.v^^' .^^^^ .0 o \<^' / 0^ .0 ^, LONGMANS' ENGLISH CLASSICS EDITED BY GEORGE RICE CARPENTER, A.B. PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND ENGLISH COMPOSITION IN COLUMBIA COLLEGE SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER LONGMANS' ENGLISH CLASSICS EDITED BY GEORGE RICE CARPENTER, A.B. PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND ENGLISH COMPOSITION IN COLUMBIA COLLEGE With full Notes, Introductions, Bibliographies, and other Explanatory and Illustrative Matter. Crown 8w. Cloth. 1. IRVING'S TALES OF A TRAVELLER. With Introduction by Professor Brander Matthews, of Columbia College, and Notes by the Editor of the Series. 2. GEORGE ELIOT'S SILAS MARNER. Edited by Professor Robert Herrick, of the University of Chicago. 3. SCOTT'S WOODSTOCK. Edited by Professor Bliss Perrt, of Princeton College. 4. DEFOE'S HISTORY OF THE PLAGUE IN LONDON. Edited by Professor G. R. Carpenter, of Columbia College. 5. WEBSTER'S FIRST BUNKER HILL ORATION, together with other Addresses relating to the Revolution. Edited by Professor F. N. Scott, of the University of Michigan. 6. MACAULAY'S ESSAY ON MILTON. Edited by J. G. — Croswell, Head-Master of the Brearley School, formerly Assistant Professor in Harvard University. 7. SHAKSPERE'S A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. Edited by Professor G. P. Baker, of Harvard University. 8. MILTON'S L'ALLEGRO, IL PENSEROSO, COMUS, AND LYCIDAS. Edited by Professor W. P. Trent, of the University of the South. 9. SHAKSPERE'S MERCHANT OF VENICE. Edited by Pro- fessor Francis B. Gummere, of Haverford College. 10. COLERIDGE'S THE ANCIENT MARINER. Edited by Herbert Bates, Instructor in English in the University of Nebraska. Other volumes are in preparation. KWl ■■■■I HIH Hiii ^ . 4 lfl|H|l lllllllll^ iiliH Hv' ' ii'^Mii^H ^^^^^^^^^^ 8HHil|^^ ifl M W'k^ ' ■ ^ )^^ i^P'''^^J^mL Ulliiil^^^ K4\ • M |HHH^ 9^^^ ' ^M^Bk 1 SAMUEL TAYLOK COLEKIDUE (After a painting by Washington Allston) K Congnuins' Q!nglisli Classics "^ . V Cb / COLERIDGE'S THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER EDITED WITH NOTES AND AN INTRODUCTION HERBERT BATES, A.B. INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH IN THE UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA ^^^^^ LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. LONDON AND BOMBAY 1896 Copyright, 1S95 BY LO^'GMA^:S, GKEEX, AND CO. Press of J. J, Little & Ca Astor Place, New York PREFACE I HAVE treated this poem as introductory to poetry, aiming to help boys and girls to see the beauties of song- land. True, some seem elect, without aid ; others seem by nature debarred. There is, however, a great mean — the host of young people who may be taught to enjoy poetry. Editor and teacher must help them, not mere- ly by admiring, but by explaining admiration. Poetry reaches us, not by miracle, but by means most definite. The printed lines convey certain sounds pleasing in themselves. Yet to the untrained ear even this beauty must be demonstrated. Just so with the ideas, to us so suggestive. The student must be helped to grasp the idea, to master the material for emotion. His imagina- tion must do the rest. I have tried to avoid both extremes — cold analysis and vague appreciation. Appreciation can hardly be intel- ligibly conveyed. Analysis, carried too far, becomes mechanical, deadening,- leading even to snobbish patron- age of art so easily measured. It seems better, aiming at the mean, to explain the reason of our pleasure, and so lead others, first to see, then to feel, as we do. Such guidance is the object of this book. Alone it cannot accomplish this. The teacher is needed, the teacher who, feeling what poetry is, shall yet be will- ing patiently to slacken his pace, to explain, to encourage — perhaps along dull paths — other feet to the pleasant eminences of poetry. H. B. CONTENTS PAGE Introduction ix Chronological Table xxxviii The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 1 INTRODUCTION I. The Author "I have known/^ says Wordsworth, ^^ many men who have clone wonderful things, but the only wonderful man I ever saw was Coleridge/' Yet a recent critic speaks of this same man as a ^^ poetical Skimpole," who died " after four decades of inglorious dependence upon rich men's bounties." And, strange as it may seem, both are, in some measure, right. As a boy, Coleridge was unboylike, moping alone over story-books, or cutting down — a knight of his own imag- ined romances — ranks of unoffending thistles with his mimic sword. In part, this was due to his dreamy, im- aginative nature ; in part, to his delicate health, which kept him from ruder sports. But it was only for the first nine years of his life (] 772-1781) that he was to enjoy the quiet of his country home. The death of his father, the pedantic, lovable, unworldly rector of Ottery St. Mary's, left him an orphan, and he was taken away from his peaceful Devon to the great charity-school, Christ's Hospital, in the busy heart of London. Here, according to Charles Lamb, the life of a boy without friends — and Coleridge had none near — was far from happy. There was little food, often bad food, and sometimes savage injustice in the guise of discipline. Yet the strict government may have been good for Coleridge's wayward temperament ; and literature, however unkindly the guides, was an open land. Once, it is true, disheart- X INTRODUCTION eiied, he sought escaj^e in apprenticeship to a shoemaker, but was forced back into the reluctant pursuit of learn- ing. Yet, even under schoolmaster Bow3'er's frown, his' dream-life went on. One incident is amusing. He was walking the crowded Strand, — swimming, in mind and arms, an imaginary sea. His outstretched hand brushed a stranger^'s pocket. He was promptly grasped. ^' What, so young and so wicked ! '' " But I'm not a pickpocket, sir ; I thought I was Leander swimming the Hellespont.^^ And the stranger, admiring, obtained for him entrance to a circulating library. Years later, De Quincey speaks of the mature Coleridge's ^' difficulty in regaining his posi- tion amono- davlisfht realities.'' The man was no less a dreamer than the boy. Dreamer or no, Coleridge rose to be Ca^^tain, or first student. Consequently he was transferred, on leaving school, to Cambridge University, to Jesus College. Here he remained two years. But he took no degree. Debts ; failure to win a scholarship ; radical views in religion, which dis23leased the authorities ; and, De Quincey says, ^•'a heavy disappointment in love," drove him friendless into the London streets. In discouragement, he joined a regiment of dragoons, under the name of " Comberback," appropriate to his horsemanship. But a pencilled lament in Latin betrayed him ; and his friends extricated him and sent him back to Cambridge. A few months, however, found him once more adrift, this time with a new friend, Eobert Southey, a poet of smaller genius but of bulkier accomplishment, another young dreamer of freedom, strayed from the University fold. These two, with a few kindred spirits, planned the Pantisocracy, an ideal community, a little like the later *' Brook Farm," to be founded in some