Devonshire harbor town, with its church and cluster of houses nestled in a cleft of the steep hills that overhang the sea. From that point the geography is that of the globe itself, with no distinguishing parts but the opposite poles and the torrid equator between. Yet we are always kept aware of the position of the ship on this mysterious waste, where reality fades into marvel. First the vessel goes straight to the southern polar seas, where the albatross meets and saves it from the ice. After the shooting of the friendly bird, the ship comes under the influence of the avenging Polar Spirit. Accordingly, while the sun rises upon the right, the ship sails before the south wind to the regions of tropic calm, where, from the direction of the setting sun, comes the specter bark with its ghostly crew. When, later, the ship takes its mysterious course I moved onward from beneath,” it goes, still under the guidance of the Polar Spirit, until it reaches the equator, where The Sun, right up above the mast, There the struggle between the Polar Spirit, that could not cross north of the line, and the Guardian Saint, striving to bring the Ancient Mariner to the wholesome regions of fresh breezes and sweet human life, is evident in the "short, uneasy motion" with which the ship tugs at her bonds. But the Mariner "hath penance done, and penance more will do," and so with a sudden bound the ship starts forward, into the region of "gentle weather," where its single living passenger looks, not on the unearthly colors in which had swum his ship, but on the "ocean green" which stretched to the welcome lighthouse top and hill and kirk of his own familiar harbor. Of course, the forces that move behind the strange adventures of this mystic world are spiritual forces, and the poem tells their story as well. The key to this spiritual experience is, to be sure, given in the familiar stanza near the end, beginning "He prayeth best who loveth best," but the experience itself is a far more subtle thing than can be summed up and disposed of in a "moral" of a few lines. Instead of being satisfied, then, with repeating this single stanza, we can profitably note some of the questions that bear upon the interpretation of the story. Were there, for instance, any circumstances that made the shooting of the bird a specially wanton act? Was the crime simply in killing the albatross? How do we explain the falling of the bird from the Mariner's neck? Why was the expiation not then complete, and wherein consisted the added penance that was required? How far did his Guardian Saint assist him, and how much was left for himself to do? These are some of the questions underlying the progress of the tale. We are aware of them, not as requiring definite categorical answers, but as pointing to the poem's spiritual significance. If we follow them sympathetically, perhaps it will be found that the stanza that could best be spared from the poem is that containing the oft-quoted moral near the end. In the metrical power of the poem lies much of its peculiar attractiveness. It is easy to note that the verse is that traditionally associated with the old English ballads, and so consider the matter disposed of. But the simple strength of the old ballad measure is only a part of the charm: the effects that Coleridge has added give the poem its full metrical distinction. Instead of confining himself to the four lines of the old ballad measure, Coleridge freely expands his stanza, sometimes to more than twice its ordinary length, when the thought is sustained through a longer passage. The simile near the end of Part I, and the picture under the rising moon at the close of Part III, are interesting examples, showing how a succession of four-foot lines, with recurring rimes, gives to the stanza a sense of heightened climax. Internal rime appears intermittently, where it lightens the lyric speed of a stanza. Alliteration is used with something of the same effect. Together they cause such a stanza as that beginning "The fair breeze blew " to sing on the tongue, and linger in the memory. The ballad measure is meant to be read aloud. If we so read this poem we shall be aware of another characteristic of ballad style made use of here with singular effectiveness, namely, repetition. To that we owe the vivid picture of the Mariner's face and figure, with its striking details, so few, yet so strongly impressed on our imagination. This effect, strong in itself, is often enhanced by the recurring verse accent, as in the line Day after day, day after day, or, more notably, in the two lines Alone, alone, all, all alone, 66 In perfect harmony with these metrical qualities, and taking its tone too from the traditional usage of old ballad literature, is the diction of the poem. Its most obvious quality is its simplicity, its primitive quaintness. The directness of such a line as "The sun came up upon the left" is one example; another is the naïveté of such a construction as The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast." Artless we should call it, yet so harmoniously is it combined with other qualities, that we recognize behind it both strong imagination and sure taste. For example, note the effectiveness of the archaic forms introduced here and there in the poem. Eftsoons," swound," Gramercy," " uprist "-such examples as these, without obtruding themselves on our attention, help create the atmosphere of old times and old speech in which the Ancient Mariner appropriately lives. Figures are naturally infrequent in such a style as this, yet when they are used, they are strikingly vigorous 66 66 The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; Most noteworthy of all, however, is the concreteness of the diction, its constant appeal to the physical senses. The result is that we more than receive abstract ideas—we experience the sensations out