THE LYRICAL BALLADS; GERMANY
Cottle's acquaintance with Coleridge led to his making friends with
Wordsworth, and in his "Early Recollections" and "Reminiscences", the
Bristol bookseller tells a few amusing tales about the poets. The
following is the best:
"A visit to Mr. Coleridge, at Stowey, in the year 1797, had been the
means of my introduction to Mr. Wordsworth. Soon after our acquaintance
had commenced, Mr. W. happened to be in Bristol, and asked me to spend a
day or two with him at Allfoxden. I consented, and drove him down in a
gig. We called for Mr. Coleridge, Miss Wordsworth, and the servant, at
Stowey, and they walked, while we rode on to Mr. W.'s house at
Allfoxden, distant two or three miles, where we purposed to dine. A
London alderman would smile at our prepation, or bill of fare. It
consisted of philosophers' viands; namely, a bottle of brandy, a noble
loaf, and a stout piece of cheese; and as there were plenty of lettuces
in the garden, with all these comforts we calculated on doing very well.
"Our fond hopes, however, were somewhat damped, by finding, that our
'stout piece of cheese' had vanished! A sturdy "rat" of a beggar, whom
we had relieved on the road, with his olfactories all alive, no doubt,
"smelt" our cheese, and while we were gazing at the magnificent clouds,
contrived to abstract our treasure! Cruel tramp! An ill return for our
pence! We both wished the rind might not choke him! The mournful fact
was ascertained a little before we drove into the courtyard of the
house. Mr. Coleridge bore the loss with great fortitude, observing, that
we should never starve with a loaf of bread and a bottle of brandy. He
now, with the dexterity of an adept, admired by his friends around,
unbuckled the horse, and, putting down the shafts with a jerk, as a
triumphant conclusion of his work, lo! the bottle of brandy that had
been placed most carefully behind us on the seat, from the force of
gravity, suddenly rolled down, and before we could arrest this
spirituous avalanche, pitching right on the stones, was dashed to
pieces. We all beheld the spectacle, silent and petrified! We might have
collected the broken fragments of glass, but the brandy; that was gone!
clean gone!
"One little untoward thing often follows another, and while the rest
stood musing, chained to the place, regaling themselves with the Cognac
effluvium, and all miserably chagrined, I led the horse to the stable,
when a fresh perplexity arose. I removed the harness without difficulty,
but after many strenuous attempts, I could not get off the collar. In
despair, I called for assistance, when aid soon drew near. Mr.
Wordsworth first brought his ingenuity into exercise, but after several
unsuccessful efforts, he relinquished the achievement, as a thing
altogether impracticable. Mr. Coleridge now tried his hand, but showed
no more grooming skill than his predecessors; for after twisting the
poor horse's neck almost to strangulation, and to the great danger of
his eyes, he gave up the useless task, pronouncing that the horse's head
must have grown, (gout or dropsy!) since the collar was put on! 'for,'
he said 'It was a downright impossibility for such a huge Os Frontis to
pass through so narrow a collar!' Just at this instant the servant girl
came near, and understanding the cause of our consternation, 'La,
Master,' said she, 'you do not go about the work in the right way. You
should do like as this,' when turning the collar completely upside down,
she slipped it off in a moment, to our great humiliation and wonderment;
each satisfied, afresh, that there were heights of knowledge in the
world, to which we had not yet attained.