terrestrial paradise beside the Susquehanna, where there would be but two hours of work each day, and poetry, philosophy, and INTRODUCTION xi golden dreams illimitable. But golden dreams require, alas, a golden foundation. The poet-emigrants got no far- ther than Bristol, Southey^s home. There their plans stopped, temporarily from lack of funds, ultimately from the intrusion of other interests. The two poets fell in love with two sisters. Southey married Edith Fricker, Coleridge married Sara, and the prospects of the Panti- socracy languished. Coleridge was never practical. Of all the steps of his life, however, including the enlisting, his marriage was the maddest. His total income, except for a condi- tional offer of a few pounds from a publisher, was approx- imately nothing. But he had " no solicitude on the subject." He hoped, indeed, to raise enough produce on his little patch of ground to support himself and his ^'^ pensive Sara." Of course his unsubstantial plans failed to produce substantial results. He tried one device after another — lectured, established a newspaper, published his '•' Juvenile Poems," wrote for the Morning Clironide, took private pupils, and preached in local Unitarian churches — yet, had it not been for the kindly help of Southey and of the publisher Cottle, he could hardly have contrived to pay the expenses of life. Hemember, however, that this inadequacy was not en- tirely his fault. His liealth was poor — it had been from the first. His best work had to be done spontaneously ; the knowledge that he must do well seemed to embarrass him. Besides, his home life was unhappy. His wife did not understand him, nor could he sympathize with her. Severe attacks of facial neuralgia, too, were driving him to the use of laudanum, the drug that was, for the rest of his life, in the words of Foster, '^'^to shatter the most extraordinary faculties I have ever yet seen resident in a form of flesh and blood." Yet, little as he had accomplished, it is at this tim.3 xii INTRODUCTION that Hazlitt writes of him, '' You wished him to talk for- ever. His genius had angelic wings/' All who met him felt that this young man was remarkable. Yet what, in 1796 — just one year before the writing of the " Ancient Mariner '' — had this remarkable young man actually accomplished ? His early poems are of no great merit. Swinburne doubts whether the " Religious Mus- ings " or the '^ Lines to a Young Ass" '^ be the more damnable," but notes '' Time, Real and Imaginary " as the " sweetest among the verses of boys who were to grow up great." The promise, such as it is, is indefinite ; the bud hints little of the fruit. The verse is conventional, of but formal excellence. The poet had not yet awakened to his real self. Nor was Southey the man to awake him. The man who could rouse him, who did rouse him, was yet to come into his life. This new influence was William Wordsworth, then poet merely in prospect, his verses penned but unprinted, pondering his theories, and preaching his doctrines to a little admiring circle. It was in 1797 that Coleridge met him. Their removal to Nether-stoAvey brought the two poets together and led to one of the most famous and most fruitful of poetic intimacies, a friendship that affected the whole history of English literature. Let us see Coleridge with the eyes of Dorothy Words- worth. ^' At first," she writes, '^ I thought him very plain, that is for about three minutes. He is pale, has a wide mouth, thick lips, and not very good teeth, longish, loose-growing, half-curling, rough black hair. But if you hear him speak for five minutes, you think no more of these." Hazlitt, another of the group, says, " His forehead is broad and high, light, as if built of ivory, with large projecting eyebrows ; and his eyes rolled be- riCath them like a sea with darkened lustre. He removed iJl doubts by beginning to talk. He did not cease while / \ INTRODUCTION xiii he stayed, nor has he since, that I know of." De Quincey says of his eyes, '' And it was from the peculiar appear- ance of haziness or dreaminess, which mixed Avith their light, that I recognized my object/' He immediately captivated Wordsworth ; in fact the captivation was mutual. And mutual admiration is not a bad thing for genius of a disheartened turn. The two became at once inseparable, each bringing out the other's best, pacing the windy downs, with no companion but the admiring Dorothy. True, their choice of walks dif- fered. Coleridge liked *' uneven ground,'' loved to *^ break through straggling branches of copsewood;" Wordsworth preferred "a straight gravel walk," with no '^collateral interruptions," — tastes, by the way, oddly suggestive of the differences of their poetry. The country was ideal, " with woods, smooth down, valleys with brooks running down through green meadows to the sea." '' Whether," says Professor Shairp, '^ it was the freedom from the material ills of life, or the secluded beauty of the Quantock, or the converse with Words- worth, or all combined, there cannot be any doubt that this was, as it lias been called, his cmjms mirahilis, his poetic prime. It was the year of "^ Genevieve,' ' The Dark Ladie,' ' Kubla Khan,' the * Ode to France,' the ''Lines to Wordsworth,' the '^ Ancient Mariner,' and the ' First Part of Christabel,' not to mention many other poems of less mark. It was to Wordsworth the hopeful dawning of a new day which completely fulfilled itself ; to Coleridge, the brief blink of a poetic morning which had no noon." " Here," says Mrs. Oliphant, '' the two poets came to the edge of their first joint publication, a book which, amid all its manifold imperfections, its presumptions and assumptions, was yet to give the world assurance of two lights of the greatest magnitude in its firmament." This xiv INTRODUCTION publication was the ^'^ Lyrical Ballads/^ At the time, little but the imperfections received notice, though — in comparison with Wordsworth, the prime offender — Cole- ridge escaped with light criticism. Coleridge had con- tributed little, — the " Rime of the Ancient Mariner," and a few other poems. The rest of the volume illus- trated Wordsworth's theories of poetry, which, stated briefly, were that the simple emotions of daily life and the simple details of daily life are not out of place iu poetry. These simple emotions, Wordsworth further held, should be expressed in the simple language of daily life, in the language of peasants, not in any artificial ^^ poetic dic- tion/' There is obviously much truth in this. Words- worth, however, stated his case in the most aggressive way. In a few poems, too, he carried his practice too far, writing of '^ idiot boys'' and *^ household tubs," giv- ing, undeniably, good opportunity for ridicule. And the critics, taking advantage of this, ignored all tlie real beauty of the poems. Coleridge, it seems, understood Wordsworth's theory even better than did W^ordsworth himself, and did much, afterwards, to explain what his friend really aimed at. But, be the theory as it might, the new manner was to prevail, and the publication of the '^'Ballads" marked, in the history of English poetry, a revolution heralded by