of which they are made. The ship turned north, but what we are told is that the sun now rose upon the right; the sea was infested with unpleasant animal life, but what we see is slimy things crawling with legs upon a slimy sea. So it is throughout. The colors of the enchanted sea, the sound of the uprising souls, the feel of the unslaked throat and baked lips,-in such images as these a man of simple nature gets his impressions, and in such he gives us a vivid sense of sharing them. These are some of the results when we consider the poem in its details, one at a time. What is the total effect when all are taken together? No one quality takes precedence over the others; rather, all are united in one single impression. It takes our imagination captive, and by degrees leads it into a region where the real and the unreal, the plausible and the impossible, are fused into one, and we care not to disentangle them. If, by chance, we should care, something inexplicable will remain to tease us," and in that very fact will be found much of the spell that the poem casts over us. As Professor Beers has excellently put it: The Ancient 66 66 Mariner is the baseless fabric of a vision. We are put under a spell, like the wedding guest, and carried off to the isolation and remoteness of mid-ocean. Through the chinks of the narrative, the wedding music sounds unreal and far off. What may not happen to a man alone on a wide, wide sea? The line between earthly and unearthly vanishes. Did the mariner really see the spectral bark and hear spirits talking, or was it all but the phantasmagoria of the calenture, the fever that attacks the sailor on the tropic main, so that he seems to see green meadows and water brooks on the level brine? No one can tell; for he is himself the only witness, and the ship is sunk at the harbor mouth. One conjectures that no wreckers or divers will ever bring it to the top again. Nay, was not the mariner, too, a specter? Now he is gone, and what was all this that he told me, thinks the wedding guest, as he rises on the morrow morn. Or did he tell me, or did I only dream it? A light shadow cast by some invisible thing swiftly traverses the sunny face of nature and is gone. Did we see it, or imagine it? Even so elusive, so uncertain, so shadowy and phantom-like is the spiriting of this wonderful poem." SOHRAB AND RUSTUM This " episode," the most important of Matthew Arnold's narrative poems, was published in 1853, in the earlier part of the poet's literary activity. In theme and style it stands distinctly apart from other narrative poems in English, and so invites a brief inquiry on certain special points. The material of the story comes from ancient Persian tradition as preserved in the Shah Nameh, a legendary history of Persia's early kings and champions. The account of Sohrab and Rustum as it appears in that poem is far longer and more complicated than Arnold's story; yet the central situation is the same in both, as well as many of the essential circumstances. A detailed comparison of the two would show how Arnold has simplified the events of his poem for the sake of more concentrated interest. For example, the combat, according to the legend, is not ended until the evening of the third day of hard fighting, whereas in Arnold the whole episode falls within the compass of a single day. In both stories Sohrab's ruling motive is the same-his intense desire to find his father; but in the legendary account the armies do not await the outcome of a single combat: they are themselves engaged in a general conflict, the heroes having retired by common consent to a more lonely spot to fight their battle undisturbed. Other differences might be mentioned, notably the selfish motive assigned by the old legend to the Tartar king, in his desire to have Rustum killed in the fight; but greater detail does not concern the average reader: Arnold's poem is complete in itself, and while a certain curiosity as to the origin of his poem is natural, full appreciation of it does not require an accurate comparison with the ancient source. Nor is there need to look up and identify all the Oriental names that appear in the poem, especially in its first part. The names that are important explain themselves, and the others serve another purpose. All we need know geographically is that the armies meet on the shores of the Oxus, a great river south of Turkestan and to the north of modern Persia. And the characters we need to keep in mind are few. The Persian army, on which side Rustum fought, was led by Ferood, assisted by Gudurz and several other chiefs; their king, Kai Khosroo, was not at this time upon the field. On Sohrab's side, Peran-Wisa, with his lieutenant Haman, commanded the wild Tartar tribes of King Afrasiab. In Seistan, in the heart of Persia, lived the white-haired Zal, Rustum's aged father. The purpose of the other names of places and people used so lavishly in the poem is of course to give the atmosphere of Oriental life and custom in which the story moves. Especially effective in this way is the description of the marshaled hosts preparatory to the battle. We recall how Scott, with like success, uses local names for the same purpose; and when we remember how devotedly Arnold admired the great works of Greek literature, we are not surprised to find him, in this particular as in others, following the notable example of Homer himself. But though we may not care to follow in detail the changes that Arnold introduces in telling his story, we cannot help being conscious of the vital bearing of the minor elements upon the total effect of the poem. The motives that compel each hero to the conflict, and that deter Rustum from revealing his identity, the strange effect that each had on the other, the wavering fortunes of battle that give the father the nominal victory, but not at the expense of the son's |