"We were now summoned to dinner, and a dinner it was, such as every
"blind" and starving man in the three kingdoms would have rejoiced to
"behold". At the top of the table stood a superb brown loaf. The centre
dish presented a pile of the true coss lettuces, and at the bottom
appeared an empty plate, where the 'stout piece of cheese' "ought" to
have stood! (cruel mendicant!) and though the brandy was 'clean gone,'
yet its place was well, if not "better" supplied by an abundance of fine
sparkling Castalian champagne! A happy thought at this time started into
one of our minds, that some condiment would render the lettuces a little
more palatable, when an individual in the company, recollected a
question, once propounded by the most patient of men, 'How can that
which is unsavoury be eaten without "salt"?' and asked for a little of
that valuable culinary article. 'Indeed, sir,' Betty replied, 'I quite
forgot to buy salt.' A general laugh followed the announcement, in which
our host heartily joined. This was nothing. We had plenty of other good
things, and while crunching our succulents, and munching our crusts, we
pitied the far worse condition of those, perchance as hungry as
ourselves, who were forced to dine, off aether alone. For our next meal,
the mile-off village furnished all that could be desired, and these
trifling incidents present the sum and the result of half the little
passing disasters of life.
"The "Lyrical Ballads" were published about Midsummer, 1798. In
September of the same year, Mr. Coleridge and Mr. Wordsworth left
England for Germany, and I quitted the business of a bookseller. Had I
not once been such, this book would never have appeared."
The reference in the following letter to a ballad of 340 lines has never
been explained by any biographer of Coleridge. The "Ancient Mariner" in
its first form extended to 658 lines. Some have surmised that the "Three
Graves" is meant; but this poem was 318 lines as published in 1809-1817.
LETTER 74. TO COTTLE
Feb. 18, 1798.
My dear Cottle,
I have finished my Ballad, it is 340 lines; I am going on with my
"Visions": altogether (for I shall print two scenes of my Tragedy, as
fragments) I can add 1500 lines; now what do you advise? Shall I add my
Tragedy, and so make a second volume? or shall I pursue my first
intention of inserting 1500 in the third edition? If you should advise a
second volume, should you wish, "i.e.", find it convenient, to be the
purchaser? I ask this question, because I wish you to know the true
state of my present circumstances. I have received nothing yet from the
Wedgwoods, and my money is utterly expended.
A friend of mine wanted five guineas for a little while, which I
borrowed of Poole, as for myself, I do not like therefore to apply to
him. Mr. Estlin has some little money I believe in his hands, but I
received from him before I went to Shrewsbury, fifteen pounds, and I
believe that this was an anticipation of the five guinea presents, which
my friends would have made in March. But (this affair of the Messrs.
Wedgwoods turning out) the money in Mr. Estlin's hand must go towards
repaying him that sum which he suffered me to anticipate. Meantime I owe
Biggs £5, which is heavy on my thoughts, and Mrs. F. has not been paid
her last quarter which is still heavier. As to myself, I can continue to
go on here, but this £10 I must pay somehow, that is £5 to Biggs, and £5
to Mrs. F....
God bless you,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
P.S. This week I purpose offering myself to the Bridgwater Socinian
congregation, as assistant minister, without any salary, directly, or
indirectly; but of this say not a word to any one, unless you see Mr.
Estlin.
Coleridge sent his poem of the "Raven" to the "Morning Post" at this
time with the following curious letter to the Editor. The poem appeared
in the paper of 10th March.
LETTER 75. TO THE EDITOR OF THE "MORNING POST",
WITH THE "RAVEN", A POEM.
10 March, 1798.
Sir,
I am not absolutely certain that the following poem was written by
Edmund Spenser, and found by an angler buried in a fishing-box:
Under the foot of Mole, that Mountain hoar,
Mid the green alders, by the Mulla's shore;
but a learned Antiquarian of my acquaintance has given it as his opinion
that it resembles Spenser's minor poems as nearly as "Vortigern" and
"Rowena" the Tragedies of William Shakespeare. This poem must be read in
recitative, in the same manner as the "AEgloga Secunda" of the
"Shepherd's Calendar".
CUDDY.
"The Latin motto," Cottle says, "prefixed to the second edition of Mr.
C.'s poems, puzzled everybody to know from what author it was derived.
One and another inquired of me, to no purpose, and expressed a wish that
Mr. C. had been clearer in his citation, as 'no one could understand
it.' On my naming this to Mr. Coleridge, he laughed heartily, and said,
"It was all a hoax. Not meeting," said he, "with a suitable motto, I
invented one, and with references purposely obscure, as will be
explained in the next letter."