Burns, Cowper, and Blake, but now first understandingly set afoot by these young cham- pions of simplicity. The '^Rime of the Ancient Mariner," save in its irreg- ular metre, its moral of love for the humblest of creatures, and its very simple diction, bears little trace of this new manner of poetry. It seems, indeed, to have been re- garded as rather a fiat failure, or, as Sou they termed it, ^''avery Dutch attempt at the sublime." Even Words- worth failed to find in it any great merit. It is interest- ing to read his note in a subsequent edition. He says INTROD UGTION xv that the reader owes to him the republication of the jDoem : — "The Author was himself very desirous that it should be sup- pressed. This has arisen from a consciousness of the defects of the Poem, and from a knowledge that many Persons had been much displeased with it. The Poem of my Friend has, indeed, many great defects ; first, that the principal person has no distinct character, either in his profession of Mariner, or as a human being who having been long under the control of supernatural impressions, might be supposed himself to partake of something supernatural ; secondly, that he does not act, but is constantly acted upon ; thirdly, that the events having no necessary connection, do not produce' each other ; and lastly, that the imagery is somewhat too laboriously accumulated. Yet the Poem contains many delicate touches of passion, and indeed, the passion is everywhere true to Nature ; a great many of the stanzas present beautiful images, and are expressed with unusual felicity of language ; and the versification, tho' the metre is in itself unfit for long poems, is harmonious and artfully varied, exhibiting the utmost power of that metre, and every variety of which it is capable. It therefore appeared to me that these several merits (the first of which, namely, that of the passion, is of the highest kind) gave to the Poem a value which is not often possessed by better Poems. On this ac- count, I requested of my Friend to permit me to republish it." It was not, in fact, for years, that the '^^ Ancient Mariner '^ took its present deserved position as one of the immortal poems of tlie language. Coleridge had written ahead of his time. He had to wait for appreciation. His life, after this, we may pass over rapidly. In many ways the story is cheerless. It was the philosopher who lived on. The poet, the best of him, seems to have passed away with the passing of that year at Quantock. For a year or so Coleridge travelled in Germany with the Wordsworths, studying a little, and translating Schil- ler's ^^ Death of Wallenstein.'' In 1799 he retired with Wordsworth into the Lake resfion of northern Eno^land — a region that gave to this group, Southey, Coleridge, and xvi INTRODUCTION Wordsworth, the name of the ^^ Lake School." There AVordsworth remained. Not so Coleridge. Separated en- tirely from liis family, Avho were supported by the less gifted but more dutiful Southey, he roamed at large. He made short flights to London, once even to Malta, returning always to the old shelter, to the old com- panions, who, however, shattered as he was in health and will, could no longer stimulate him to poetic effort. In 1814, determined to overcome the opium-habit, he placed himself under the care of Mr. Gilman of High- gate, near .London. With this help, to some degree, he succeeded, but it was too late to recall the best of his powers. He still wrote brilliant fragments of verse, but his work as poet was virtually closed. His new work, different as it was, was no less wonderful. "A Doctor Johnson of the nineteenth century," he still talked mar- vellously to groups of admiring friends, to young poets, young critics, young philosopliers, who came from far and near to hear him, most with reverence ; a few, like Oar- lyle, in the gruff contempt of youth. It Avas in these later years that he accomplished the bulk of his prose work — work that established his reputation as philosopher and as critic. And so he lived, till, at last, after fifteen years, the end came, the visit of '' gentle Sleep, with wings of healing." Coleridge had, he owned, a '' smack of Hamlet " in him. He realized, it was his burden to realize, his own inade- quacy. It was, in part, this that drove him into philo- sophic speculation. *' There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness. For hope grew round me like the twining vine. And fruit and foliage not my own seemed mine. INTRODUCTION xvii But now afflictions bow me to the earth, Nor care I that they rob rae of my mirth, But oh ! each visitation Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth, My shaping power of imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel. But to be still and patient, all I can ; And haply by abstruse research to seal From my own nature all the natural man ; — This was my sole resource, my only plan : Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul." He lacked self-help, — needed, as Mrs. Oliphant said, " to weave himself in with some more steady, more deep- rooted being." As to his philosophy, critics disagree. Some say that its golden haze hinted more than it really hid. Almost certainly the philosophy ultimately spoiled the poet. And yet his fame as philosopher dwindles year by year. It is as poet that he will live. " The highest lyric work," says Mr. Swinburne, '^ is either passionate or imaginative ; of passionate, Coleridge has nothing ;. but for height and perfection of imaginative quality, he is the greatest of lyric poets. This was his special power, and this is his special 23raise." II. The Origin^ of the Poem. Of this Wordsworth gives the following account : "In the autumn of 1797, he (Coleridge), my sister, and myself, started from Alfoxden pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit Linton and the Valley of Stones near to it ; and as our united funds were small, we agreed to defray the expense of the tour by writ- ing a poem to be sent to the Neiv 31ontMy Magazine. Accordingly we set off, and proceeded along the Quantock hills, towards Watchet, and in the course of this walk was planned the poem of the 'Ancient Mariner,' founded on a dream,* as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend * A dream of " a skeleton ship with figures in it." XVlll INTRODUCTION Mr. Ci'uikshank. Much the greatest part of the story was Mr. Cole- ridge's invention ; but certain parts I suggested ; for example, some crime was to be committed which should bring upon the 'Old Navi- gator,' as Coleridge afterward delighted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a consequence of the crime and of his own wander- ings. I had been reading in Shelvocke's ' Voyages ' a day or two before that while doubling Cape Horn, they frequently saw Albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet. ' Suppose,' said I, 'you represent him as having killed one of these birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the crime.' The incident w^as thought fit for the purpose, and adopted accordingly. I also suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead men, but do not recollect that I had