincture. Her silken robe and inner vest then drop to her feet, and she discovers her hideous form:

A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her, shield sweet Christabel!
Yet Geraldine nor speaks--nor stirs;
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!

She then lies down by the side of Christabel, and takes her to her arms, saying in a low voice these words:

In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest
Thou heardst a low moaning,
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.

The conclusion to part the first is a beautiful and well drawn picture, slightly recapitulating some of the circumstances of the opening of the poem.

THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE FIRST.

It was a lovely sight to see,
The lady Christabel, when she
Was praying at the old oak tree.
Amid the jagged shadows
Of mossy leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight,
To make her gentle vows;
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resigned to bliss or bale--
Her face, oh call it fair, not pale,
And both blue eyes more bright than clear,
Each about to have a tear.

With open eyes (ah woe is me!)
Asleep and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis,
Dreaming that alone which is--
O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
The lady who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild
As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady's prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine--
Thou'st had thy will! By tairn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.

At the ceasing of the spell, the joyousness of the birds is described, and also the awakening of Christabel as from a trance.--During this rest (her mother) the guardian angel is supposed to have been watching over her. But these passages could not escape coarse minded critics, who put a construction on them which never entered the mind of the author of Christabel, whose poems are marked by delicacy.

The effects of the apparition of her mother, supposed to be seen by Christabel in a vision, are thus described:

What if her guardian spirit 'twere,
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call:
For the blue sky bends over all!

Here terminates the first canto.

The passage from this sleep and the reappearance by day-light of Geraldine, has always been considered a master-piece.

The second part begins with a moral reflection, and introduces Sir Leoline, the father of Christabel, with the following observation, on his rising in the morning:

Each matin bell, the Baron saith!
Knells us back to a world of death.
These words Sir Leoline first said
When he rose and found his lady dead.
These words Sir Leoline will say
Many a morn to his dying day.

After a popular custom of the country, the old bard Bracy is introduced. Geraldine rises, puts on her silken vestments--tricks her hair, and not doubting her spell, she awakens Christabel,

"Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?
I trust that you have rested well."
And Christabel awoke and spied
The same who lay down by her side--
O rather say, the same whom she
Rais'd up beneath the old oak tree!
Nay fairer yet, and yet more fair!
For she belike hath drunken deep
Of all the blessedness of sleep!
And while she spake, her looks, her air
Such gentle thankfulness declare;
That (so it seem'd) her girded vests
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.
"Sure I have sinn'd!" said Christabel,
"Now heaven be prais'd if all be well!"
And in low faultering tones, yet sweet,
Did she the lofty lady greet;
With such perplexity of mind
As dreams too lively leave behind.

Christabel then leaves her couch, and having offered up her prayers, she leads fair Geraldine to meet the Baron.--They enter his presence room, when her father rises, and while pressing his daughter to his breast, he espies the lady Geraldine, to whom he gives such welcome as

"Might beseem so bright a dame!"

But when the Baron hears her tale, and her father's name, the poet enquires feelingly:

Why wax'd Sir Leoline so pale,
Murmuring o'er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?

Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanc'd, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother:
They parted--never to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining--
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between;--
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been.

Sir Leoline gazed for a moment on the face of Geraldine, and the youthful Lord of Tryermaine again came back upon his heart. He is then described as forgetting his age, and his noble heart swells with indignation.

He then affectionately takes Geraldine in his arms, who meets the embrace:

"Prolonging it with joyous look,
Which when she viewed, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
She shrunk and shudder'd and saw again
(Ah woe is me! Was it for thee,
Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)

Geraldine then appears to her in her real character, ('half' human only,) the sight of which alarms Christabel. The Baron mistakes for jealousy this alarm in his daughter, which was induced by fear of Geraldine, and had been the sole cause of her unconsciously imitating the "hissing sound:"

Whereat the Knight turn'd wildly round,
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
With eyes uprais'd, as one that pray'd.

This touch, this sight passed away, and left in its stead the vision of her guardian angel (her mother) which had comforted her after rest, and having sought consolation in prayer, her countenance resumes its natural serenity and sweetness. The Baron surprised at these sudden transitions, exclaims,

"What ails then my beloved child?"

Christabel makes answer:

"All will yet be well!"
I ween, she had no power to tell
Aught else: so mighty was the spell.

Yet the Baron seemed so captivated by Geraldine, as to "deem her a thing divine." She pretended much sorrow, and feared she might have offended Christabel, praying with humility to be sent home immediately.