LETTER 76. TO COTTLE
March 8th, 1798.
My dear Cottle,
I have been confined to my bed for some days, through a fever occasioned
by the stump of a tooth, which baffled chirurgical efforts to eject, and
which, by affecting my eye, affected my stomach, and through that my
whole frame. I am better, but still weak, in consequence of such long
sleeplessness and wearying pains; weak, very weak. I thank you, my dear
friend, for your late kindness, and in a few weeks will either repay you
in money, or by verses, as you like. With regard to Lloyd's verses, it
is curious that I should be applied to, "to be persuaded to resign," and
in hopes that I might "consent to give up" (unknown by whom) a number of
poems which were published at the earnest request of the author, who
assured me, that the circumstance was of "no trivial import to his
happiness!"
Times change and people change; but let us keep our souls in quietness!
I have no objection to any disposal of Lloyd's poems except that of
their being republished with mine. The motto which I had
prefixed--"Duplex, etc." from Groscollias, has placed me in a ridiculous
situation, but it was a foolish and presumptuous start of
affectionateness, and I am not unwilling to incur the punishment due to
my folly. By past experiences we build up our moral being. The Giant
Wordsworth--God love him! When I speak in the terms of admiration due to
his intellect, I fear lest these terms should keep out of sight the
amiableness of his manners. He has written near twelve hundred lines of
a blank verse, [1] superior, I hesitate not to aver, to anything in our
language which any way resembles it. God bless you,
S. T. COLERIDGE. [2]
[Footnote 1: "The Ruined Cottage", or "Tale of Margaret", afterwards
incorporated in the "Excursion".]
[Footnote 2: Letter LXXIX is our 76, which see for full text.]
LETTER 77. TO WADE
March 21st, 1798.
My very dear friend,
I have even now returned from a little excursion that I have taken for
the confirmation of my health, which had suffered a rude assault from
the anguish of the stump of a tooth which had baffled the attempts of
our surgeon here, and which confined me to my bed. I suffered much from
the disease, and more from the doctor; rather than again put my mouth
into his hands, I would put my hands into a lion's mouth. I am happy to
hear of, and should be most happy to see, the plumpness and progression
of your dear boy; but--yes, my dear Wade, it must be a but, much as I
hate the word but. Well,--but I cannot attend the chemical lectures. I
have many reasons, but the greatest, or at least the most ostensible
reason, is, that I cannot leave Mrs. C. at that time; our house is an
uncomfortable one; our surgeon may be, for aught I know, a lineal
descendant of Esculapius himself, but if so, in the repeated transfusion
of life from father to son, through so many generations, the wit and
knowledge, being subtle spirits, have evaporated....
Ever your grateful and affectionate friend,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
LETTER 78. TO COTTLE
(Mch. or Apl. 1798.)
My dear Cottle,
I regret that aught should have disturbed our tranquillity; respecting
Lloyd, I am willing to believe myself in part mistaken, and so let all
things be as before. I have no wish respecting these poems, either for
or against re-publication with mine. As to the third edition, if there
be occasion for it immediately, it must be published with some
alterations, but no additions or omissions. The "Pixies", "Chatterton",
and some dozen others, shall be printed at the end of the volume, under
the title of Juvenile Poems, and in this case I will send you the volume
immediately. But if there be no occasion for the volume to go to press
for ten weeks, at the expiration of that time, I would make it a volume
worthy of me, and omit utterly near one-half of the present volume--a
sacrifice to pitch black oblivion.
Whichever be the case, I will repay you the money you have paid for me,
in money, and in a few weeks; or if you should prefer the latter
proposal, "i.e.", the not sending me to the press for ten weeks, I
should insist on considering the additions, however large, as my payment
to you for the omissions, which, indeed, would be but strict justice.