anything more to do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with which it was subse- quently accompanied was not thought of by either of us at the time, at least not a hint of it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous afterthought. We began the composition together, on that to me memorable evening. I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of the poem, in particular, ' And listened like a three years' child : The Mariner had his will.' These trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr. C. has with unnecessary scrupulosity recorded, slipped out of his mind, as well they might. As we endeavored to proceed conjointly (I speak of the same evening) our respective manners proved so widely different that it would have been quite presumptuous for me to do anything but separate from an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog. . . . We returned by Duburton to Alfoxden. The ' Ancient Mariner,' grew and grew till it became too important for our first object, which was limited to our expectation of five pounds; and we began to think of a volume, which was to consist, as Mr. Coleridge has told the world, of poems chiefly on supernatural sub- jects, taken from common life, but looked at, as much as might be, through an imaginative medium." — "Memoirs of William Words- worth," by Christopher Wordsworth. The passage from Slielvocke is as follows : "They saw no fish, nor one sea-bird, except a disconsolate black Albitross, who accompanied us for several days, hoA^ering about us as I INTRODUCTION xix if he had lost himself, till Hatley (my second captain), observing in one of his melancholy fits that this bird was always hovering near us, imagined from his color that it might be some ill-omen. That which, I supposed, induced him the more to encourage his superstition was the continued series of contrary tempestuous winds, which had oppressed us ever since we had got into this sea. But, be that as it would, he after some fruitless attempts at length shot the albitross, not doubting (perhaps) that we should have a fair wind after it." — Shelvockc, "Voyage round the World," 1726. Coleridge says, with regard to the origin of the poem : " The incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural, and the excellence aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions as would naturally accompany such situations, supposing them real. And real in this sense they have been to every human being who, from whatever source of delusion, has at any time believed himself under super- natural agency. ... In this idea originated the plan of the ' Lyrical Ballads,' in which it was agreed that my endeavors should be directed to persons and characters supernatural or at least romantic, yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to secure for these shadows of imagina- tion that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment which con- stitutes poetic faith." — "Biographia Literaria." These accounts are valuable as showing from how many sources the creative mind may absorb its material. But the poem, composed of all these stray elements, is no more a collection of them than a fire is a mere collection of the various twigs, straw^, and papers that feed it. Every one of us, in every day, stores up a little saving of sights, sounds, and thoughts. A creative mind will, at some later day, transform all these into some new whole, sprung from, but unlike, any of its various sources. Imagina- tion is but a transubstantiation of fact, a transmuting of the commonplace. And genius is but a rare endowment of this transmuting imagination. XX INTRODUCTION III. The Form of the Poem. The ^^ Ancient Miiriner" is a poem in substance and in form. Let us first examine this form. Read aloud the first stanza. It does not^ you see, sound like ordinary prose. What is the difference ? It is not in the rhyme, for, if you change '^ one of three ^^ to " one of five/' the sound will still be unlike that of prose. Read the stanza a second time, this time after a ^' sing- song " fashion. You will find that you pronounce some syllables heavily, — with emphasis, or stress ; while others you pass over lightly. Your reading will be much like this : It is an dnciQiit mdrmer, And he stopiiQth. one of three, By thy long gray he^rd and glittQvmg eye, Now tvheretore stdppst thou we?" See now, if, in these light and heavy syllables, you can- not find some system. Write out a '^ scheme '^ of the stanza, marking the heavy, emphasized sounds ^, and the light sounds, which you pass over quickly, w. You will find the result as follows : Vy" _^ 1^ ^ \^ _^ V^ O* V^ <^ ^^ V^ -£. v^ -£. W ^ V^ -i- V^ ^ No two heavy syllables come together, and there are never, between two heavy syllables, more than two light syllables, — usually there is only one. You might say, then, that the syllables usually come by turns, first one light, then one heavy, etc., or, better still, that the line consists, for the most part, of groiqys of two syllables, and * Tlie emphasis on the last syllable of mariner is slight, merely a secondary accent. INTRODUCTION xxi that in each group the first is light, the second heavy. If there are three syllables, the first two are light. These groups are called feet. Examine, now, any line in the poem. You will find the same thing true. We may, then, make a rule. The poem, we may say, consists of groups of syllables, each group consisting of two syllables, or sometimes of three. In each group, one syllable receives extra emphasis, a little more than any other syllable in the same group. This is the rule, not only for this poem, but for all English poetry. If, then, you arrange words so that the emphatic syllables, when read naturally, will come at these intervals, you will be making verse. You will, at least, if you comply with one more condition. The poem, we have seen, consists of groups of syllables, and these groups we called feet. There is another divi- sion. The poem is jorinted in lines. Each line contains a certain number of feet. Eurthermore, the whole poem consists of groups of lines, or sta7izas. How are these made up ? In each stanza of four lines, you will find that the first and third lines contain four groups ; the second and fourth, three groups. That is, there is a larger grouping than feet. As feet are groups of syllables, so lines are groups of feet, and stanzas are groups of lines. And all these must follow some regular rule, or, at least, some principle of symmetry. If you can, now, arrange words so that they will natu- rally be read in this way, you will be writing verse. Try writing a stanza that shall sound like the first stanza of the ^^ Ancient Mariner." By imitating the effect, you will the better appreciate the art. In this 2:)oem, every group — with a variation that will be spoken of later — begins with a light syllable, and ends with an emphasized syllable. Such a foot, if of two syl- lables, is called iambic ; if of three, anapestic. In the xxii INTRODUCTION first stanza the first four groups are iambic ; the fifth, ana- pestic ; the sixth and seventh, iambic ; the eighth, ana- pestic ; the ninth