CHARLES KINGSLEY: 1819-1875.

Scene in an Indian Forest.

From "Westward Ho!"

"

Charles Kingsley, born in Devonshire, a county he delighted to honour, was one of the most genuine men of this century. He threw himself enthusiastically into every social movement of his time, and used heart and brain to his utmost to make it practical and manly. He has been called a muscular Christian," from his delight in manly vigour, and from his insistance on true manliness as the highest virtue of a man. His writings are not many, but he has left behind him at least two novels unsurpassed by any in our language, and more than one song of exquisite beauty. "Westward Ho!" is a noble prose epic on the Elizabethan era, in which his sympathies had full scope. The following is a scene in a South American forest (true to the life), in the midst of which Amyas Leigh finds two fugitives from his small band of heroes.

ON the further side of a little lawn, the stream leaped through a chasm beneath overarching vines, sprinkling eternal freshness upon all around, and then sank foaming into a clear rock basin, a bath for Dian's self. On its further side, the crag rose some twenty feet in height, bank upon bank of feathered ferns and cushioned moss, over the rich green beds of which drooped a thousand orchids, scarlet, white, and orange, and made the still pool gorgeous with the reflection of their gorgeousness. At its more quiet outfall, it was half hidden in huge fantastic leaves, and tall flowering stems; but near the waterfall the grassy bank sloped down towards the stream, and there, on palm-leaves strewed upon the turf, beneath the shadow of the crags, lay the two men whom Amyas sought, and whom, now he had found them, he had hardly heart to wake from their delicious dream.

For what a nest it was which they had found! The air was heavy with the scent of flowers, and quivering with the murmur of the stream, the humming of the colibris† and insects, the cheerful song of birds, the gentle cooing of a hundred doves; while now and then, from far away, the musical wail of the sloth, or the deep toll of the bell-bird, came softly to the ear. What was not there which eye or ear could need? And what which palate could need either? For on the rock above, some strange tree, leaning forward, dropped every now and then a luscious apple upon the grass below, and huge wild plantains bent beneath their load of fruit.

* The huntress-goddess of chastity.

+ Humming-birds.

A cry strangely articulate, and seeming to utter (as the editor can attest) in mournful notes the words, "O poor me one!"

Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,

And we will nothing waste till you return.

Orl. I thank ye: and be bless'd for your good comfort! [Exit.
Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy :

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woeful pageants than the scene

Wherein we play in.

Faq.
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits, and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking* in the nurse's arms.
And then, the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like a pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws † and modern instances; ‡
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,§
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his || sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

* Mewl =

Fr. miauler, to squall. Puke = Ger. spucken to slobber. + Moral sayings, see p. 6.

§ A childish, shabby-dressed old man.

New examples of them.

|| His is the regular old genitive of it.

Re-enter ORLANDO, with ADAM.

Duke S. Welcome: Set down your venerable burden,
And let him feed.

Orl. I thank you most for him.

Adam.

So had you need;

I scarce can speak to thank you for myself.

Duke S. Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble you

As yet, to question you about your fortunes.
Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE: 1772-1834.
The Ancient Mariner.

Coleridge was born one year after Scott, and two after Wordsworth. He has been called a "living Hamlet, full of the most splendid thoughts and noble purposes, but a most incompetent doer." To his immediate friends he was ever an oracle, a wonderful, magic talker; but he did little else than talk to his life's end,-his words, however, being seldom not worth listening to, and who can tell of what deep unseen effect. Amongst poems of imagination, dealing with supernatural beings and events, no poem in any language surpasses "The Ancient Mariner;" amongst poets whose words move not with the impulse of passion, but of imagination, none have ever surpassed this man, none have left us fragments of richer, diviner music,-of music that silences all praise.

PART I.

IT is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three,

"By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ?

"The bridegroom's doors are opened wide,

And I am next of kin ;

The guests are met, the feast is set ;

May'st hear the merry din.”

He holds him with his skinny hand,

"There was a ship," quoth he.

"Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon !"*

Eftsoons † his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye

The wedding guest stood still,

And listens like a three-years' child;

The Mariner hath his will.

* A stupid, lazy fellow.

Du. loen.

Soon after; immediately.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;

Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.

The wedding-guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,

The bright-eyed Mariner.

"And now the storm-blast came, and he

Was tyrannous and strong ;

He struck with his o'ertaking wings,

And chased us south along.

"With sloping masts and dipping prow,

As who pursued with yell and blow

Still treads the shadow of his foe,

And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.

* French basson = the bass instrument.

* Clefts.

"And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold;

And ice mast-high came floating by,
As green as emerauld.

"And through the drifts the snowy clifts*
Did send a dismal sheen: t

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken‡-
The ice was all between.

"The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around;

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound! §

"In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,

It perched for vespers || nine;

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white moonshine."

"God save thee, ancient Mariner !

From the fiends that plague thee thus !

Why look'st thou so ?”—“ With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross."

+ Saw.

Evenings.

Lat. vesper.

Light. M.E. scheen, A.S. scín. § Swoon. A.S. swindan, to vanish.