I am requested by Wordsworth, to put to you the following questions.
What could you, conveniently and prudently, and what would you give
for--first, our two Tragedies, with small prefaces, containing an
analysis of our principal characters? Exclusive of the prefaces, the
tragedies are, together, five thousand lines; which, in printing, from
the dialogue form, and directions respecting actors and scenery, are at
least equal to six thousand. To be delivered to you within a week of the
date of your answer to this letter; and the money which you offer, to be
paid to us at the end of four months from the same date; none to be paid
before, all to be paid then.
Second.--Wordsworth's "Salisbury Plain", and "Tale of a Woman"; which
two poems, with a few others which he will add, and the notes, will make
a volume. This to be delivered to you within three weeks of the date of
your answer, and the money to be paid as before, at the end of four
months from the present date.
Do not, my dearest Cottle, harass yourself about the imagined great
merit of the compositions, or be reluctant to offer what you can
prudently offer, from an idea that the poems are worth more. But
calculate what you can do, with reference simply to yourself, and answer
as speedily as you can; and believe me your sincere, grateful, and
affectionate friend and brother,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
Cottle offered thirty guineas each to Wordsworth and Coleridge for their
tragedies; but this offer, says Cottle, "after some hesitation was
declined from the hope of introducing one or both on the stage." Cottle
received the following letter soon after:
LETTER 79. TO COTTLE
(14 Apl., 1798.)
My dear Cottle,
I never involved you in bickering, and never suspected you, in any one
action of your life, of practising guile against any human being, except
yourself.
Your letter supplied only one in a link of circumstances, that informed
me of some things, and perhaps deceived me in others. I shall write
to-day to Lloyd. I do not think I shall come to Bristol for these
lectures of which you speak.[1] I ardently wish for the knowledge, but
Mrs. Coleridge is within a month of her confinement, and I cannot, I
ought not to leave her; especially as her surgeon is not a John Hunter,
nor my house likely to perish from a plethora of comforts. Besides,
there are other things that might disturb that evenness of benevolent
feeling, which I wish to cultivate.
I am much better, and at present at Allfoxden, and my new and tender
health is all over me like a voluptuous feeling. God bless you,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
[Footnote 1: "Chemical Lectures," by Dr. Beddoes, delivered at the Red
Lodge [Cottle].]
The origin of the volume of lyrical ballads is best told in Cottle's own
words.
"Wordsworth," says Cottle, on his introduction by Coleridge at Stowey,
"read me many of his Lyrical Pieces, when I immediately perceived in
them extraordinary merit, and advised him to publish them, expressing a
belief that they would be well received. I further said he should be at
no risk; that I would give him the same sum which I had given to Mr.
Coleridge and to Mr. Southey, and that it would be a gratifying
circumstance to me, to have been the publisher of the first volumes of
three such poets as Southey, Coleridge, and Wordsworth; such a
distinction might never again occur to a Provincial bookseller.
"To the idea of publishing he expressed a strong objection, and after
several interviews, I left him, with an earnest wish that he would
reconsider his determination.
"Soon after Mr. Wordsworth sent me the following letter.
'Allfoxden, 12th April, 1798.
'My dear Cottle,
'...You will be pleased to hear that I have gone on very rapidly adding
to my stock of poetry. Do come and let me read it to you, under the old
trees in the park. We have a little more than two months to stay in this
place. Within these four days the season has advanced with greater
rapidity than I ever remember, and the country becomes almost every hour
more lovely. God bless you,
'Your affectionate friend,
'W. WORDSWORTH.'
"A little time after, I received an invitation from Mr. Coleridge to pay
himself and Mr. Wordsworth another visit. At about the same time, I
received the following corroborative invitation from Mr. Wordsworth.
'Dear Cottle,
'We look for you with great impatience. We will never forgive you if you
do not come. I say nothing of the "Salisbury Plain" till I see you. I am
determined to finish it, and equally so that you shall publish.