"Nay!
Nay--by my soul!" said Leoline.
"Ho!--Bracy, the bard, the charge be thine!
Go thou with music sweet and loud
And take two steeds with trappings proud;
And take the youth whom thou lov'st best
To bear thy harp and learn thy song,
And clothe you both in solemn vest
And over the mountains haste along.

He is desired to continue his way to the castle of Tryermaine. Bracy is thus made to act in a double capacity, as bard and herald: in the first, he is to announce to Lord Roland the safety of his daughter in Langdale Hall; in the second as herald to the Baron, he is to convey an apology according to the custom of that day,

"He bids thee come without delay,
With all thy numerous array;
And take thy lovely daughter home,
And he will meet thee on the way,
With all his numerous array;
White with their panting palfrey's foam,
And by mine honour! I will say,
That I repent me of the day;
When I spake words of fierce disdain,
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!--
For since that evil hour hath flown,
Many a summer's sun hath shone;
Yet ne'er found I a friend again
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine."
The lady fell, and clasped his knees,
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing,
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,
His gracious hail on all bestowing:--
Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,
Are sweeter than my harp can tell.
Yet might I gain a boon of thee,
This day my journey should not be,
So strange a dream hath come to me:
That I had vow'd with music loud
To clear yon wood from thing unblest,
Warn'd by a vision in my rest!

The dream is then related by Bracy; it is an outline of the past, and a prophecy of the future.--The Baron listens with a smile, turns round, and looks at Geraldine,

"His eyes made up of wonder and love;
And said in courtly accents fine,
Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,
With arms more strong than harp or song,
Thy sire and I will crush the snake!"
He kissed her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise,
Casting down her large bright eyes;
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine,
She turn'd her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o'er her right arm fell again;
And folded her arms across her chest,
And couch'd her head upon her breast.
And look'd askance at Christabel--
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!

Then takes place that extraordinary change which, being read in a party at Lord Byron's, is said to have caused Shelley to faint:

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy,
And the lady's eyes, they shrunk in her head,
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye,
And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread
At Christabel she looked askance!--
One moment,--and the sight was fled!
But Christabel in dizzy trance,
Stumbling on the unsteady ground--
Shudder'd aloud, with a hissing sound;
And Geraldine again turn'd round,
And like a thing, that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief;
She roll'd her large bright eyes divine,
Wildly on Sir Leoline.

The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
She nothing sees--no sight but one!

The look, those shrunken serpent eyes, had made such a deep impression on Christabel,

That all her features were resign'd
To the sole image in her mind:
And passively did imitate
That look of dull and treacherous hate.
And thus she stood in dizzy trance,
Still picturing that look askance.

But when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paus'd awhile and inly pray'd,
"By my mother's soul do I entreat
That thou this woman send away!"
She said, and more she could not say,
For what she knew she could not tell
O'er master'd by the mighty spell.

The poet now describes the Baron as suffering under the confused emotions of love for Christabel, and anger at her apparent jealousy, and the insult offered to the daughter of his friend, which so wrought upon him that,

He roll'd his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere--
"Why, Bracy? dost thou loiter here?
"I bade thee hence!" The bard obey'd,
And turning from his own sweet maid,
The aged knight, Sir Leoline
Led forth the lady Geraldine!

Here ends the second canto.

In the conclusion to the second canto, he speaks of a child and its father's fondness, so often expressed by "you little rogue," " you little rascal," with an endearing kiss, says:

A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself;
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds and never seeks;
Makes such a vision to the sight,
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love's excess,
With words of unmeant bitterness.

The following relation was to have occupied a third and fourth canto, and to have closed the tale.

Over the mountains, the Bard, as directed by Sir Leoline, "hastes" with his disciple; but in consequence of one of those inundations supposed to be common to this country, the spot only where the castle once stood is discovered,--the edifice itself being washed away. He determines to return. Geraldine being acquainted with all that is passing, like the Weird Sisters in Macbeth, vanishes. Re-appearing, however, she waits the return of the Bard, exciting in the mean time, by her wily arts, all the anger she could rouse in the Baron's breast, as well as that jealousy of which he is described to have been susceptible. The old Bard and the youth at length arrive, and therefore she can no longer personate the character of Geraldine, the daughter of Lord Roland de Vaux, but changes her appearance to that of the accepted though absent lover of Christabel. Next ensues a courtship most distressing to Christabel, who feels--she knows not why--great disgust for her once favoured knight. This coldness is very painful to the Baron, who has no more conception than herself of the supernatural transformation. She at last yields to her father's entreaties, and consents to approach the altar with this hated suitor. The real lover returning, enters at this moment, and produces the ring which she had once given him in sign of her betrothment. Thus defeated, the supernatural being Geraldine disappears. As predicted, the castle bell tolls, the mother's voice is heard, and to the exceeding great joy of the parties, the rightful marriage takes place, after which follows a reconciliation and explanation between the father and daughter.