and tenth, iambic ; the eleventh, anapes- tic. Examine other stanzas in the same way. If you have studied music at all, you will see that verse is much like music. In music, the groups are called measures ; in verse, they are called feet. In music, the accent is always at the beginning of the measure. So it is in some kinds of verse ; in this kind, however, it is always at the end. A measure in music may have many notes. A measure in verse very seldom indeed has over three. In music, you find length, pitch, and even accent indicated. In verse, your only guide is the natural pro- nunciation of the words, which shows you where to put the emphasis. But there is one marked resemblance. In music, in two measures of the same length, one measure will have two notes, say a half note and a quarter note ; another will have three notes, say three quarter notes.' And these two measures are equivalent in time. Just so, in verse, an anapest, of three syllables, takes no more tmie than an iambic foot, of two. The syllables are pro- nounced more quickly, made shorter— that is all. And this usually gives the line an effect of speed and light- ness. Observe, for instance, stanza Iviii. There one line is made up entirely of anapests,— - And the sky and the sea and the sea and the sky/^ This is not " irregular/^ Cole- ridge chose this form deliberately. If he had wished he could have written -And sky and sea, and sea and sky.^^ But he preferred the swifter effect, and so used anapests. Let us now, having established our rule, look at the exceptions. Take, first, those in the form of the feet. The ^second line of stanza vi. runs, ^ Merrily did we drop.^' Surely we cannot say -Merr^ly.^' The right INTRODUCTION xxiii reading is the natural reading, ^' Merrily did we drop/"* or, putting it in symbols, -^ v^ ^ ^ w ^ . What has hap- pened ? The first foot has simply been inverted. The heavy syllable comes, not at the end, but at the beginning. Instead of being iambic, the first foot has become, in terms of verse, trochaic. The line has the usual number of groups and of syllables in the groups, but the arrange- ment is varied ; the accent has been drawn ahead, as in syncopation in music. This gives a pleasant variety to the sound. Other lines of the same kind are " Hither to work us weal," '' Red as a rose is she,'^ " Nodding their heads before her goes." Try to find others. The 2^06^11^ we have seen, is divided into lines, and these lines are combined in groups, called stanzas. These groups consist, usually, of four lines. In each, the first and third lines are of four feet, the second and fourth of three. That is, each stanza can be divided into two parts, into halves, each of these having one line of four feet and one of three. And the last syllable of the first half rhymes with the last syllable of the second. In the first stanza, for example, ^^ three "at the end of line tw^ rhymes with ^'^me" at the end of line four. All this results in a certain balance between the two parts, a cer- tain symmetry. Those who have studied music will see it is a little like the phrasing that one finds there. Eead the first few stanzas aloud and note the symmetry of sound. Look at the printed page and see how it is represented in the form. The two parts of the stanza match, both to ear and to eye. This stanza is imitated from old ballads. Compare, for instance, the following : " It fell about the Martinmas Whan nichts are lang and mirk, That the carline wife's three sons came hame, And their hats were o' the birk. xxiv INTRODUCTION ** It neither grew in syke nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh, But at the gates o' Paradise That birk grew fair eneugh." ** The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, The channerin' worm doth chide. Gin we be mist out o' our place, A sair pain we maun bide." You will find this stanza, too, in many hymns, — in, for example, '' There is a green hill far away.^^ It is of all stanzas, probably, the most common. What variations does Coleridge introduce into the form of this stanza ? We see at first sight that there are some, for the stanzas are many of them of more than four lines. AYhere are the extra lines inserted ? What is the effect of their presence on the rhyme-system ? Let us take up the variations one by one. The first consist in adding, after the third line, an extra line, rhyming with the line that it follows, suspend- ing, so to speak, the flow of the stanza. Such in stanza Ixxix. is the line, " Which to their corses came again." If this line be omitted, the stanza will be like any four- line stanza. Of the same kind are stanzas xxxix., xliv., xlv., Ixii., Ixiii., Ixiv., Ixxii., Ixxiv., Ixxxii., Ixxxix., cxxii., cxxxviii. In stanza xii., the extra line follows the first line, instead of following the third. Another variation is in adding two lines, following out the regular structure. Line five, like lines one and three, is unrhymed. Line six rhymes with lines two and four. Of this t^qoe are stanzas * xxiii., * xxiv., * xli., Ix., * Ixv., Ixxxiv., Ixxxvi., *lxxxvii., cii., cxvii., cxxi., cxxvi., cxxix., cxxxv. Stanzas marked* rej)eat, in line six, the rhyme-word of line four. Stanza xlviii. contains all these variations. It ap- I INTRODUCTION xxv proaches veiy closely^ and may have suggested, the stanza that Scott uses in '^^Marmion.'' Observe, in addition to what is noted above, alliteration^ the repeating of the same sound — not necessarily of the same letter — at the beginning of words that stand near together, as in, " The Z'reeze to 1)\o\y/' the '' ^6'estern ^rave,""* etc. Watch for instances of this. Observe its effect. You will find, too, what is known as " medial rhyme," where the middle of the line rhymes with the end of the same line, as in " The guests are met, the feast is set" or, ^'And he shone hriglit, and on the right." Usually this occurs in the third line of the four-line stanza, or in the corresponding line of the longer stanzas. Remember that all this deals only with the form. Verse may be perfect in form, and yet have not a spark of poetry. We have found what makes verse. Let us see what more is needed to make a poem. IV. What is Poetry ? The ^' Ancient Mariner " is a poem. What do we mean by that ? Simply that it is written in the form known as verse ? By no means. There must be something more. Not only must poetry have verse ; verse should, to make a poem, have added to it — poetry. And what is this poetry ? Certainly it is not poetry to say, — " I put my hat upon my heacP, And went into the Strand, And there I met another man, Whose hat was in his hand." This has the form of poetry ; but what is wanting ? Are the words too simple ? Look at another stanza, this time from the " Ancient Mariner ^^ : xxvi INTRODUCTION " We drifted o'er the harbor-bar, And I with sobs did pray — ' let me be awake, my God ! Or let me sleep alway.' " Here the words are no less simple, and the sound is very much the same. AVliat is the difference ? What is in one that is not in the other ? Nothing in the first would move anybody's feelings. Few, in reading the second, can fail to feel emotion. The first states facts that neither