'I have lately been busy about another plan, which I do not wish to
mention till I see you; let this be very, very soon, and stay a week if
possible; as much longer as you can. God bless you, dear Cottle,
'Yours sincerely,
'W. WORDSWORTH.
'Allfoxden, 9th May, 1798.'
"The following letter also on this subject, was received from Mr.
Coleridge.
LETTER 80. TO COTTLE
(April, 1798.)
My dear Cottle,
Neither Wordsworth nor myself could have been otherwise than
uncomfortable, if any but yourself had received from us the first offer
of our Tragedies, and of the volume of Wordsworth's Poems. At the same
time, we did not expect that you could with prudence and propriety,
advance such a sum as we should want at the time we specified. In short,
we both regard the publication of our Tragedies as an evil. It is not
impossible but that in happier times, they may be brought on the stage:
and to throw away this chance for a mere trifle, would be to make the
present moment act fraudulently and usuriously towards the future time.
My Tragedy employed and strained all my thoughts and faculties for six
or seven months; Wordsworth consumed far more time, and far more
thought, and far more genius. We consider the publication of them an
evil on any terms; but our thoughts were bent on a plan for the
accomplishment of which, a certain sum of money was necessary, (the
whole) at that particular time, and in order to this we resolved,
although reluctantly, to part with our Tragedies: that is, if we could
obtain thirty guineas for each, and at less than thirty guineas
Wordsworth will not part with the copyright of his volume of Poems. We
shall offer the Tragedies to no one, for we have determined to procure
the money some other way. If you choose the volume of Poems, at the
price mentioned, to be paid at the time specified, "i.e." thirty
guineas, to be paid sometime in the last fortnight of July, you may have
them; but remember, my dear fellow! I write to you now merely as a
bookseller, and intreat you, in your answer, to consider yourself only;
as to us, although money is necessary to our plan, (that of visiting
Germany) yet the plan is not necessary to our happiness; and if it were,
W. could sell his Poems for that sum to someone else, or we could
procure the money without selling the Poems. So I entreat you, again and
again, in your answer, which must be immediate, consider yourself only.
Wordsworth has been caballed against "so long and so loudly", that he
has found it impossible to prevail on the tenant of the Allfoxden
estate, to let him the house, after their first agreement is expired, so
he must quit it at Midsummer. Whether we shall be able to procure him a
house and furniture near Stowey, we know not, and yet we must: for the
hills, and the woods, and the streams, and the sea, and the shores would
break forth into reproaches against us, if we did not strain every
nerve, to keep their poet among them. Without joking, and in serious
sadness, Poole and I cannot endure to think of losing him.
At all events, come down, Cottle, as soon as you can, but before
Midsummer, and we will procure a horse easy as thy own soul, and we will
go on a roam to Linton and Linmouth, which, if thou comest in May, will
be in all their pride of woods and waterfalls, not to speak of its
august cliffs, and the green ocean, and the vast Valley of Stones, all
which live disdainful of the seasons, or accept new honours only from
the winter's snow. At all events come down, and cease not to believe me
much and affectionately your friend.
S. T. COLERIDGE. [1]
[Footnote 1: Letters LXXX-LXXXV follow letter 80.]
"In consequence of these conjoint invitations, I spent a week with Mr.
C. and Mr. W. at Allfoxden house, and during this time, (beside the
reading of MS. poems) they took me to Linmouth, and Linton, and the
Valley of Stones....
"At this interview it was determined, that the volume should be
published under the title of "Lyrical Ballads" on the terms stipulated
in a former letter: that this volume should not contain the poem of
"Salisbury Plain", but only an extract from it; that it should not
contain the poem of "Peter Bell", but consist rather of sundry shorter
poems, and, for the most part, of pieces more recently written. I had
recommended two volumes, but one was fixed on, and that to be published
anonymously. It was to be begun immediately, and with the "Ancient
Mariner"; which poem I brought with me to Bristol. A day or two after I
received the following:"
LETTER 81. TO COTTLE
(May, 1798.)