Lamb, who visited us soon after Coleridge's death, and not long before his own, talking of the Christabel, observed, "I was very angry with Coleridge, when I first heard that he had written a second canto, and that he intended to finish it; but when I read the beautiful apostrophe to the two friends, it calmed me." He was one of those who strongly recommended Coleridge to leave as a fragment what he had so beautifully begun. With the first edition of the Christabel was given Kubla Khan, the dream within a dream, written in harmonious and fluent rhythm. 'The Pains of Sleep' was also added. This is a poem communicating a portion of his personal sufferings. [6] All these were published in 1816.

In the introduction to 'The Lay of the last Minstrel', 1830, Sir Walter says,

"Were I ever to take the unbecoming freedom of censuring a man of Mr.
Coleridge's extraordinary talents, it would be on account of the
caprice and indolence with which he has thrown from him, as in mere
wantonness, those unfinished scraps of poetry, which, like the Tasso
of antiquity, defied the skill of his poetical brethren to complete
them. The charming fragments which the author abandons to their fate,
are surely too valuable to be treated like the proofs of careless
engravers, the sweepings of whose studies often make the fortune of
some pains-taking collector. And in a note to the Abbot, alluding to
Coleridge's beautiful and tantalizing fragment of Christabel, he adds,
Has not our own imaginative poet cause to fear that future ages will
desire to summon him from his place of rest, as Milton longed

'To call up him who left half told
The story of Cambuscam bold.'"

Since writing the preceding pages, I have met with a critique on the Christabel, written immediately after it was published, from which I select a few passages, in the hope that they may further interest the admirers of this poem:

'The publication of Christabel cannot be an indifferent circumstance
to any true lover of poetry--it is a singular monument of genius, and
we doubt whether the fragmental beauty that it now possesses can be
advantageously exchanged for the wholeness of a finished narrative. In
its present form it lays irresistible hold of the imagination. It
interests even by what it leaves untold.--The story is like a dream of
lovely forms, mixed with strange and indescribable terrors. The scene,
the personages, are those of old romantic superstition; but we feel
intimate with them, as if they were of our own day, and of our own
neighbourhood. It is impossible not to suppose that we have known
"sweet Christabel," from the time when she was "a fairy thing, with
red round cheeks," till she had grown up, through all the engaging
prettinesses of childhood, and the increasing charms of youth, to be
the pure and dignified creature, which we find her at the opening of
the poem. The scene is laid at midnight, in the yet leafless wood, a
furlong from the castle-gate of the rich Baron Sir Leoline, whose
daughter, "the lovely Lady Christabel," has come, in consequence of a
vow, to pray at the old oak tree, "for the weal of her lover that's
far away." In the midst of her orisons she is suddenly alarmed by a
moaning near her, which turns out to be the complaint of the Lady
Geraldine, who relates, that she had been carried off by warriors, and
brought to this wild wood, where they had left her with intent quickly
to return. This story of Geraldine's easily obtains credence from the
unsuspecting Christabel, who conducts her secretly to a chamber in the
castle. There the mild and beautiful Geraldine seems transformed in
language and appearance to a sorceress, contending with the spirit of
Christabel's deceased mother for the mastery over her daughter; but
Christabel's lips are sealed by a spell. What she knows she cannot
utter; and scarcely can she herself believe that she knows it.

On the return of morning, Geraldine, in all her pristine beauty,
accompanies the innocent but perplexed Christabel to the presence of
the Baron, who is delighted when he learns that she is the daughter of
his once loved friend, Sir Roland de Vaux, of Tryermaine.--We shall
not pursue the distress of Christabel, the mysterious warnings of
Bracy the Bard, the assumed sorrow of Geraldine, or the indignation of
Sir Leoline, at his daughter's seemingly causeless jealousy--what we
have principally to remark with respect to the tale is, that, wild and
romantic and visionary as it is, it has a truth of its own, which
seizes on and masters the imagination from the beginning to the end.
The poet unveils with exquisite skill the finer ties of imagination
and feeling by which they are linked to the human heart.