we nor the writer care anything about. The second ex- presses an emotion that aj)peals at once to all. Here is one difference — intensity of feeling. But all intensity of feeling would not make poetry. Suppose you miss a train, are insulted by a street-car con- ductor, are exultant over a shrewd bargain in business. Would feeling of this sort fit poetry ? Apparently, then, we must limit the kind of feeling. It must have dignity, a certain elevation, a certain beauty, and must be seen, not too crudely, but through softening, enhancing mists of imagination. Emotion, then, dignified, beautiful, idealized, — not immediate, but recollected in tranquil- lity — is one thing needed. And this is about as far as we can go. Poetry, some say, is heightened expression. It demands heightened thoughts, intensified feeling. To write a poem, one must attempt to utter the unutterable ;■ the greater the poem, the more approximate the success. But it can never, of itself, quite accomplish its aim. It can but take the reader near to the poet^s original inspiring vision — within sight, perhaps within touch. It is for the reader to complete the work ; take, with his own imagina- tion, the last step ; bridge the abyss and stand where the poet stands, where he invites. And this imagination, this ability to respond to the summons of poetry, you must find by patience, by con- stant fellowship with the best of the woidd's poets, by INTRODUCTION \ open sympatli}^, by steady striving to cultivate, in your- self, the poet-sense of the wonder, the unexplored infini- tude, of the things about us and over us. How shall you best appreciate this particular poem ? That is the next point to consider. Y. Method of Study. At the outset, let us see what not to do. Do not study the poem as a piece of English to be ^' parsed." Do not, if you are a teacher, make your pupils rewrite it into prose. It is not meant to be written in prose. Poetical ideas are meant for poetry ; in prose they are out of place — as awk- ward as the poor Albatross must have been if he tried to walk the ship's deck. Do not make of the poem a combined edition of grammar, spelling-book, dictionary, rhetoric, and encyclopedia. It is a poem, and as a poem it should be studied. Avoid merely mechanical methods of study. Point out, for examples, words that are suggestive, picturesque, poetic, — words that suggest a whole clause of description. Do not, however, think that the poetry lies in these par- ticular words. They are suggestive here. In another place they would be, very likely, as prosaic as any others. Too elaborate analysis of the essence of poetry will fail of its end. You will merely kill tlie goose, and get not a golden Qgg for your pains. Macaulay was right in say- ing, ^^ The man who is best able to take a machine to pieces will be the man most competent to form another machine of similar power. In the branches of physical and moral science which admit of perfect analysis, he who can resolve will be able to combine. But the analysis which criticism can make of poetry is necessarily imper- fect. One element must forever elude its researches, and that is the very element by which poetry is poetry.'"' xxviii INTRODUCTION How, then, shall Ave approach the poem ? What plan will lead, most helpfully, to sympathetic appreciation ? First, gather from tlie pages that have gone before, the individnality of the man who wrote the poem. Next, get, incidentally, an idea of why he told the story. After that read the whole poem through, rapidly, at one sitting. Then you will be ready to study it. " Study ^^ has, perhaps, an unfortunate suggestion. It recalls struggles with Latin and Greek poems. Say, then, rather, that you are to endeavor to extract from the poem, not merely Avhat you catch up in casual and careless reading, but what you can garner by diligent, appreciative search, stanza by stanza, line by line. In Avriting it, the poet pondered every detail. In reading it, ponder, in your turn, each slightest sign, that it may render up to you the significance that he entrusted to it. You may hurry through a gallery of paintings, getting but a blurred glimpse of the Avhole array. Or you may work your way through, step by step, studying each can- vas till you are sure you can make it mean to you what it meant to the man that made it. In this poem, each stanza is a picture. Slow study, sympathetic repetition, will bring out beauties that the hasty reader gets no hint of. What is more, whenever, afterward, you read the poem rapidly — just as Avhen you pass through the gallery rapidly — you will get, in your passing glance, not merely the blurred glimpse, but you will recall, on the hint of that, all the beauty that you may have found in your hour of study. The riches, once extracted, will never relapse. How is such study to be directed ? Not, as I have said, to derivations and such philological facts. These are use- ful, but this is not the place for them. Here they are useful only so far as they enable you to grasp the poet's precise meaning. It is to help you in this that the notes INTROD UCTION xx i x are inserted, not to administer information important in itself. Gain from study of a i^oem is twofold : appreciation of what the poet says, and appreciation of the art by which he says it. Add the poet's vision to your vision. Add too, to your OAvn power of expression, a little, if only the tiniest fragment, of the power that you find in him. How are you to appreciate what the poet says ? Resolve to see every scene distinctly. Picture, for example, the *^ three ^^ on the way to the feast, and the gaunt figure of the Ancient Mariner, picking out, with his glittering- eye, the '^one^^ who must hear his tale. See, if you can, some good illustrations. Dore's, while over-wrought, may prove suggestive. But, if your imagination be vivid, it Avill show you better pictures than you can find printed or engraved. In this process the teacher should help, by questioning his pupils with regard to each scene, and by having them compare the mental pictures that they see. This will suggest to each much that would have otherwise passed unnoticed. Build up each scene from its detail. See, for example, that the " ship '^ be not modern. It uiust harmonize with the Ancient ^Mariner. Recall, if you saw them at the WorkVs Fair, the models of the Columbus caravels. If you live by the sea, or have ever seen it, recall, from your own experience, scenes of calm, of storm, of moonrise, of sunset. If you have never seen the sea, recall pictures of the sky, of northern lights, star-dogged moons, bloody suns. How many of all the pictures in the poem can you duplicate in your own experience ? Remember that, after this, when you see these things again — a sea-bird following a ship, a harbor '^ strewn with level light " — you will ap- preciate them the more for having seen them here, under guidance of this sovereign lover of nature^s magic, ap- proaching them through the golden gate of poetry. XXX INTRODUCTION Try to appreciate, too, tlie poet's art. Ask constantly what artistic impulse prompted him to select this word, this incident, this metrical form. Why could