Christabel

He had undertaken a translation of Wieland's Oberon, which was likely to be more troublesome than remunerative.

But most of all, he desired to ascertain his friend's criticism on his newest fragment, Christabel.

The bulk of his achievements were but fragmentary at the best.

Coleridge's mind was that extremely rara avis in terra, which combines the artistic with the philosophic temperament, two inherently opposed qualities.

He sought to disguise his surrender to these fantasies by clothing his desires in the garb of a severe philosophy of poetry.

He decided, in concert with Wordsworth, that it would be well for him to undertake a series of poems in which, as he put it, "The incident and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural, and the excellence arrived 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 supernatural agency." A cold and unproductive soil this, one would suppose, in which to grow the glowing flowers of Christabel, where night itself, peopled with occult alarms, cannot minimize the mingled horror and splendor of Geraldine's first appearance.

"Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark.

His last words, we are told, were, "O God, forgive my enemies, bless my friends, and receive my soul." We'll explore some daring do on the distaff side from the age of the highwaymen with the story of Fanny Murray, that glorious exception to the general truth that a life of prostitution seldom ends well, in the next spine-tingling true adventure tale from The Lives of the Highwaymen: Stories of the Rogues and Doxies Who Made the Romantic Age Spicy.

Before we finish this episode off, we've got to finish our reading of Christabel by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, which we started last week.

This will be part two of a total of two parts.

Now, Coleridge initially planned five parts, but part two, finished in 1800, was as far as he got.

So that's pretty cool.

Let's get on with the reading now.

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

And hence the custom and law began That still at dawn the sacristan, Who duly pulls the heavy bell, Five and forty beads must tell Between each stroke; a warning knell Which not a soul can choose but hear From Bratha Head to Windermere.

And so you can see that in 1794, as the Enlightenment is fading and the Romantic era is rising, we can see in this German poem that Goethe is sort of grappling with this transition period that's happening.

And then Coleridge, that same year, he started writing Christabel, his own long-form poem.

Between 1794, 1797, and 1804, he's writing this poem that would never be quite finished.

Um, but it bears a number of structural similarities in common with what, uh, would be, uh, come Sheridan Le Fanu's vampire novel in 17- in 1871.

But first, grab a noggin of lightning, bite your name in it, and sit back.

We've got a fantastic show for you tonight, with Amelia B. Edwards, The Phantom Coach, and Coleridge's Christabel, and of course, Bram Stoker's very own Dracula.

But first, let's learn about a haunted place, a legend of a spirit or two lingering about an old manor house or ruined abbey somewhere, or the ghost of a jilted bride that drifts through the glade where she was murdered.

Today's snack-sized report, an aperitif if you will, comes from Haunted England, The Penguin Book of Ghosts, by Jennifer Westwood and Jacqueline Simpson.

I'm looking at proper mainstream, high-tone-type spooky poetry, not street poetry.

We've got plenty of that.

But what this one is is Christabel by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

You may remember Samuel Taylor Coleridge as the fellow who brought you The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and a cautionary tale about the dangers of opium addiction.

He had undertaken a translation of Weiland's Oberon, which was likely to be more troublesome than remunerative.

But most of all he desired to ascertain his friend's criticism on his newest fragment, Christabel.

The bulk of his achievements were but fragmentary at the best.

Coleridge's mind was that extremely rara avis in terra, which combines the artistic with the philosophic temperament, two inherently opposed qualities.

He decided, in concert with Wordsworth, that it would be well for him to undertake a series of poems in which, as he put it, "The incident and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural.

And the excellence arrived 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 supernatural agency." A cold and unproductive soil this, one would suppose, in which to grow the glowing flowers of Christabel, where night itself, peopled with occult alarms, cannot minimize the mingled horror and splendor of Geraldine's first appearance.

Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark.

Towards the end of that year, he turned to what are now called his mystery poems, and are those for which he is most celebrated.

Kubla Khan, Christabel, the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, all of which were begun or completed within eighteen months of Hartley's birth.

This was a moment of golden invention, and Coleridge knew that something had changed.

Years later, in his rambling autobiography, Biographia Literaria, 1817, he recalled the transformation.