My dear Cottle,
You know what I think of a letter, how impossible it is to argue in it.
You must therefore take simple statements, and in a week or two, I shall
see you, and endeavour to reason with you.
Wordsworth and I have duly weighed your proposal, and this is an answer.
He would not object to the publishing of "Peter Bell" or the "Salisbury
Plain", singly; but to the publishing of his poems in two volumes, he is
decisively repugnant and oppugnant.
He deems that they would want variety, etc., etc. If this apply in his
case, it applies with ten-fold more force to mine. We deem that the
volumes offered to you, are, to a certain degree, one work in kind,
though not in degree, as an ode is one work; and that our different
poems are, as stanzas, good, relatively rather than absolutely: mark
you, I say in kind, though not in degree. As to the Tragedy, when I
consider it in reference to Shakespeare's, and to "one" other Tragedy,
it seems a poor thing, and I care little what becomes of it. When I
consider it in comparison with modern dramatists, it rises: and I think
it too bad to be published, too good to be squandered. I think of
breaking it up; the planks are sound, and I will build a new ship of the
old materials.
The dedication to the Wedgwoods, which you recommend, would be
indelicate and unmeaning. If, after four or five years, I shall have
finished some work of importance, which could not have been written, but
in an unanxious seclusion, to them I will dedicate it; for the public
will have owed the work to them who gave me the power of that unanxious
seclusion.
As to anonymous publications, depend on it, you are deceived.
Wordsworth's name is nothing to a large number of persons; mine stinks.
The "Essay on Man", the "Botanic Garden", the "Pleasures of Memory", and
many other most popular works, were published anonymously. However, I
waive all reasoning, and simply state it as an unaltered opinion, that
you should proceed as before, with the "Ancient Mariner".
The picture shall be sent.[1] For your love gifts and bookloans accept
our hearty love. The "Joan of Arc" is a divine book; it opens lovelily.
I hope that you will take off some half dozen of our "Poems" on great
paper, even as the "Joan of Arc".
Cottle, my dear Cottle, I meant to have written you an Essay on the
Metaphysics of Typography, but I have not time. Take a few hints,
without the abstruse reasons for them, with which I mean to favour you.
18 lines in a page, the line closely printed, certainly more closely
printed than those of the "Joan";[2] ("Oh, by all means, closer, "W.
Wordsworth"") equal ink, and large margins; that is beauty; it may even,
under your immediate care, mingle the sublime! And now, my dear Cottle,
may God love you and me, who am, with most unauthorish feelings,
Your true friend,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
P.S.--I walked to Linton the day after you left us, and returned on
Saturday. I walked in one day, and returned in one.[3]
[Footnote 1: A portrait of Mr. Wordsworth, correctly and beautifully
executed, by an artist then at Stowey; now in my possession. [Cottle's
note.]]
[Footnote 2: "Joan of Arc", 4to first edition, had twenty lines in a
page. [Cottle.]]
[Footnote 3: Letters LXXXVI-XCII follow 81.]
Coleridge has given his account of the origin of the "Lyrical Ballads"
in the fourteenth chapter of the "Biographia Literaria", and
Wordsworth's account is found in the Fenwick Note to "We are Seven".
An estrangement with Charles Lamb and Charles Lloyd at this time took
place which has been the subject of many surmises as to its origin among
the biographers of Coleridge. The coldness with Lamb passed off by the
beginning of 1800 when Charles wrote to Coleridge in his customary
humorous vein; but Lloyd was not so soon taken back to favour. Southey
joined the cabal against Coleridge and encouraged the estrangement; but
he too was on friendly terms with Coleridge in the autumn of 1799.
On the l4th May Coleridge's second child was born, named Berkeley, after
the idealist philosopher who had now displaced Hartley, who had been in
the ascendant when the first child was born.
With the adoption of Berkeley as his pet philosopher, we can understand
Coleridge's determination to visit Germany. He had heard rumours of the
Kantean Philosophy, and wished to acquire thoroughly a knowledge of the
language of the Germans principally to be able to read Kant in the
original. This project Coleridge speaks of as early as 6th May, 1796
(Letter 33); but it was only now when he enjoyed the support of the
Wedgwoods that he could afford to put it into execution. The volume of
"Lyrical Ballads" was published in the early part of the autumn of 1798;
and along with William and Dorothy Wordsworth, Coleridge set sail from
Yarmouth. John Chester, a resident of Stowey, also accompanied them.
Coleridge arrived at Cuxhaven on 19th September, from which place he
wrote Mrs. Coleridge an account of the voyage and his first impressions
of Germany. This account is more fully given in the "Letters of
Satyrane" in the "Biographia Literaria". He took up his quarters at
Ratzeburg, staying with the pastor of that town; while Wordsworth and
his sister went to Goslar. From Ratzeburg Coleridge repaired to
Gttingen on 12th February, 1799, to attend lectures at the University.
He worked hard while in Göttingen to acquire a knowledge of the
literature of Germany, and made himself proficient in the dialects as
well as of classical German. He met two of the Parrys, brothers of the
Arctic explorer, at Gttingen; and, later, Clement Carlyon, an
Englishman from Pembroke College, joined the group. Carlyon afterwards
in later life, in his "Early Years and Late Reflections", depicted
Coleridge as the life and soul of the party, incessantly talking,
discussing, and philosophizing, and diving into his pocket German
Dictionary for the right word. Carlyon devotes 270 pages of the first
volume of his book to Coleridge.
Berkeley Coleridge died in February, and the news depressed Coleridge
and threw his studies for some time into disorder; but the Wordsworths
visited him at Gttingen, and they had some talk about the future place
of their abode in England. The Wordsworths were desirous of staying in
the North of England; but Coleridge at this time had resolved to remain
at Stowey, to be near Poole, in whom he felt his "anchor", as he
expressed it. (J. Dykes-Campbell's "Life", chap, v.)
Coleridge during his stay in Germany wrote a good many letters to his
wife, to Poole, and the Wedgwoods. We can quote only two fragments from
those to his wife, and the long one, "Over the Brocken".
LETTER 82. TO MRS. COLERIDGE
14 Jany., 1799.
The whole Lake of Ratzeburg is one mass of thick transparent ice--a
spotless Mirror of nine miles in extent! The lowness of the Hills, which
rise from the shores of the Lake, preclude the awful sublimity of Alpine
scenery, yet compensate for the want of it by beauties, of which this
very lowness is a necessary condition. Yester-morning I saw the lesser
Lake completely hidden by Mist; but the moment the Sun peeped over the
Hill, the mist broke in the middle, and in a few seconds stood divided,
leaving a broad road all across the Lake; and between these two Walls of
mist the sunlight "burnt" upon the ice, forming a road of golden fire,
intolerably bright! and the mist-walls themselves partook of the blaze
in a multitude of shining colours. This is our second Frost. About a
month ago, before the Thaw came on, there was a storm of wind; during
the whole night, such were the thunders and howlings of the breaking
ice, that they have left a conviction on my mind, that there are Sounds
more sublime than any Sight "can" be, more absolutely suspending the
power of comparison, and more utterly absorbing the mind's
self-consciousness in its total attention to the object working upon it.
Part of the ice which the vehemence of the wind had shattered, was
driven shore-ward and froze anew. On the evening of the next day, at
sun-set, the shattered ice thus frozen, appeared of a deep blue, and in
shape like an agitated sea; beyond this, the water, that ran up between
the great Islands of ice which had preserved their masses entire and
smooth, shone of a yellow green; but all these scattered Ice-islands,
themselves, were of an intensely bright blood colour--they seemed blood
and light in union! On some of the largest of these Islands, the
Fishermen stood pulling out their immense Nets through the holes made in
the ice for this purpose, and the Men, their Net-Poles, and their huge
Nets, were a part of the glory; say rather, it appeared as if the rich
crimson light had shaped itself into these forms, figures, and
attitudes, to make a glorious vision in mockery of earthly things.
The lower Lake is now all alive with Skaters, and with Ladies driven
onward by them in their ice cars. Mercury, surely, was the first maker
of Skates, and the wings at his feet are symbols of the invention. In
skating there are three pleasing circumstances: the infinitely subtle
particles of Ice, which the Skate cuts up, and which creep and run
before the Skate like a low mist, and in sun-rise or sun-set become
coloured; second, the shadow of the Skater in the water seen through the
transparent Ice; and third, the melancholy undulating sound from the
Skate, not without variety; and when very many are skating together, the
sounds and the noises give an impulse to the icy Trees, and the woods
all round the Lake "tinkle"![1]
[Footnote 1: Letter XCIII repeats 82, XCIV-XCVI follow.]
LETTER 83. TO MRS. COLERIDGE
Ratzeburg, 23 April, 1799.
There is a Christmas custom here which pleased and interested me.--The
Children make little presents to their Parents, and to each other; and
the Parents to the Children. For three or four months before Christmas
the Girls are all busy, and the Boys save up their pocket-money, to make
or purchase these presents. What the Present is to be is cautiously kept
secret, and the Girls have a world of contrivances to conceal it--such
as working when they are out on visits and the others are not with them;
getting up in the morning before day-light, etc. Then on the evening
before Christmas day one of the Parlours is lighted up by the Children,
into which the Parents must not go: a great yew bough is fastened on the
Table at a little distance from the wall, a multitude of little Tapers
are fastened in the bough, but not so as to burn it till they are nearly
burnt out, and coloured paper, etc. hangs and flutters from the
twigs.--Under this Bough the Children lay out in great order the
presents they mean for their Parents, still concealing in their pockets
what they intend for each other. Then the Parents are introduced--and
each presents his little Gift--and then bring out the rest one by one
from their pockets, and present them with kisses and embraces.--Where I
witnessed this scene, there were eight or nine Children, and the eldest
Daughter and the Mother wept aloud for joy and tenderness; and the tears
ran down the face of the Father, and he clasped all his Children so
tight to his breast--it seemed as if he did it to stifle the sob that
was rising within him.--I was very much affected.--The Shadow of the
Bough and its appendages on the wall, and arching over on the Ceiling,
made a pretty Picture--and then the raptures of the "very" little Ones,
when at last the twigs and their needles began to take fire and
"snap"--O it was a delight for them!--On the next day, in the great
Parlour, the Parents lay out on the table the Presents for the Children:
a scene of more sober joy succeeds, as on this day, after an old custom,
the Mother says privately to each of her Daughters, and the Father to
his Sons, that which he has observed most praise-worthy and that which
was most faulty in their conduct.--Formerly, and still in all the
smaller Towns and Villages throughout North Germany, these Presents were
sent by all the Parents to some one Fellow who in high Buskins, a white
Robe, a Mask, and an enormous flax Wig, personates Knecht Rupert, i.e.
the Servant Rupert. On Christmas Night he goes round to every House and
says, that Jesus Christ, his Master, sent him thither--the Parents and
elder Children receive him with great pomp of reverence, while the
little ones are most terribly frightened--He then enquires for the
Children, and according to the character which he hears from the Parent,
he gives them the intended Present, as if they came out of Heaven from
Jesus Christ.--Or, if they should have been bad Children, he gives the
Parents a Rod, and in the name of his Master, recommends them to use it
frequently.--About seven or eight years old the Children are let into
the secret, and it is curious how faithfully they keep it![1]
["Over the Brocken" must occupy a chapter of itself.]
[Footnote 1: Letter XCVII repeats 83, XCVIII follows.]