it not, just as well, have been otherwise ? Think of all the possible means of expression, all the possible turns of the story, and try to decide wh}^, of all these, he settled on those before us. Examine every detail of the work. Try to find what purpose — jDerhaps, what unconscious purpose — inspired it. But do not, in this, lose sight of the more important thing — the emotion that pervades the whole. For method, take a few stanzas at each lesson, dwelling on each till, if possible, you have absorbed it into your memory, — not only in its words but in its spirit — till its poetry has become part of you, without the aid of printed letters. Try to enjoy without scorning study, and to study ^vithout missing enjoyment. Poetry, without pleasure, is profitless. VI. The Purpose of the Poem. Some will tell you to " interpret "' the poem. You would do better not to make the attempt. Shakespeare and Browning may need '^ interpreting '' — certainly they get it. But beware lest you extract from poems ideas which the authors never put in, — which have, in fact, originated in your own '^^ inner consciousness." As to the ''^Ancient Mariner," we have Coleridge's own assurance tliat it is innocent of deeper meaning than appears on the face : "Mrs. Barbaiild once told me that she admired the ' Ancient Mar- iner ' very much, but that there were two faults in it, — it was improb- able and had no moral. As for the probability, I owned that that might admit some question ; but as to the want of a moral, I told her that, in my judgment, the poem had too much, and that the only or chief fault, if I might say so, was the obtrusion of the moral senti- INTRODUCTION xxxi ment so openly on the reader as a principle or cause of action in a work of such pure imagination. It ought to have no more moral than the Arabian Nights' tale of the merchant's sitting down to eat dates by the side of a well, and throwing the shells aside, and lo ! a geni starts up, and says he must kill the aforesaid merchant, be- cause one of the date-shells had, it seemed, put out the eye of the geni's son."' — Coleridge, "Table-talk" (p. 324). Coleridge's leading idea was, it seems (see p. xvii.), merely to comjiose a thrilling poem of the snpernatural, founded on his friend\s strange dream of a ship full of dead men. The leading idea must have been the mystery of the ocean-spaces, where anything was possible ; and the presence of those beings invisible, inhabitants of every ele- ment. And it is through these stronger motives that we hear, like a quiet flute in the turmoil of an orchestra, the tender teaching, '^ He prayeth best who loveth best." A few say that the poem is an allegory, setting forth, in the form of a story, — as does " Pilgrim's Progress" — a " profound philosophy of life." The ship, such tell us, is 'Mife, or a life" ; the voyage, progress from childhood to maturity, ^' when the Me begins to be conscious of itself through the pressure upon it of the Not-me." One critic says that, without such interpretation, the poem is '^^ a mere musical farrago." Some of us may prefer musical farragos to unmusical metaphysics. Let us take the poem as Coleridge meant it, not as ingenious men may contrive to imagine that he meant it. Do not let people steal from you this beautiful dreamland storv, to turn it into rather a commonplace sermon. True ''interpreta- tion" is that which is content to accept, with humble ad- miration, the author's simple meaning. What is the lesson of the jioem ? You will find a little of it in the beautiful stanza that tells us to love all crea- tures, great and small. You will find far more in the spirit of the whole poem— a spirit to whicli hill and plain. xxxii INTRODUCTION sea and sky, have not lost their primal Avonder, — the splen- dor of the time " When meadow, grove, and stream, The earth and every common sight .... did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The gh)ry and the freshness of a dream." VII. Wider Readin^g. Read, besides the ^' Ancient Mariner," a few more of Coleridge^s poems. ^' Christabel," especially the First Part, you will be sure to enjoy, particularly if you will be content to appreciate the mystery without demanding an explanation. The whole charm of the poem lies in its being beyond explanation. '^ Kubla Khan " you will find fascinating — most of all, the first lines. Swinburne says of this, '^ For absolute melody and splendor, it were hardly rash to call it the first poem in the language, a supreme model of music, a model unapproachable except by Shel- ley.''^ You might read, besides these, the '^ Ode to France,"*' the '' Ode to Dejection," the ^' Lines to Wordsworth," " The Dark Ladie," " Love," and '' Frost at Midnight." After this yon may wander through the pages of his poems, pausing for whatever seems attractive. The plays you will find disappointing, the work of a man '^^ inapt for dramatic poetry." If you read them, it will be largely as a study. Read, at the same time, if you can, some of the poetry of W^ordsworth, — his poems about '^Lucy" ; a little, here and there, of the '' Prelude " and the '' Excursion " ; cer- tainly the great '' Ode on the Intimations of Immor- tality." Remember that he and Coleridge had, with all their diiferences, much in common. Read, if you can, a little of the work of the others of the group of friends, — | INTRODUCTION xxxiii Lamb, De Qniiicey, Southey^ Hazlitfc, and Leigli Hunt. See what qualities — if any — their work has in common. Make, in brief, this poem a centre, a nucleus, for more reading. That will give your work system, and help you to keep together as a whole your impressions of one period of literature. VIII. Some Criticisms on" the Poem. ' The student will be helped, in forming his opinion of the '^ Ancient Mariner,"^ by noticing what famous critics have said of it : *' It is so well known that it needs no fresh comment. Only I will say that it may seem as though this great sea-piece might have had more in it of the air and savor of the sea. Perhaps it is none the worse, and indeed any one speaking of so great and famous a poem must feel and know that it cannot but be right, although he or another may think it wouki be better if this were retrenched or that appended. And this poem is beyond question one of the supreme triumphs of poetry. The 'Ancient Mariner' has doubtless more of breadth and space, more of material force and motion, than anything else of the poet's. And the tenderness of sentiment which touches with significant colour the pure white imagination is here no more morbid or languid, as in the earlier poems of feeling and emotion. It is soft and piteous enough, but womanly rather than effeminate : and thus serves indeed to set off the strange splendours and boundless beauties of the story. For the execution, I presume no human eye is too dull to see how perfect it is and how high in kind of perfection. Here is not the speckless and elaborate finish which shows every- where the fresh rasp of file or chisel on its smooth and spruce excel- lence : this is faultless after the fashion of a flower or a tree. Thus has it grown : not thus has it been carved." — A. C. Swinburne, "Es- says and Studies," page 264. " Neither the poet himself nor his companions seem to have per- ceived the extraordinary superiority of this wonderful conception to the other poems with which it was published : for not only was its subject more elevated, but it possessed in fact all the completeness xxxi V IJS'TRODUCTION of execution and faithfulness to its plan which they failed in. While Wordsworth represented the light in the landscape chiefly in his imitation of the prominence sometimes given by the sunshine to the most insignificant spot, Coleridge carried out the similitude on his side with a faithfulness of the grandest kind. Like a great shadow moving noiselessly over the widest sweep of mountain and plain, a pillar of cloud — or like flight of indescribable fleecy hosts of winged vapors spreading their impalpable influence like a breath, changing the face of the earth, subduing the thoughts of men, yet nothing, and capable of no interpretation — such was the great poem destined to represent in the w^orld of poetry the effect which these mystic cloud agencies have upon the daylight and the sky." — Mrs. Oliphant, *' Literary History of England, 1790-1825."* "Fancies of the strange things which may very well happen, even in broad daylight, to men shut up alone in ships far off on the sea, seem to have arisen in the human mind in all ages with a peculiar readi- ness, and often have about them the fascination of a certain dreamy grace, which distinguishes them from other kinds of marvellous inventions. This sort of fascination the ' Ancient Mariner ' brings to its highest degree ; -it is the delicacy, the dreamy grace in his pres- entation of the marvellous, that makes Coleridge's work so remarka- ble. The too palpable intruders from the spirit world, in almost all ghost literature, in Scott and Shakespeare even, have a kind of coarse- ness or crudeness. Coleridge's power is in the very flneness with which, as with some really ghostly finger, he brings home to our in- most sense his inventions, daring as they are — the skeleton ship, the polar spirit, the inspiriting of the dead bodies of the ship's crew ; the ' Rime of the Ancient Mariner' has the plausibility, the perfect adap- tation to reason and the general aspect of life, which belongs to the marvellous when actually presented as part of a credible experience, in our dreams." — Walter Pater, in Ward's "English Poets." IX. Suggested Subjects for Composition's. A. Suggested Subjects for Long Compositions. — 1. The story of the poem. 2. Description and discussion of. the human characters in the j^oem. 3. The supernatural * The student will do well to read all that Mrs. Oliphant has to say in this book with regard to Wordsworth and Coleridge. INTROD UCTION xxxv figures and agencies of the poem. 4. The incident in the *^' Ancient Mariner^'' that most moves me. 5. The obvi- ous moral of the poem. (See page xxxi.) 6. The presence or absence of moral motive in the poem. (See page xxx.) 7. Why stories of the supernatural sometimes seem true. (See page xxxiv.) 8. The lack of human character in the poem. (See page XV.) 9. The elements that produce the effect of a dream. 10. The poem regarded as a picture of the sea. Is it accurate ? Is Mr. Swinburne's criticism just ? (See page xxxiii.) B. Suggested Subjects for Short Comjjositions. — 1. A description of some one scene, — the Death -ship, the Har- bor, the Calm. 2. The story of the Albatross, of the re- turn to the harbor, of the rising of the dead men. 3. A short treatment of one of the topics suggested for long compositions. 4. A discussion of the picture suggested by some one stanza. 5. A discussion of the form of some part of the j^oem. These are merely suggestions, a mere beginning of a list, to which each teacher may add indefinitely. See, so far as possible, that each pupil write on that j)hase of the poem that most interests him. C. Suggestions for Exam hiatiou. — To some extent build questions on the comments in the notes, and on the addi- tional comments made in class. Do not ask questions of formal detail, — how many fathom deep the spirit slid, what the Albatross ate, in what latitude ice occurs, and the like. Ask rather questions that wall lead the pupil to look into the meaning and into the poetry of the poem. The following questions may suggest others : 1. What happened to the Pilot's Boy? By what sig- nificant detail is it described ? 2. Describe Life-in-Death. Why is her appearance more horrible than that of Death ? 3. What is mentioned at the end of every ^'^Part" but the xxxvi INTRODUCTION last ? 4. Quote some stanza that you remember as par- ticularly musical. Explain its form. 5. What are the most effective details in the picture of the calm ? 6. ''^ They stood as signals to the land.'' Who? Describe the scene. What comment was made on it in the notes ? X, Bibliography. The standard edition of Coleridge's Poetical Works is that which appeared in 1834, the year of his death. The latest reprint, that of B. M. Pickering, 1877, is founded on this. There is also an edition by W. M. Eossetti, con- taining a reprint of the earliest form of the '' Ancient Mariner." For biographies, there is the '' Life of Coleridge," by James Gillman (1838) ; '^Reminiscences of Coleridge and Southey," by Joseph Cottle (1847); a '^ Life of Cole- ridge " (in the English Men of Letters Series), by H. D. Traill ; a '' Life," in " Lives of Famous Poets," by W. M. Rossetti. The new edition of Coleridge's letters (Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1895) casts not a little new light on his character and on the circumstances of his life. There is also much indirect biography contained in the writings of his friends and associates, in their letters, autobiographies, and reminiscent essays. Con- sult, for this, the works of De Quincey, Wordsworth, Southey, Lamb, Leigh Hunt, John "Foster, Hazlitt, and, later, Carlyle. Good examples of the early reviews will be found in the Edinhurgh Revieiu for September, 1816 ; in BlachivoocVs Magazine for October, 1819 ; and in the North American Review for October, 1834. Later maga- zine articles will be found in Blaclciuood's for November, 1871 ; in the Atlantic Monthly for April, 1880; and in the same magazine for September, 1895. INTROD UCTION xxx vii Helpful essays will be foimd in Edward Dowden's ''Studies in Literature/^ in J. C. S. Sbairp's ''Studies in Philosophy and Poetry/' in Mrs. Oliphant's "Literary History of England/' and in A. C. Swinburne's " Essays and Studies/' Good, too, especially for older readers, is Walter Pater's essay introducing the selections from Cole- ridge in Ward's " English Poets/' But it would be impossible to state in little space all the books that deal with a man whose personality was so essentially inter- woven with the literary life of his day. 1 XXXVlll INTRODUCTION S ^ Eh cs — as CO o o 02 o .2«. '-; to • 03 .• -g O „• «•; — ' S C -. a; , +j a> l-H « ig 0) o ^* o c: 0.2 S -,« CO INTRODUCTION XXXIX H^S M j:; O CS O ^ fcfl 2 ^ =5 8 S ■s^ 02 o « St-1 Q s c g « O c3 OO r E3 t, tH N ^ r^ IJi 8 8 fl4 '/. a 5 >» 00 as xl INTRODUCTION t ^, 1-; o ^ o s .14 w ai t3 A bi % % o I a o ^