The elements of our sensibility, to all that concerns fair
Christabel, are of the purest texture; they are not formally announced
in a set description, but they accompany and mark her every movement
throughout the piece--Incessu patuit Dea.--She is the support of her
noble father's declining age--sanctified by the blessing of her
departed mother--the beloved of a valorous and absent knight--the
delight and admiration of an inspired bard--she is a being made up of
tenderness, affection, sweetness, piety! There is a fine
discrimination in the descriptions of Christabel and Geraldine,
between the lovely and the merely beautiful. There is a moral
sensitiveness about Christabel, which none but a true poet could
seize. It would be difficult to find a more delicate touch of this
kind in any writer, than her anxious exclamation when, in passing the
hall with Geraldine, a gleam bursts from the dying embers.

Next in point of merit to the power which Mr. Coleridge has displayed,
in interesting us by the moral beauty of his heroine, comes the skill
with which he has wrought the feelings and fictions of superstition
into shape. The witchlike Geraldine lying down by the side of
Christabel, and uttering the spell over her, makes the reader thrill
with indefinable horror.

We find another striking excellence of this poem, and which powerfully
affects every reader, by placing, as it were before his eyes, a
distinct picture of the events narrated, with all their appendages of
sight and sound--the dim forest--the massive castle-gate--the angry
moan of the sleeping mastiff--the sudden flash of the dying
embers--the echoing hall--the carved chamber, with its curious
lamp--in short, all that enriches and adorns this tale, with a
luxuriance of imagination seldom equalled.' [7]

Whilst in the full enjoyment of his creative powers, Coleridge wrote in a letter to a friend the following critique on "the Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni," which is supposed to have been composed about the time of the Christabel, though not published till 1816, in the Sibylline Leaves. It will serve to shew how freely he assented to the opinions of his friends, and with what candour he criticised his own poems, recording his opinions whether of censure or of praise:--

"In a copy of verses, entitled 'a Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of
Chamouni,' I describe myself under the influence of strong devotional
feelings, gazing on the mountain, till as if it had been a shape
emanating from and sensibly representing her own essence, my soul had
become diffused through the mighty vision and there,

'As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven.'

Mr. Wordsworth, I remember, censured the passage as strained and
unnatural, and condemned the hymn in toto, (which, nevertheless, I
ventured to publish in my 'Sibylline Leaves,') as a specimen of the
mock sublime. It may be so for others, but it is impossible that I
should myself find it unnatural, being conscious that it was the image
and utterance of thoughts and emotions in which there was no mockery.
Yet, on the other hand, I could readily believe that the mood and
habit of mind out of which the hymn rose, that differs from Milton's
and Thomson's and from the psalms, the source of all three, in the
author's addressing himself to 'individual' objects actually present
to his senses, while his great predecessors apostrophize 'classes' of
things presented by the memory, and generalized by the understanding;
--I can readily believe, I say, that in this there may be too much of
what our learned 'med'ciners' call the 'idiosyncratic' for true
poetry.--For, from my very childhood, I have been accustomed to
'abstract', and as it were, unrealize whatever of more than common
interest my eyes dwelt on, and then by a sort of transfusion and
transmission of my consciousness to identify myself with the object;
and I have often thought within the last five or six years, that if
ever I should feel once again the genial warmth and stir of the poetic
impulse, and refer to my own experiences, I should venture on a yet
stranger and wilder allegory than of yore--that I would allegorize
myself as a rock, with its summit just raised above the surface of
some bay or strait in the Arctic Sea, 'while yet the stern and
solitary night brooked no alternate sway'--all around me fixed and
firm, methought, as my own substance, and near me lofty masses, that
might have seemed to 'hold the moon and stars in fee,' and often in
such wild play with meteoric lights, or with the quiet shine from
above, which they made rebound in sparkles, or dispand in off-shoot,
and splinters, and iridiscent needle shafts of keenest glitter, that
it was a pride and a place of healing to lie, as in an apostle's
shadow, within the eclipse and deep substance-seeming gloom of 'these
dread ambassadors from earth to heaven, great hierarchs!' And though
obscured, yet to think myself obscured by consubstantial forms, based
in the same foundation as my own. I grieved not to serve them--yea,
lovingly and with gladsomeness I abased myself in their presence: for
they are my brothers, I said, and the mastery is theirs by right of
older birth, and by right of the mightier strivings of the hidden fire
that uplifted them above me."

This poem has excited much discussion, and many individuals have expressed different opinions as to its origin. Some assert that it is borrowed from our own great poets; whilst German readers say, that it is little more than a free translation from a poem of Frederica Brun. That it is founded on Frederica Brun's poem cannot be doubted; but those who compare the two poems must at once feel, that to call Coleridge's a translation, containing as it does new thoughts, exciting different feelings, and being in fact a new birth, a glorification of the original, would be a misuse of words. I insert the following note of Coleridge's, which appears applicable to the subject: