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THE ROMANTIC PERIOD

Introduction

In a letter to Byron in 1816, Percy Shelley declared that the French Revolution was "the master theme of the epoch in which we live" — a judgment with which many of Shelley's contemporaries concurred. As one of this period's topics, "The French Revolution: Apocalyptic Expectations," demonstrates, intellectuals of the age were obsessed with the concept of violent and inclusive change in the human condition, and the writings of those we now consider the major Romantic poets cannot be understood, historically, without an awareness of the extent to which their distinctive concepts, plots, forms, and imagery were shaped first by the promise, then by the tragedy, of the great events in neighboring France. And for the young poets in the early years of 1789–93, the enthusiasm for the Revolution had the impetus and high excitement of a religious awakening, because they interpreted the events in France in accordance with the apocalyptic prophecies in the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures; that is, they viewed these events as fulfilling the promise, guaranteed by an infallible text, that a short period of retributive and cleansing violence would usher in an age of universal peace and blessedness that would be the equivalent of a restored Paradise. Even after what they considered to be the failure of the revolutionary promise, these poets did not surrender their hope for a radical reformation of humankind and its social and political world; instead, they transferred the basis of that hope from violent political revolution to a quiet but drastic revolution in the moral and imaginative nature of the human race. "The Gothic," another topic for this period, is also a prominent and distinctive element in the writings of the Romantic Age. The mode had originated in novels of the mideighteenth century that, in radical opposition to the Enlightenment ideals of order, decorum, and rational control, had opened to literary exploration the realm of nightmarish terror, violence, aberrant psychological states, and sexual rapacity. In the first Gothic novel, Horace Walpole's The Castle of Otranto (1764), the ominous hero-villain had embodied aspects of Satan, the fallen archangel in Milton's Paradise Lost. This satanic strain was developed by later writers and achieved its apotheosis in the creation of a new and important cultural phenomenon, the compulsive, grandiose, heaven-and-hell-defying Byronic hero. In many of its literary products, the Gothic mode manifested the standard setting and events, creaky contrivances, and genteel aim of provoking no more than a pleasurable shudder — a convention Jane Austen satirized in Northanger Abbey. Literary Gothicism also, however, produced enduring classics that featured such demonic, driven, and imaginatively compelling protagonists as Byron's Manfred (NAEL 8, 2.636–68), Frankenstein's Creature in Mary Shelley's novel, Heathcliff in Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights, and, in America, Captain Ahab in Melville's Moby-Dick. The topic "Tintern Abbey, Tourism, and Romantic Landscape" represents a very different mode, but one that is equally prominent in the remarkably diverse spectrum of Romantic literature. Tintern Abbey, written in 1798, is Wordsworth's initial attempt, in the short compass of a lyric poem, at a form he later expanded into the epic-length narrative of The Prelude. That is, it is a poem on the growth of the poet's mind, told primarily in terms of an evolving encounter between subject and object, mind and nature, which turns on an anguished spiritual crisis (identified in The Prelude as occasioned by the failure of the French Revolution) and culminates in the achievement of an integral and assured maturity (specified in The Prelude as the recognition by Wordsworth of his vocation as a poet for his crisisridden era). In this aspect,Tintern Abbey can be considered the succinct precursor, in English literature, of the genre known by the German term Bildungsgeschichte — the development of an individual from infancy through psychological stresses and breaks to a coherent maturity. This genre came to include such major achievements as Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Aurora Leigh in verse (NAEL 8, 2.1092–1106) and James Joyce'sPortrait of the Artist as a Young Man in prose. However innovative, in historical retrospect, the content and organization of Tintern Abbey may be, a contemporary reader would have approached it as simply one of a great number of descriptive poems that, in the 1790s, undertook to record a tour of picturesque scenes and ruins. There is good evidence, in fact, that, on the walking tour of the Wye valley during which Wordsworth composed Tintern

Abbey, the poet and his sister carried with them William Gilpin's best-selling tour guide, Observations on the River Wye . . . Relative Chiefly to Picturesque Beauty. As Gilpin and other travelers point out, the ruined abbey, however picturesque, served as a habitat for beggars and the wretchedly poor; also the Wye, in the tidal portion downstream from the abbey, had noisy and smoky iron-smelting furnaces along its banks, while in some places the water was oozy and discolored. These facts, together with the observation that Wordsworth dated his poem July 13, 1798, one day before the anniversary of the Fall of the Bastille, have generated vigorous controversy about Tintern Abbey. Some critics read it as a great and moving meditation on the human condition and its inescapable experience of aging, loss, and suffering. (Keats read it this way — as a wrestling with "the Burden of the Mystery," an attempt to develop a rationale for the fact that "the World is full of Misery and Heartbreak, Pain, Sickness and oppression"; see NAEL 8, 2.945–47.) Others, however, contend that in the poem, Wordsworth suppresses any reference to his earlier enthusiasm for the French Revolution, and also that — by locating his vantage point in the pristine upper reaches of the Wye and out of sight of the abbey — he avoids acknowledging the spoliation of the environment by industry, and evades a concern with the social realities of unemployment, homelessness, and destitution. "The Satanic and Byronic Hero," another topic for this period, considers a cast of characters whose titanic ambition and outcast state made them important to the Romantic Age's thinking about individualism, revolution, the relationship of the author—the author of genius especially—to society, and the relationship of poetical power to political power. The fallen archangel Satan, as depicted in Milton'sParadise Lost; Napoleon Bonaparte, self-anointed Emperor of the French, Europe's "greatest man" or perhaps, as Coleridge insisted, "the greatest proficient in human destruction that has ever lived"; Lord Byron, or at least Lord Byron in the disguised form in which he presented himself in Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Manfred, and his Orientalist romances; these figures were consistently grouped together in the public imagination of the Romantic Age. Prompted by radical changes in their systems of political authority and by their experience of a long, drawn-out war in which many of the victories felt like pyrrhic ones, British people during this period felt compelled to rethink the nature of heroism. One way that they pursued this project was to ponder the powers of fascination exerted by these figures whose self-assertion and love of power could appear both demonic and heroic, and who managed both to incite beholders' hatred and horror and to prompt their intense identifications. In the representations surveyed by this topic the ground is laid, as well, for the satanic strain of nineteenth-century literature and so for some of literary history's most compelling protagonists, from Mary Shelley's creature inFrankenstein to Emily Brontë's Heathcliff, to Herman Melville's Captain Ahab.

Tintern abbey, Tourism, and Romantic Landscape: Overview William Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey (NAEL 8, 2.258–62) has been described as a tourist poem in which the center of attraction, the famous ruined abbey, is out of sight "a few miles" downstream; a nature poem in which, after the opening paragraph, there are almost no images of nature; a political poem in which most of the speaker's political, social, and economic beliefs lie unexpressed between the lines; a religious poem in which what seems to be unmediated contact with a pantheistic deity (for example, "we are laid asleep / In body, and become a living soul . . . [and] see into the life of things," lines 45–49) is soberly, even logically, explained in terms of tourist postcard chitchat ("How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, / O sylvan Wye," 55–56; "Therefore am I still / A lover of the meadows and the woods," 102–3). Like all great poems (certainly all those of the Romantic period), Tintern Abbey is a texture of contradictions from beginning to end: simultaneously a celebration of and a lament over the speaker's maturing, a depiction of both the harmony and the disharmony of humans and nature, an alternately successful and unsuccessful attempt to reconcile the "two consciousnesses" of the opening lines of book 2 of The Prelude (NAEL 8, 2.338), and a view of the speaker's and his sister's future that is at once tenderly optimistic and funereal. Several decades ago a critic remarked that it is sometimes difficult, even after many readings, to decide what the poem is primarily about. Wordsworth criticism in the intervening years has not simplified the business. We know that Tintern Abbey is about nature, time, mortality, memory, imagination, society, the city, humanity, and God (to list a few of the more frequently mentioned possibilities). But, just as in Wordsworth's own time, it remains the task of the individual reader to sort out the combinations and emphases among these — and this still leaves innumerable problems concerning specific details (as in lines 95–96, "a sense sublime / Of something far more deeply interfused," where the question "more deeply than what?" has no apparent answer). Wordsworth's contemporaries, whatever else they saw in Tintern Abbey, would have immediately placed it in a genre of poems written on tour. The abbey was the centerpiece of the most frequently made British tour of the 1790s (the Wye River valley, the historical border between England and Wales); thousands of travelers, with Gilpin or another guidebook in hand, visited and revisited the picturesque ruin and responded with feeling to the beauties and sublimities of the surrounding nature. Modern tourism was relatively new at this time. Neoclassic writers who urged that poets and others should "follow nature" were talking about universal law and order, the system of things, or human nature; they were decidedly not thinking about outdoors nature, which was generally condemned as something opposed to civilized life — in the forms of mountains, oceans, and great rivers, a deviation from the regularity of creation and, for people faced with crossing them, a serious impediment to travel. Mainstream eighteenth-century poets did occasionally write about nature, but almost always for purposes of moral allegory: the "nature" of Pope's Windsor Forest symbolizes order and harmony in the universe, and wise readers are enjoined to regulate their lives accordingly. The mid- and late-eighteenth-century development of sensitiveness to nature and one's physical surroundings was at least partly owing not to the attractiveness of nature itself but to the rise of interest in landscape painting, specifically the works of two seventeenth-century schools, Dutch and Italian, that favored wide and deep prospects, rugged scenery, a blurring mistiness in the distance, classical and medieval ruins, and frequently, in the foreground, the presence of shepherds and other rustic figures. The best-known painters of the Italian school — Claude Lorrain, Nicolas Poussin, and Salvator Rosa — were collected by the wealthy but also were made popularly available in sets of engravings with titles like Beauties of Claude Lorrain. The eighteenth-century vogue for these artists caused a revolution in landscape gardening, whereby formal arrays of trees, shrubs, paths, and ornaments in geometrical patterns were replaced by "landscape" gardens designed to look, from a specified vantage point, like a scene by Claude or Poussin. Walls and fences were hidden in ditches so as not to obstruct the long view; old ruins were created, Disneylike, on the spot, and servants were engaged to pose as farmers, shepherds, and hermits. The predictable next step was for people to venture out in search of landscapes in nature itself — first with an optical device called a

"Claude glass," a tinted convex mirror in which one could compose, over one's shoulder, scenes in nature that resembled paintings by Claude, and then, leaving the mirror behind, confront nature face to face. This topic illustrates the Romantics' developing interest in nature, as background not only to Tintern Abbey and other poems by William Wordsworth but to Coleridge's conversation poems (This Lime-Tree Bower and Frost at Midnight in particular), Dorothy Wordsworth's journals, Percy Shelley's Alastor and Mont Blanc, the nature passages of Byron's Childe Harold, canto 3 (which Wordsworth read as a "plagiarism" from Tintern Abbey!), and Keats's To Autumn, among others. Thomas Gray's Journal in the Lakes, written in 1769, two decades after his famous Elegy, comes near the beginning of the movement out into nature. The Rev. William Gilpin's Observations on the River Wye shows us what travelers, including William and Dorothy Wordsworth, were looking for when they visited Tintern Abbey. Wordsworth's Guide to the Lakes praises and minutely describes the region of his birthplace and also laments widespread changes in it resulting from the very "tourists and residents" to whom his guide is addressed. Keats's letter from his 1818 walking tour records excitement at first seeing Lake District mountains mixed with disappointment over Wordsworth's political conservativism. And Burke'sPhilosophical Enquiry into the Sublime and Beautiful provides rudimentary theory to help us understand the writers' consciousness of their mental activities. These works are not without their political, social, and economic biases, quite apart from the fact that tourism required a degree of liberty and affluence frequently at odds with the workers and peasants of the places being visited. Gray makes fun of the "flaring gentleman's house" while praising "happy poverty"; several paragraphs of Gilpin describe the "poverty and wretchedness" of the homeless taking shelter near Tintern Abbey, in contrast to the bustling "great iron-works" half a mile away; Wordsworth is much distressed by "gross transgressions" and "disfigurement" resulting from the increase of settlers and consequent prosperity in the Lake District; Keats too mentions "disfigurements," in this case the "miasma" of Londoners — "bucks and soldiers, and women of fashion" — who are, just as he is, traveling through the region. But all alike are interested in the processes of viewing nature creatively, imaginatively, in ways that had been unthinkable in earlier times.

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Along with the poems mentioned in the introduction to this topic, such as Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey (NAEL 8, 2.258), Coleridge's This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison (NAEL 8, 2.428) and Frost at Midnight (NAEL 8, 2.464), Shelley's Alastor (NAEL 8, 2.745) and Mont Blanc (NAEL 8, 2.762), Byron'sChilde Harold (NAEL 8, 2.617), and Keats's To Autumn (NAEL 8, 2.925), numerous other writings from Blake to John Clare contain detailed descriptions of nature. Which among these seem influenced by the period's interest in the picturesque? Do any seem the products of direct observation rather than literary convention? Which, in addition to the pictorial effects, seem to be of serious philosophical or religious interest? Descriptions of landscape may stress topography, but they must also acknowledge the influence of time. A writer may emphasize the time of the day or of the year, or ponder time in the grander sense of Antiquity, whichWordsworth calls "the co-partner and sister of Nature." a. Which levels of time are emphasized in the texts by Gray, Gilpin,Wordsworth and Keats? How do these different emphases affect the way we imagine and respond to the landscapes they describe? b. What effects are produced when time is considered in relation both to the landscape and to the span of human life, as in Tintern Abbey(NAEL 8, 2.258), The Ruined Cottage (NAEL 8, 2.280), the Lucy poems (NAEL 8, 2.274–77), or any of Coleridge's "Conversation Poems"? Both natives and tourists could be accused of failing to recognize the power of landscape. The former were too familiar with what had always surrounded them to appreciate it, while the latter were too preoccupied with self-conscious and worldly concerns to look around them. Writers on landscape were thus concerned to emphasize the superiority of their point of view, be it that of a native or of a newcomer. a. How do Gray and Gilpin draw attention to the superiority of their perspective as tourists to that of the natives of the spots they visit? b. How does Wordsworth emphasize his status as a native in hisGuide to the Lakes, and how does this enhance his authority? To what extent does Wordsworth in Book First of The Prelude relate his poetic destiny to the landscape of his childhood (NAEL 8, 2.324–38)? c. In Frost at Midnight (NAEL 8, 2.464), Coleridge contrasts the scenes of his London childhood with those which his infant son will know as a native of the Lake District. How does the relationship between father and son complicate that between newcomer and native? While the Romantics celebrated the power of individual perception, they also attributed power to the things they perceived, most particularly by trying to locate in nature some "living principle." a. How do the writers collected in this topic attribute animation and power to the objects of their vision? What makes the landscapes they describe especially qualified as embodiments of the "living principle"? b. Does John Ruskin's denunciation Of the Pathetic Fallacy (NAEL 8, 2.1322) strike you as a valid critique of the conventions of Romantic nature poetry? Why or why not? In This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison (NAEL 8, 2.428) Coleridge consoles himself for being unable to join his friends on an expedition to view spectacular scenery by concluding That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure; No plot so narrow, be but Nature there, No waste so vacant, but may well employ Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart Awake to Love and Beauty! a. What role does this poem leave for the Romantic landscape in its most spectacular and sublime? b. How do Love and Beauty come to be associated here? Do the passages in this topic offer precedents for this association? If not, how do you think Coleridge developed it? Touring the landscapes of Britain was a social activity, as the texts in this topic reveal. For instance, Gray and Keats not only travel with companions but present their travels in letters to distant loved ones. Yet most of the great Romantic nature poems emphasize the experience of the solitary mind. a. Critics have frequently expressed impatience with Wordsworth's tendency to reduce even other people to objects of the poet's vision, a tendency that Keats famously called "the wordsworthian or egotistical sublime" (NAEL 8, 2.945). How does this tendency affect your reading of a poem like Tintern Abbey, in which, despite all the apparent solitude of the first half of the poem, Dorothy turns out to have been present all along? b. How is the solitary mind behind the great poems related to "the mind" which is the object of Burke's aesthetic theory? Does Burke provide insight into why the Romantic poets did not regard two minds as better than one? Within one paragraph of his letter to his brother, Keats both condemns descriptions as "bad at all times" and declares his determination "henceforth [to] write, more than ever."

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What can you surmise about Keats's objections to descriptions? What, if not description, can be considered to constitute "that mass of beauty which is harvested from these fine materials"? How do Keats's odes (NAEL 8, 2.901–09) help you to understand what might be meant by this phrase? b. Do any of the other writers in this topic register a similar uneasiness with description and, if so, how? Conventions of both the picturesque and the sublime emphasized the prospect and the large view over the detail and the small view. a. How do the entries from Dorothy Wordsworth's journals (NAEL 8, 2.390–402) present an exception to this rule? What is gained by this focus on the small? b. Critics have often interpreted this aesthetic of the miniature and the detail as typical of women's artistic production in the period. Do you find this interpretation persuasive? Why or why not? Consider the works of other female poets of the period, such as Anna Laetitia Barbauld (NAEL 8, 2.26), Charlotte Smith (NAEL 8, 2.39), Joanna Baillie (NAEL 8, 2.212), and Felicia Dorothea Hemans (NAEL 8, 2.864). Do they bear out this generalization? Despite the prominence of visual conventions like the picturesque, the Romantic landscape cannot be limited to the visual. It is a place of textures, smells, even tastes, but only sound has a dramatic presence strong enough to compete with the visual. Indeed, given poetry's affinity with music, sound may even have a privileged position in Romantic poetry. a. How do poems like Wordsworth's The Solitary Reaper (NAEL 8, 2.314) and Shelley's To a SkyLark (NAEL 8, 2.817) organize landscapes around singing figures? What difference does visibility (in the case of the reaper) or invisibility (in the case of the sky-lark) make? b. How does Burke's analysis of the sublime shed light on the appeal of sound to Romantic poets? In two famous lines from Book Eleven of The Prelude, Wordsworth recalled the exultation of the early days of the French Revolution: "Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very Heaven!" (NAEL 8, 2.374). Interestingly, the no-longer-young Wordsworth embraced conservative politics, a change which could be seen by the second generation of Romantic poets as a betrayal of nature. a. How are Keats's disappointments over Wordsworth's politics and his wonder at the landscape of the Lake District played out in his letter to his brother? How does Keats perceive the older poet's relation to that landscape? b. In Shelley's sonnet To Wordsworth (NAEL 8, 2.744), how do images of nature function in the critique of Wordsworth's increasing conservatism? c. Consider Shelley's Ode to the West Wind (NAEL 8, 2.772) in the light of more explicitly political poems like England in 1819 (NAEL 8, 2.771) and A Song: Men of England (NAEL 8, 2.770). How for Shelley do images of natural change come to stand for other kinds of revolution? The description of wild landscapes and crumbling abbeys was not confined to Romantic poets and travelers seeking the picturesque. Compare the Romantic response to such spectacles with their appearance in "Gothic" texts such as Ann Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Romance of the Forest and Jane Austen's parodic Northanger Abbey. What purpose do landscapes, ruins, and picturesque description serve in these works? What similarities do you perceive between the Romantic writers and their Gothic contemporaries? Like other religious houses in England and Wales, Tintern Abbey was dissolved and partially demolished in the English Reformation. In 1536–37, the Pilgrimage of Grace, an uprising to save the abbeys and the old religion, was defeated. a. How would Robert Aske, the leader of the Pilgrimage, respond toGray's picturesque description of the ruined abbey and to Wordsworth's poem? How would these poets in turn have viewed Aske's defense of the abbeys? b. In the mid-seventeenth century, roughly midway between Robert Aske and Thomas Gray, Sir John Denham described the ruins of Chertsey Abbey in Cooper's Hill. Does Denham's poem suggest an intermediate perspective, a transition, a missing link? What affinities with Aske's and Gray's perspectives do you find in Cooper's Hill? The Romantic approach to landscape also had an impact in America, where poets and painters turned their eyes on a different and much wilder version of nature. Learn about the American experience of Re-Viewing Nature on the Web. How do American versions of the picturesque, the beautiful, and the sublime in landscape differ from British ones? Connections between Tintern Abbey and particulars of William Gilpin'sObservations on the River Wye (along with Wordsworth's date in the title of the poem — the eighth anniversary of the day he first set foot in France and the fifth anniversary of the assassination of the Jacobin revolutionist Jean Paul Marat — and our knowledge of the poet's changing social and political ideas during the decade preceding the poem) have prompted readings that emphasize suppressed politics in the poem: content, as it were, made conspicuous by its absence. The matter has been vigorously debated in recent years, and the existing criticism provides rich materials for

discussion of both practical and theoretical questions concerning the poem. For opposed views on the principal issues, see in particular Marjorie Levinson's "Insight and Oversight: Reading 'Tintern Abbey,'" Wordsworth's Great Period Poems: Four Essays (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 14–57, and M. H. Abrams's "On Political Readings of Lyrical Ballads, Doing Things with Texts: Essays in Criticism and Critical Theory" (New York: Norton, 1989), pp. 364–415. The following writings deal with these issues: J. R. Watson, "A Note on the Date in the Title of 'Tintern Abbey,'" The Wordsworth Circle 10 (1979): 379–80; Kenneth R. Johnston, "The Politics of 'Tintern Abbey,'" The Wordsworth Circle 14 (1983): 6–14; Robert A. Brinkley, "Vagrant and Hermit: Milton and the Politics of 'Tintern Abbey,'" The Wordsworth Circle 16 (1985): 126–33; Mark Foster, "'Tintern Abbey' and Wordsworth's Scene of Writing," Studies in Romanticism 25 (1986): 75–95; David Bromwich, "The French Revolution and 'Tintern Abbey,'" Raritan 10.3 (Winter 1991): 1–23; Laurence Lerner, "Wordsworth's Refusal of Politics," Studies in English Literature 31 (1991): 673–91; Kenneth R. Johnston, "The Romantic IdeaElegy: The Nature of Politics and the Politics of Nature," South Central Review 9.1 (Spring 1992): 24–43; Nicholas Roe, The Politics of Nature: Wordsworth and Some Contemporaries (London: Macmillan, 1992), chap. 6; Helen Vendler, "'Tintern Abbey': Two Assaults," Bucknell Review 36 (1992): 173–90; Brian Barbour, "'Between Two Worlds': The Structure of the Argument in 'Tintern Abbey,'" Nineteenth-Century Literature (1993): 147–68; and (with an abundance of illustrations and maps) Charles J. Rzepka, “Pictures of the Mind: Iron and Charcoal, ‘Ouzy’ Tides and ‘Vagrant Dwellers’ at Tintern, 1798,” Studies in Romanticism 42 (2003): 155-85.

The Gothic : Overview The Gothic begins with later-eighteenth-century writers' turn to the past; in the context of the Romantic period, the Gothic is, then, a type of imitation medievalism. When it was launched in the later eighteenth century, The Gothic featured accounts of terrifying experiences in ancient castles — experiences connected with subterranean dungeons, secret passageways, flickering lamps, screams, moans, bloody hands, ghosts, graveyards, and the rest. By extension, it came to designate the macabre, mysterious, fantastic, supernatural, and, again, the terrifying, especially thepleasurably terrifying, in literature more generally. Closer to the present, one sees the Gothic pervading Victorian literature (for example, in the novels of Dickens and the Brontës), American fiction (from Poe and Hawthorne through Faulkner), and of course the films, television, and videos of our own (in this respect, not-so-modern) culture. The Gothic revival, which appeared in English gardens and architecture before it got into literature, was the work of a handful of visionaries, the most important of whom was Horace Walpole (1717–1797), novelist, letter writer, and son of the prime minister Sir Robert Walpole. In the 1740s Horace Walpole purchased Strawberry Hill, an estate on the Thames near London, and set about remodeling it in what he called "Gothick" style, adding towers, turrets, battlements, arched doors, windows, and ornaments of every description, creating a kind of spurious medieval architecture that survives today mainly in churches, military academies, and university buildings. The project was extremely influential, as people came from all over to see Strawberry Hill and returned to Gothicize their own houses. When the Gothic made its appearance in literature, Walpole was again a chief initiator, publishing The Castle of Otranto (1764), a short novel in which the ingredients are a haunted castle, a Byronic villain (before Byron's time — and the villain's name is Manfred!), mysterious deaths, supernatural happenings, a moaning ancestral portrait, a damsel in distress, and, as the Oxford Companion to English Literature puts it, "violent emotions of terror, anguish, and love." The work was tremendously popular, and imitations followed in such numbers that the Gothic novel (or romance) was probably the commonest type of fiction in England for the next half century. It is noteworthy in this period that the best-selling author of the genre (Ann Radcliffe), the author of its most enduring novel (Mary Shelley), and the author of its most effective sendup (Jane Austen) were all women. This topic offers extracts from some of the most frequently mentioned works in the Gothic mode: Walpole's Otranto as the initiating prototype; William Beckford's Vathek (1786), which is "oriental" rather than medieval but similarly blends cruelty, terror, and eroticism; two extremely popular works by the "Queen of Terror," Ann Radcliffe, The Romance of the Forest (1791) and The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794); Matthew Gregory Lewis's The Monk (1796), involving seduction, incestuous rape, matricide and other murders, and diabolism; and two works of 1818 poking fun at the by-then well-established tradition, Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey (which refers specifically to the two Radcliffe novels just mentioned) and Thomas Love Peacock'sNightmare Abbey. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (1818) was inspired, as Shelley explains in her introduction to the edition of 1831, by a communal reading of German ghost stories with her husband and Byron during bad weather on the shores of Lake Geneva. Frankenstein is the single most important product of this Gothic tradition, but it considerably transcends its sources. Its numerous thematic resonances relate to science, poetry, psychology, alienation, politics, education, family relationships, and much else. Even so, one cannot imagine a more archetypically Gothic circumstance than the secret creation of an eight-foot-tall monster out of separate body parts collected from charnel houses; some of Victor Frankenstein's most extravagant rhetoric in the novel almost exactly reproduces the tone, and even some of the words, of the extract given here describing Isabella's distress in Otranto — as in this passage expressing Victor's feelings of horror when Justine is condemned for the murder of his brother William: My own agitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew it. Could the daemon, who had (I did not for a minute doubt) murdered my brother, also in his hellish sport have betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy? I could not sustain the horror of my situation; and when I perceived that the popular voice, and the countenances of the judges, had already condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom, and would not forego their hold. . . .

I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before experienced sensations of horror; and I have endeavoured to bestow upon them adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the heart-sickening despair that I then endured. . . . (volume 1, chapter 7) More pervasive signs of Gothic influence show up in some of the most frequently read Romantic poems — for example, the account of the skeleton ship and the crew's reaction ("A flash of joy . . . And horror follows") in Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (NAEL 8, 2.430); the atmosphere, setting, and fragmentary plot of witchery and seduction in Coleridge's Christabel (NAEL 8, 2.449–64); the initial scene ("a Gothic gallery") and most of the rest of Byron's Manfred (NAEL 8, 2.636–69); and the medievalism and several details of the plot of Keats's The Eve of St. Agnes (NAEL 8, 2.888–98), including Porphyro's invasion of Madeline's bedroom, which, while the poem is always at some level an idealized tale of young love, has obvious connections with the predatory overtones of our extracts from both Udolphoand The Monk.

The Gothic: Text and Contexts Horace Walpole, from The Castle of Otranto Walpole's landmark work, published in December 1764, purports to be a translation (as the 1765 title page has it) "from the original Italian of Onuphrio Muralto, Canon of the Church of St. Nicholas at Otranto," and the events related in it are supposed to have occurred in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. When the story opens, the villainous Manfred, prince of Otranto, in order to get an heir to his estate, has arranged a marriage between his only son, Conrad, and the beautiful Isabella. But on the night before the wedding, Conrad is mysteriously killed (he is crushed by a giant helmet). Lest he should be left without male descendants, Manfred determines to divorce his present wife, Hippolita, who is past childbearing, and marry Isabella himself. In the extract given here, from the first chapter, Isabella learns of his intention and decides to flee the castle by night. Walpole writes as if by formula. The standard Gothic devices and motifs are all in place, even in this brief excerpt: moonlight, a speaking portrait, the slamming of doors, castle vaults, an underground passage, blasts of wind, rusty hinges, the curdling of blood, and above all, in practically every sentence, strong feelings of terror ("Words cannot paint the horror of the princess's situation . . ."). But Walpole was the inventor of the formula, and his influence — on Beckford, Radcliffe, and Lewis in this topic and then, along with them, on subsequent English fiction (and on literature and films more generally) — is incalculable. From Chapter 1 *** As it was now evening, the servant who conducted Isabella bore a torch before her. When they came to Manfred, who was walking impatiently about the gallery, he started and said hastily, "Take away that light, and begone." Then shutting the door impetuously, he flung himself upon a bench against the wall, and bade Isabella sit by him. She obeyed trembling. "I sent for you, lady," said he, — and then stopped under great appearance of confusion. "My lord!" — "Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment," resumed he, — "Dry your tears, young lady — you have lost your bridegroom. — Yes, cruel fate! and I have lost the hopes of my race! — but Conrad was not worthy of your beauty." — "How! my lord," said Isabella; "sure you do not suspect me of not feeling the concern I ought. My duty and affection would have always — " "Think no more of him," interrupted Manfred; "he was a sickly puny child, and heaven has perhaps taken him away that I might not trust the honours of my house on so frail a foundation. The line of Manfred calls for numerous supports. My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyes of my prudence — but it is better as it is. I hope in a few years to have reason to rejoice at the death of Conrad." Words cannot paint the astonishment of Isabella. At first she apprehended that grief had disordered Manfred's understanding. Her next thought suggested that this strange discourse was designed to ensnare her: she feared that Manfred had perceived her indifference for his son: and in consequence of that idea she replied, "Good my lord, do not doubt my tenderness: my heart would have accompanied my hand. Conrad would have engrossed all my care; and wherever fate shall dispose of me, I shall always cherish his memory, and regard your highness and the virtuous Hippolita as my parents." "Curse on Hippolita!" cried Manfred: "forget her from this moment as I do. In short, lady, you have missed a husband undeserving of your charms: they shall now be better disposed of. Instead of a sickly boy, you shall have a husband in the prime of his age, who will know how to value your beauties, and who may expect a numerous offspring." "Alas! my lord," said Isabella, "my mind is too sadly engrossed by the recent catastrophe in your family to think of another marriage. If ever my father returns, and it shall be his pleasure, I shall obey, as I did when I consented to give my hand to your son: but until his return, permit me to remain under your hospitable roof, and employ the melancholy hours in assuaging yours, Hippolita's, and the fair Matilda's affliction." "I desired you once before," said Manfred angrily, "not to name that woman: from this hour she must be a stranger to you, as she must be to me; — in short, Isabella, since I cannot give you my son, I offer you myself." — "Heavens!" cried Isabella, waking from her delusion, "what do I hear! You! My lord! You! My father-in-law! the father of Conrad! the husband of the virtuous and tender Hippolita!" — "I tell you," said Manfred imperiously, "Hippolita is no longer my wife; I divorce her from this hour. Too long has she cursed me by her unfruitfulness: my fate depends on having sons, — and this night I trust will give a new date to my hopes." At those words he seized the cold hand of Isabella, who was half-dead with fright and horror. She shrieked and started from him. Manfred rose to pursue her, when the moon,

which was now up and gleamed in at the opposite casement, presented to his sight the plumes of the fatal helmet, which rose to the height of the windows, waving backwards and forwards in a tempestuous manner, and accompanied with a hollow and rustling sound. Isabella, who gathered courage from her situation, and who dreaded nothing so much as Manfred's pursuit of his declaration, cried, "Look! my lord; see, heaven itself declares against your impious intentions!" — "Heaven nor hell shall impede my designs," said Manfred, advancing again to seize the princess. At that instant the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the bench where they had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh, and heaved its breast. Isabella, whose back was turned to the picture, saw not the motion, nor knew whence the sound came, but started, and said, "Hark, my lord! What sound was that?" and at the same time made towards the door. Manfred, distracted between the flight of Isabella, who had now reached the stairs, and yet unable to keep his eyes from the picture, which began to move, had however advanced some steps after her, still looking backwards on the portrait, when he saw it quit its panel, and descend on the floor with a grave and melancholy air. "Do I dream?" cried Manfred returning, "or are the devils themselves in league against me? Speak, infernal spectre! or, if thou art my grandsire, why dost thou too conspire against thy wretched descendant, who too dearly pays for — " Ere he could finish the sentence the vision sighed again, and made a sign to Manfred to follow him. "Lead on!" cried Manfred; "I will follow thee to the gulph of perdition." The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to the end of the gallery, and turned into a chamber on the right hand. Manfred accompanied him at a little distance, full of anxiety and horror, but resolved. As he would have entered the chamber, the door was clapped to with violence by an invisible hand. The prince, collecting courage from this delay, would have forcibly burst open the door with his foot, but found that it resisted his utmost efforts. "Since hell will not satisfy my curiosity," said Manfred, "I will use the human means in my power for preserving my race; Isabella shall not escape me." That lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the moment she had quitted Manfred, continued her flight to the bottom of the principal staircase. There she stopped, not knowing whither to direct her steps, nor how to escape from the impetuosity of the prince. The gates of the castle she knew were locked, and guards placed in the court. Should she, as her heart prompted her, go and prepare Hippolita for the cruel destiny that awaited her, she did not doubt but Manfred would seek her there, and that his violence would incite him to double the injury he meditated, without leaving room for them to avoid the impetuosity of his passions. Delay might give him time to reflect on the horrid measures he had conceived, or produce some circumstance in her favour, if she could for that night at least avoid his odious purpose. — Yet where conceal herself? how avoid the pursuit he would infallibly make throughout the castle? As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she recollected a subterraneous passage which led from the vaults of the castle to the church of St. Nicholas. Could she reach the altar before she was overtaken, she knew even Manfred's violence would not dare to profane the sacredness of the place; and she determined, if no other means of deliverance offered, to shut herself up for ever among the holy virgins, whose convent was contiguous to the cathedral. In this resolution, she seized a lamp that burned at the foot of the staircase, and hurried towards the secret passage. The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate cloisters; and it was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the door that opened into the cavern. An awful silence reigned throughout those subterraneous regions, except now and then some blasts of wind that shook the doors she had passed, and which, grating on the rusty hinges, were re-echoed through that long labyrinth of darkness. Every murmur struck her with new terror; — yet more she dreaded to hear the wrathful voice of Manfred urging his domestics to pursue her. She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave, — yet frequently stopped and listened to hear if she was followed. In one of those moments she thought she heard a sigh. She shuddered, and recoiled a few paces. In a moment she thought she heard the step of some person. Her blood curdled; she concluded it was Manfred. Every suggestion that horror could inspire rushed into her mind. She condemned her rash flight, which had thus exposed her to his rage in a place where her cries were not likely to draw anybody to her assistance. — Yet the sound seemed not to come from behind, — if Manfred knew where she was, he must have followed her: she was still in one of the cloisters, and the steps she had heard were too distinct to proceed from the way she had come. Cheered with this reflection, and hoping to find a friend in whoever was not the prince, she was going to advance, when a door that stood ajar, at some distance to the left, was opened gently: but ere her lamp, which she held up, could discover who opened it, the person retreated precipitately on seeing the light. Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, hesitated whether she should proceed. Her dread of Manfred soon outweighed every other terror. The very circumstance of the person avoiding her gave her a sort of courage. It could only be, she thought, some domestic belonging to the castle. Her gentleness had never raised her an enemy, and conscious innocence bade her hope that, unless sent by the prince's order to seek her, his servants would rather assist than prevent her flight. Fortifying herself with these reflections, and believing, by what she could observe, that she was near the mouth of the subterraneous cavern, she approached the door that had been opened; but a sudden gust of wind that met her at the door extinguished her lamp, and left her in total darkness. Words cannot paint the horror of the princess's situation. Alone in so dismal a place, her mind imprinted with all the terrible events of the day, hopeless of escaping, expecting every moment the arrival of Manfred, and far from tranquil on knowing she was within reach of somebody, she knew not whom, who for some cause seemed concealed

thereabouts, — all these thoughts crowded on her distracted mind, and she was ready to sink under her apprehensions. She addressed herself to every saint in heaven, and inwardly implored their assistance. For a considerable time she remained in an agony of despair. At last, as softly as was possible, she felt for the door, and, having found it, entered trembling into the vault from whence she had heard the sigh and steps. It gave her a kind of momentary joy to perceive an imperfect ray of clouded moonshine gleam from the roof of the vault, which seemed to be fallen in, and from whence hung a fragment of earth or building, she could not distinguish which, that appeared to have been crushed inwards. She advanced eagerly towards this chasm, when she discerned a human form standing close against the wall. She shrieked, believing it the ghost of her betrothed Conrad. ***

William Beckford, from Vathek William Beckford's Vathek is regularly mentioned in discussions of late eighteenth-century Gothic romances, though its setting is Arabian rather than European, and its exquisitely detailed architecture is futuristic rather than imitation medieval. It also has more incongruity of tone — suppressed comedy along with melodramatic high-seriousness — than the other works included in this topic; younger readers may see in it the beginnings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Vathek was written in French — "at a single sitting of three days and two nights," according to the Dictionary of National Biography — and then published in English translation as An Arabian Tale, from an Unpublished Manuscript (1786). Byron was one of its many enthusiastic readers, possessing several copies and drawing on it extensively for his own best-selling The Giaour (1813). Besides Vathek,Beckford (1760–1844) is also known for having built Fonthill Abbey, one of the most sensational structures of the English Gothic revival. Caliph Vathek, a vain, tyrannical, sensuous ruler who puts people, even little children, to death at the slightest whim, sets out to find the city of Istakhar and the treasures of the pre-adamite sultans. In the extract below, selected from the last few pages of the tale, he and his favorite companion, Nouronihar, daughter of the emir Fakreddin, arrive at the mountains surrounding Istakhar and, with the guidance of the Giaour (an evil magician), enter the underground realm of Eblis, prince of darkness. They achieve their quest but are doomed to suffer the agony of eternally burning hearts and, what seems even worse, the cessation of communion with anything outside their separate selves.

* * * A deathlike stillness reigned over the mountain, and through the air. The moon dilated, on a vast platform, the shades of the lofty columns, which reached from the terrace almost to the clouds. The gloomy watch-towers, whose numbers could not be counted, were veiled by no roof; and their capitals, of an architecture unknown in the records of the earth, served as an asylum for the birds of darkness, which, alarmed at the approach of such visitants, fled away croaking. The Chief of the Eunuchs, trembling with fear, besought Vathek that a fire might be kindled. "No!" replied he, "there is no time left to think of such trifles: abide where thou art, and expect my commands." Having thus spoken, he presented his hand to Nouronihar; and, ascending the steps of a vast staircase, reached the terrace, which was flagged with squares of marble, and resembled a smooth expanse of water, upon whose surface not a leaf ever dared to vegetate. On the right rose the watch-towers, ranged before the ruins of an immense palace, whose walls were embossed with various figures. In front stood forth the colossal forms of four creatures, composed of the leopard and the griffin; and, though but of stone, inspired emotions of terror. Near these were distinguished, by the splendour of the moon, which streamed full on the place, characters like those on the sabres of the Giaour, that possessed the same virtue of changing every moment. These, after vacillating for some time, at last fixed in Arabic letters, and prescribed to the Caliph the following words: "Vathek! thou hast violated the conditions of my parchment, and deservest to be sent back; but, in favour to thy companion, and as the meed for what thou hast done to obtain it, Eblis permitteth that the portal of his palace shall be opened, and the subterranean fire will receive thee into the number of its adorers." He scarcely had read these words before the mountain, against which the terrace was reared, trembled; and the watch-towers were ready to topple headlong upon them. The rock yawned, and disclosed within it a stair-case of polished marble that seemed to approach the abyss. Upon each stair were planted two large torches, like those Nouronihar had seen in her vision, the camphorated vapour ascending from which gathered into a cloud under the hollow of the vault. This appearance, instead of terrifying, gave new courage to the daughter of Fakreddin. Scarcely deigning to bid adieu to the moon and the firmament, she abandoned without hesitation the pure atmosphere, to plunge into these infernal exhalations. The gait of those impious personages was haughty and determined. As they descended, by the effulgence of the torches, they gazed on each other with mutual admiration; and both appeared so resplendent that they already esteemed themselves spiritual Intelligences. The only circumstance that perplexed them was their not arriving at the bottom of the stairs. On hastening their descent with an ardent impetuosity, they felt their steps accelerated to such a degree that they seemed not walking, but falling from a precipice. Their progress, however, was at length impeded by a vast portal of ebony, which the Caliph, without difficulty, recognized. Here the Giaour awaited them, with the key in his hand. "Ye are welcome!" said he to them, with a ghastly smile, "in spite of Mahomet, and all his dependents. I will now admit you into that palace where you have so highly merited a place." Whilst he

was uttering these words, he touched the enameled lock with his key; and the doors at once expanded, with a noise still louder than the thunder of mountains, and as suddenly recoiled the moment they had entered. The Caliph and Nouronihar beheld each other with amazement, at finding themselves in a place which, though roofed with a vaulted ceiling, was so spacious and lofty that at first they took it for an immeasurable plain. But their eyes at length growing familiar to the grandeur of the objects at hand, they extended their view to those at a distance, and discovered rows of columns and arcades, which gradually diminished, till they terminated in a point, radiant as the sun, when he darts his last beams athwart the ocean. The pavement, strewed over with gold dust and saffron, exhaled so subtle an odour as almost overpowered them. They, however, went on, and observed an infinity of censers, in which ambergris and the wood of aloes were continually burning. Between the several columns were placed tables, each spread with a profusion of viands, and wines of every species, sparkling in vases of crystal. A throng of Genii, and other fantastic spirits, of each sex danced lasciviously in troops, at the sound of music which issued from beneath. In the midst of this immense hall, a vast multitude was incessantly passing, who severally kept their right hands on their hearts, without once regarding anything around them. They had, all, the livid paleness of death. Their eyes, deep sunk in their sockets, resembled those phosphoric meteors that glimmer by night in places of interment. Some stalked slowly on, absorbed in profound reverie; some, shrieking with agony, ran furiously about, like tigers wounded with poisoned arrows; whilst others, grinding their teeth in rage, foamed along, more frantic than the wildest maniac. They all avoided each other; and, though surrounded by a multitude that no one could number, each wandered at random, unheedful of the rest, as if alone on a desert which no foot had trodden. Vathek and Nouronihar, frozen with terror at a sight so baleful, demanded of the Giaour what these appearances might mean, and why these ambulating spectres never withdrew their hands from their hearts. "Perplex not yourselves," replied he bluntly, "with so much at once; you will soon be acquainted with all: let us haste, and present you to Eblis." They continued their way through the multitude; but, notwithstanding their confidence at first, they were not sufficiently composed to examine, with attention, the various perspectives of halls and of galleries that opened on the right hand and left, which were all illuminated by torches and braziers, whose flames rose in pyramids to the centre of the vault. At length they came to a place where long curtains, brocaded with crimson and gold, fell from all parts in striking confusion. Here the choirs and dances were heard no longer. The light which glimmered came from afar. After some time, Vathek and Nouronihar perceived a gleam brightening through the drapery, and entered a vast tabernacle, carpeted with the skins of leopards. An infinity of Elders with streaming beards, and Afrits in complete armour, had prostrated themselves before the ascent of a lofty eminence, on the top of which, upon a globe of fire, sat the formidable Eblis. His person was that of a young man, whose noble and regular features seemed to have been tarnished by malignant vapours. In his large eyes appeared both pride and despair: his flowing hair retained some resemblance to that of an angel of light. In his hand, which thunder had blasted, he swayed the iron sceptre that causes the monster Ouranabad, the Afrits, and all the Powers of the abyss to tremble. At his presence, the heart of the Caliph sunk within him; and, for the first time, he fell prostrate on his face. Nouronihar, however, though greatly dismayed, could not help admiring the person of Eblis: for she expected to have seen some stupendous Giant. Eblis, with a voice more mild than might be imagined, but such as transfused through the soul the deepest melancholy, said: "Creatures of clay, I receive you into mine empire: ye are numbered amongst my adorers: enjoy whatever this palace affords: the treasures of the pre-adamite Sultans, their bickering sabres, and those talismans that compel the Dives to open the subterranean expanses of the mountain of Kaf, which communicate with these. There, insatiable as your curiosity may be, shall you find sufficient to gratify it. You shall possess the exclusive privilege of entering the fortress of Aherman, and the halls of Argenk, where are portrayed all creatures endowed with intelligence, and the various animals that inhabited that earth prior to the creation of that contemptible being, whom ye denominate the Father of Mankind." Vathek and Nouronihar, feeling themselves revived and encouraged by this harangue, eagerly said to the Giaour: "Bring us instantly to the place which contains these precious talismans." — "Come!" answered this wicked Dive, with his malignant grin, "come! and possess all that my Sovereign hath promised, and more." He then conducted them into a long aisle adjoining the tabernacle, preceding them with hasty steps, and followed by his disciples with the utmost alacrity. They reached, at length, a hall of great extent, and covered with a lofty dome, around which appeared fifty portals of bronze, secured with as many fastenings of iron. A funereal gloom prevailed over the whole scene. Here, upon two beds of incorruptible cedar, lay recumbent the fleshless forms of the Pre-adamite Kings, who had

been monarchs of the whole earth. They still possessed enough of life to be conscious of their deplorable condition. Their eyes retained a melancholy motion: they regarded each other with looks of the deepest dejection, each holding his right hand, motionless, on his heart. At their feet were inscribed the events of their several reigns, their power, their pride, and their crimes: Soliman Raad, Soliman Daki, and Soliman Di Gian Ben Gian, who, after having chained up the Dives in the dark caverns of Kaf, became so presumptuous as to doubt of the Supreme Power. All these maintained great state, though not to be compared with the eminence of Soliman Ben Daoud. This King, so renowned for his wisdom, was on the loftiest elevation, and placed immediately under the dome. He appeared to possess more animation than the rest. Though from time to time he laboured with profound sighs, and, like his companions, kept his right hand on his heart, yet his countenance was more composed; and he seemed to be listening to the sullen roar of a vast cataract, visible in part through the grated portals. This was the only sound that intruded on the silence of these doleful mansions. A range of brazen vases surrounded this elevation. "Remove the covers from these cabalistic depositaries," said the Giaour to Vathek, "and avail thyself of the talismans, which will break asunder all these gates of bronze, and not only render thee master of the treasures contained within them, but also of the Spirits by which they are guarded." The Caliph, whom this ominous preliminary had entirely disconcerted, approached the vases with faltering footsteps, and was ready to sink with terror when he heard the groans of Soliman. As he proceeded, a voice from the livid lips of the Prophet articulated these words: "In my life-time, I filled a magnificent throne, having on my right hand twelve thousand seats of gold, where the Patriarchs and the Prophets heard my doctrines: on my left the Sages and Doctors, upon as many thrones of silver, were present at all my decisions. Whilst I thus administered justice to innumerable multitudes, the birds of the air, librating >> note 1 over me, served as a canopy from the rays of the sun. My people flourished; and my palace rose to the clouds. I erected a temple to the Most High, which was the wonder of the universe: but I basely suffered myself to be seduced by the love of women, and a curiosity that could not be restrained by sublunary things. I listened to the counsels of Aherman and the daughter of Pharaoh, and adored fire and the hosts of heaven. I forsook the holy city, and commanded the Genii to rear the stupendous palace of Istakhar, and the terrace of the watch-towers, each of which was consecrated to a star. There, for a while, I enjoyed myself, in the zenith of glory and pleasure. Not only men, but supernatural Existences were subject also to my will. I began to think, as these unhappy monarchs around had already thought, that the vengeance of Heaven was asleep; when at once the thunder burst my structures asunder, and precipitated me hither: where, however, I do not remain, like the other inhabitants, totally destitute of hope; for an angel of light hath revealed that, in consideration of the piety of my early youth, my woes shall come to an end when this cataract shall for ever cease to f low. Till then, I am in torments, ineffable torments! an unrelenting fire preys on my heart." Having uttered this exclamation, Soliman raised his hands towards heaven, in token of supplication; and the Caliph discerned through his bosom, which was transparent as crystal, his heart enveloped in flames. At a sight so full of horror Nouronihar fell back, like one petrified, into the arms of Vathek, who cried out with a convulsive sob: "O Giaour! whither hast thou brought us? Allow us to depart, and I will relinquish all thou hast promised. O Mahomet! remains there no more mercy?" — "None! none!" replied the malicious Dive. "Know, miserable Prince! thou art now in the abode of vengeance and despair. Thy heart also will be kindled, like those of the other votaries of Eblis. A few days are allotted thee, previous to this fatal period: employ them as thou wilt: recline on these heaps of gold: command the Infernal Potentates: range, at thy pleasure, through these immense subterranean domains: no barrier shall be shut against thee. As for me, I have fulfilled my mission: I now leave thee to thyself." At these words, he vanished. The Caliph and Nouronihar remained in the most abject affliction. Their tears unable to flow, scarcely could they support themselves. At length, taking each other despondingly by the hand, they went faltering from this fatal hall, indifferent which way they turned their steps. Every portal opened at their approach. The Dives fell prostrate before them. Every reservoir of riches was disclosed to their view: but they no longer felt the incentives of curiosity, pride, or avarice. With like apathy they heard the chorus of Genii, and saw the stately banquets prepared to regale them. They went wandering on, from chamber to chamber, hall to hall, and gallery to gallery, all without bounds or limit, all distinguishable by the same lowering gloom, all adorned with the same awful grandeur, all traversed by persons in search of repose and consolation, but who sought them in vain; for every one carried within him a heart tormented in flames. Shunned by these various sufferers, who seemed, by their looks, to be upbraiding the partners of their guilt, they withdrew from them, to wait in direful suspense the moment which should render them to each other the like objects of terror. * * *

Ann Radcliffe, from The Romance of the Forest Ann Radcliffe (1764–1823) published five novels between 1789 and 1797, all tremendously popular in their day and influential on other writers for long afterward. Their plots have been efficiently summarized by Russell Noyes in an introduction of 1956: The hero is a gentleman of noble birth, likely as not in some sort of disgrace; the heroine, an orphan-heiress, high-strung and sensitive, and highly susceptible to music and poetry and to nature in its most romantic moods. A prominent role is given to the tyrant-villain. He is a man of fierce and morose passions obsessed by the love of power and riches. The villain can usually be counted on to confine the heroine in the haunted wing of a castle because she refuses to marry someone she hates. Whatever the details, Mrs. Radcliffe generally manages the plot and action so that the chief impression is a sense of the young heroine's incessant danger. On oft-repeated midnight prowls about the gloomy passageways of a rambling, ruined castle, the heroine in a quiver of excitement (largely self-induced) experiences a series of hair-raising adventures and narrow escapes. Her emotional tension is kept to the pitch by a succession of strange sights and sounds . . . and by an assorted array of sliding panels, trap doors, faded hangings, veiled portraits, bloodstained garments, and even dark and desperate characters. >> note 1 Radcliffe published her third novel, The Romance of the Forest, in 1791. The extract here, from chapter 8, is of particular interest because Jane Austen recalled specific details from it when she was writing the fifth chapter of volume 2 of Northanger Abbey. The passage has been associated with Austen ever since R. W. Chapman included it in an appendix to his Oxford text of Northanger Abbey in The Novels of Jane Austen (1923). From Chapter 8 *** Adeline retired early to her room, which adjoined on one side to Madame La Motte's, and on the other to the closet formerly mentioned. It was spacious and lofty, and what little furniture it contained was falling to decay; but, perhaps, the present tone of her spirits might contribute more than these circumstances to give that air of melancholy which seemed to reign in it. She was unwilling to go to bed, lest the dreams that had lately pursued her should return; and determined to sit up till she found herself oppressed by sleep, when it was probable her rest would be profound. She placed the light on a small table, and, taking a book, continued to read for above an hour, till her mind refused any longer to abstract itself from its own cares, and she sat for some time leaning pensively on her arm. The wind was high, and as it whistled through the desolate apartment, and shook the feeble doors, she often started, and sometimes even thought she heard sighs between the pauses of the gust; but she checked these illusions, which the hour of the night and her own melancholy imagination conspired to raise. As she sat musing, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, she perceived the arras, with which the room was hung, wave backwards and forwards; she continued to observe it for some minutes, and then rose to examine it farther. It was moved by the wind; and she blushed at the momentary fear it had excited: but she observed that the tapestry was more strongly agitated in one particular place than elsewhere, and a noise that seemed something more than that of the wind issued thence. The old bedstead, which La Motte had found in this apartment, had been removed to accommodate Adeline, and it was behind the place where this had stood that the wind seemed to rush with particular force: curiosity prompted her to examine still farther; she felt about the tapestry, and perceiving the wall behind shake under her hand, she lifted the arras, and discovered a small door, whose loosened hinges admitted the wind, and occasioned the noise she had heard. The door was held only by a bolt, having undrawn which, and brought the light, she descended by a few steps into another chamber: she instantly remembered her dreams. The chamber was not much like that in which she had seen the dying Chevalier, and afterwards the bier; but it gave her a confused remembrance of one through which she had passed. Holding up the light to examine it more fully, she was convinced by its structure that it was part of the ancient foundation. A shattered casement, placed high from the floor, seemed to be the only opening to admit light. She observed a door on the opposite side of the apartment; and after some moments of hesitation, gained courage, and determined to pursue the inquiry. "A mystery seems to hang over these chambers," said she, "which it is, perhaps, my lot to develope; I will, at least, see to what that door leads."

She stepped forward, and having unclosed it, proceeded with faltering steps along a suite of apartments resembling the first in style and condition, and terminating in one exactly like that where her dream had represented the dying person; the remembrance struck so forcibly upon her imagination that she was in danger of fainting; and looking round the room, almost expected to see the phantom of her dream. Unable to quit the place, she sat down on some old lumber to recover herself, while her spirits were nearly overcome by a superstitious dread, such as she had never felt before. She wondered to what part of the abbey these chambers belonged, and that they had so long escaped detection. The casements were all too high to afford any information from without. When she was sufficiently composed to consider the direction of the rooms, and the situation of the abbey, there appeared not a doubt that they formed an interior part of the original building. As these reflections passed over her mind, a sudden gleam of moonlight fell upon some object without the casement. Being now sufficiently composed to wish to pursue the inquiry, and believing this object might afford her some means of learning the situation of these rooms, she combated her remaining terrors, and, in order to distinguish it more clearly, removed the light to an outer chamber; but before she could return, a heavy cloud was driven over the face of the moon, and all without was perfectly dark: she stood for some moments waiting a returning gleam, but the obscurity continued. As she went softly back for the light, her foot stumbled over something on the floor, and while she stooped to examine it, the moon again shone, so that she could distinguish, through the casement, the eastern towers of the abbey. This discovery confirmed her former conjectures concerning the interior situation of these apartments. The obscurity of the place prevented her discovering what it was that had impeded her steps, but having brought the light forward, she perceived on the floor an old dagger: with a trembling hand she took it up, and upon a closer view perceived that it was spotted and stained with rust. Shocked and surprised, she looked round the room for some object that might confirm or destroy the dreadful suspicion which now rushed upon her mind; but she saw only a great chair, with broken arms, that stood in one corner of the room, and a table in a condition equally shattered, except that in another part lay a confused heap of things, which appeared to be old lumber. She went up to it, and perceived a broken bedstead, with some decayed remnants of furniture, covered with dust and cobwebs, and which seemed, indeed, as if they had not been moved for many years. Desirous, however, of examining farther, she attempted to raise what appeared to have been part of the bedstead, but it slipped from her hand, and, rolling to the floor, brought with it some of the remaining lumber. Adeline started aside and saved herself, and when the noise it made had ceased, she heard a small rustling sound, and as she was about to leave the chamber, saw something falling gently among the lumber. It was a small roll of paper, tied with a string, and covered with dust. Adeline took it up, and on opening it perceived an handwriting. She attempted to read it, but the part of the manuscript she looked at was so much obliterated that she found this difficult, though what few words were legible impressed her with curiosity and terror, and induced her to return immediately to her chamber. ***

Ann Radcliffe, from The Mysteries of Udolpho The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794) is Ann Radcliffe at her best. (For more about Radcliffe, see the headnote to The Romance of the Forest.) In the first of the two extracts given here, from volume 2, chapter 5, Radcliffe describes Emily St. Aubert's reactions as she and the villainous Montoni approach his castle high in the Italian Apennines. In the second, from volume 2, chapter 6, Emily explores her chamber in the castle and, after she falls asleep, is awakened by a stealthy intruder. From Volume 2, Chapter 5 *** Towards the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley. Mountains, whose shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible, almost surrounded it. To the east, a vista opened, that exhibited the Apennines in their darkest horrors; and the long perspective of retiring summits, rising over each other, their ridges clothed with pines, exhibited a stronger image of grandeur, than any that Emily had yet seen. The sun had just sunk below the top of the mountains she was descending, whose long shadow stretched athwart the valley, but his sloping rays, shooting through an opening of the cliffs, touched with a yellow gleam the summits of the forest, that hung upon the opposite steeps, and streamed in full splendour upon the towers and battlements of a castle, that spread its extensive ramparts along the brow of a precipice above. The splendour of these illumined objects was heightened by the contrasted shade, which involved the valley below. "There," said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours, "is Udolpho." Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood to be Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun, the gothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark grey stone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed, the light died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spread deeper and deeper, as the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while the battlements above were still tipped with splendour. From those too, the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested with the solemn duskiness of evening. Silent, lonely and sublime, it seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on all who dared to invade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened, its features became more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze, till its clustering towers were alone seen, rising over the tops of the woods, beneath whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend. The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images in her mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up from under the trees. At length, the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and, soon after, reached the castle gates, where the deep tone of the portal bell, which was struck upon to give notice of their arrival, increased the fearful emotions that had assailed Emily. While they waited till the servant within should come to open the gates, she anxiously surveyed the edifice: but the gloom that overspread it allowed her to distinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls of the ramparts, and to know that it was vast, ancient and dreary. From the parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and extent of the whole. The gateway before her, leading into the courts, was of gigantic size, and was defended by two round towers, crowned by overhanging turrets, embattled, where instead of banners, now waved long grass and wild plants, that had taken root among the mouldering stones, and which seemed to sigh, as the breeze rolled past, over the desolation around them. The towers were united by a curtain, pierced and embattled also, below which appeared the pointed arch of an huge portcullis, surmounting the gates: from these, the walls of the ramparts extended to other towers, overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline, appearing on a gleam that lingered in the west, told of the ravages of war. — Beyond these all was lost in the obscurity of evening. While Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard within the gates, and the undrawing of the bolts; after which an ancient servant of the castle appeared, forcing back the huge folds of the portal, to admit his lord. As the carriage-wheels rolled heavily under the portcullis, Emily's heart sunk, and she seemed as if she was going into her prison; the gloomy court into which she passed served to confirm the idea, and her imagination, ever awake to circumstance, suggested even more terrors than her reason could justify. Another gate delivered them into the second court, grass-grown, and more wild than the first, where, as she surveyed through the twilight its desolation — its lofty walls, overtopped with briony, moss and nightshade, and the embattled towers that rose above, — long-suffering and murder came to her thoughts. One of those instantaneous and

unaccountable convictions, which sometimes conquer even strong minds, impressed her with its horror. The sentiment was not diminished when she entered an extensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom of evening, which a light, glimmering at a distance through a long perspective of arches, only rendered more striking. As a servant brought the lamp nearer, partial gleams fell upon the pillars and the pointed arches, forming a strong contrast with their shadows, that stretched along the pavement and the walls. * * * *** From Volume 2, Chapter 6 * * * Emily took no further notice of the subject, and, after some struggle with imaginary fears, her good nature prevailed over them so far, that she dismissed Annette for the night. She then sat, musing upon her own circumstances and those of Madame Montoni, till her eye rested on the miniature picture which she had found, after her father's death, among the papers he had enjoined her to destroy. It was open upon the table, before her, among some loose drawings, having, with them, been taken out of a little box by Emily some hours before. The sight of it called up many interesting reflections, but the melancholy sweetness of the countenance soothed the emotions which these had occasioned. It was the same style of countenance as that of her late father, and, while she gazed on it with fondness on this account, she even fancied a resemblance in the features. But this tranquillity was suddenly interrupted, when she recollected the words in the manuscript that had been found with this picture, and which had formerly occasioned her so much doubt and horror. At length, she roused herself from the deep reverie into which this remembrance had thrown her; but, when she rose to undress, the silence and solitude to which she was left, at this midnight hour, for not even a distant sound was now heard, conspired with the impression the subject she had been considering had given to her mind, to appall her. Annette's hints, too, concerning this chamber, simple as they were, had not failed to affect her, since they followed a circumstance of peculiar horror which she herself had witnessed, and since the scene of this was a chamber nearly adjoining her own. The door of the stair-case was, perhaps, a subject of more reasonable alarm, and she now began to apprehend, such was the aptitude of her fears, that this stair-case had some private communication with the apartment which she shuddered even to remember. Determined not to undress, she lay down to sleep in her clothes, with her late father's dog, the faithful Manchon, at the foot of the bed, whom she considered as a kind of guard. Thus circumstanced, she tried to banish reflection, but her busy fancy would still hover over the subjects of her interest, and she heard the clock of the castle strike two, before she closed her eyes. From the disturbed slumber into which she then sunk, she was soon awakened by a noise, which seemed to arise within her chamber; but the silence that prevailed, as she fearfully listened, inclined her to believe that she had been alarmed by such sounds as sometimes occur in dreams, and she laid her head again upon the pillow. A return of the noise again disturbed her; it seemed to come from that part of the room which communicated with the private stair-case, and she instantly remembered the odd circumstance of the door having been fastened, during the preceding night, by some unknown hand. Her late alarming suspicion, concerning its communication, also occurred to her. Her heart became faint with terror. Half raising herself from the bed, and gently drawing aside the curtain, she looked towards the door of the stair-case, but the lamp that burnt on the hearth spread so feeble a light through the apartment that the remote parts of it were lost in shadow. The noise, however, which, she was convinced, came from the door, continued. It seemed like that made by the undrawing of rusty bolts, and often ceased, and was then renewed more gently, as if the hand that occasioned it was restrained by a fear of discovery. While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot, she saw the door move, and then slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but the extreme duskiness prevented her distinguishing what it was. Almost fainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself to check the shriek that was escaping from her lips, and, letting the curtain drop from her hand, continued to observe in silence the motions of the mysterious form she saw. It seemed to glide along the remote obscurity of the apartment, then paused, and, as it approached the hearth, she perceived, in the stronger light, what appeared to be a human figure. Certain remembrances now struck upon her heart, and almost subdued the feeble remains of her spirits; she continued, however, to watch the figure, which remained for some time motionless, but then, advancing slowly towards the bed, stood silently at the feet, where the curtains, being a little open, allowed her still to see it; terror, however, had now deprived her of the power of discrimination, as well as of that of utterance. Having continued there a moment, the form retreated towards the hearth, when it took the lamp, held it up, surveyed the chamber for a few moments, and then again advanced towards the bed. The light at that instant awakening the

dog that had slept at Emily's feet, he barked loudly, and, jumping to the floor, flew at the stranger, who struck the animal smartly with a sheathed sword, and, springing towards the bed, Emily discovered — Count Morano! ***

Matthew Gregory Lewis, from The Monk Matthew Gregory Lewis's The Monk, written in ten weeks when the author was nineteen and published in 1796 when he was twenty, is the most lurid of the Gothic novels and, at the same time, one of the most vividly written (a combination guaranteed to produce a best-seller). Ambrosio, abbot of the Capuchin monastery in Madrid, goes from a pinnacle of self-satisfied saintliness to become one of the most depraved villains in all fiction. After being seduced by Matilda, a diabolical woman who has entered the monastery disguised as a novice named Rosario, the monk, with the help of a talisman provided by Matilda, plots the rape of one of his penitents, Antonia. His first attempt is foiled at the last minute by Antonia's mother, Elvira, whom Ambrosio strangles. His second attempt, in which he succeeds, culminates in the fatal stabbing of Antonia. As it turns out, Antonia is his sister and Elvira their mother; thus he has, among his crimes, the rape and murder of his sister and the murder of his mother. His punishment at the end, when the Devil reneges on a pact that would have allowed Ambrosio to escape, is gratifyingly spectacular. Reviewing The Monk in the February 1797 issue of the Critical Review, Coleridge commented: Situations of torment, and images of naked horror, are easily conceived; and a writer in whose works they abound deserves our gratitude almost equally with him who should drag us by way of sport through a military hospital, or force us to sit at the dissecting table of a natural philosopher. . . . The romance writer possesses an unlimited power over situations; but he must scrupulously make his characters act in congruity with them. Let him work physical wonders only, and we will be content to dream with him for a while; but the firstmoral miracle which he attempts, he disgusts and awakens us. In the first of the two extracts given here, from chapter 2, Ambrosio exults in his cell after having delivered a spellbinding sermon to a packed church in Madrid. The second extract, from chapter 8, recounts the first assault on Antonia and the murder of Elvira. From Chapter 2 *** The monks having attended their abbot to the door of his cell, he dismissed them with an air of conscious superiority, in which humility's semblance combated with the reality of pride. He was no sooner alone, than he gave free loose to the indulgence of his vanity. When he remembered the enthusiasm which his discourse had excited, his heart swelled with rapture, and his imagination presented him with splendid visions of aggrandizement. He looked round him with exultation; and pride told him loudly that he was superior to the rest of his fellow-creatures. "Who," thought he, "who but myself has passed the ordeal of youth, yet sees no single stain upon his conscience? Who else has subdued the violence of strong passions and an impetuous temperament, and submitted even from the dawn of life to voluntary retirement? I seek for such a man in vain. I see no one but myself possessed of such resolution. Religion cannot boast Ambrosio's equal! How powerful an effect did my discourse produce upon its auditors! How they crowded round me! How they loaded me with benedictions, and pronounced me the sole uncorrupted pillar of the church! What then now is left for me to do? Nothing, but to watch as carefully over the conduct of my brethren, as I have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold! May I not be tempted from those paths which till now I have pursued without one moment's wandering? Am I not a man whose nature is frail and prone to error? I must now abandon the solitude of my retreat; the fairest and noblest dames of Madrid continually present themselves at the abbey, and will use no other confessor. I must accustom my eyes to objects of temptation, and expose myself to the seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet in that world which I am constrained to enter, some lovely female — lovely as you — Madona — !" As he said this, he fixed his eyes upon a picture of the Virgin, which was suspended opposite to him: this for two years had been the object of his increasing wonder and adoration. He paused, and gazed upon it with delight.

"What beauty in that countenance!" he continued after a silence of some minutes; "how graceful is the turn of that head! what sweetness, yet what majesty in her divine eyes! how softly her cheek reclines upon her hand! Can the rose vie with the blush of that cheek? can the lily rival the whiteness of that hand? Oh! if such a creature existed, and existed but for me! were I permitted to twine round my fingers those golden ringlets, and press with my lips the treasures of that snowy bosom! gracious God, should I then resist the temptation? Should I not barter for a single embrace the reward of my sufferings for thirty years? Should I not abandon — — — Fool that I am! Whither do I suffer my admiration of this picture to hurry me? Away, impure ideas! Let me remember that woman is for ever lost to me. Never was mortal formed so perfect as this picture. But even did such exist, the trial might be too mighty for a common virtue; but Ambrosio's is proof against temptation. Temptation, did I say? To me it would be none. What charms me, when ideal and considered as a superior being, would disgust me, become woman and tainted with all the failings of mortality. It is not the woman's beauty that fills me with such enthusiasm: it is the painter's skill that I admire; it is the Divinity that I adore. Are not the passions dead in my bosom? have I not freed myself from the frailty of mankind? Fear not, Ambrosio! Take confidence in the strength of your virtue. Enter boldly into the world, to whose failings you are superior; reflect that you are now exempted from humanity's defects, and defy all the arts of the spirits of darkness. They shall know you for what you are!" Here his reverie was interrupted by three soft knocks at the door of his cell. With difficulty did the abbot awake from his delirium. The knocking was repeated. "Who is there?" said Ambrosio at length. "It is only Rosario," replied a gentle voice. From Chapter 8 *** It was almost two o'clock before the lustful monk ventured to bend his steps towards Antonia's dwelling. It has been already mentioned that the abbey was at no great distance from the strada di San Iago. He reached the house unobserved. Here he stopped, and hesitated for a moment. He reflected on the enormity of the crime, the consequences of a discovery, and the probability, after what had passed, of Elvira's suspecting him to be her daughter's ravisher. On the other hand it was suggested that she could do no more than suspect; that no proofs of his guilt could be produced; that it would seem impossible for the rape to have been committed without Antonia's knowing when, where, or by whom; and finally, he believed that his fame was too firmly established to be shaken by the unsupported accusations of two unknown women. This latter argument was perfectly false. He knew not how uncertain is the air of popular applause, and that a moment suffices to make him to-day the detestation of the world, who yesterday was its idol. The result of the monk's deliberations was that he should proceed in his enterprise. He ascended the steps leading to the house. No sooner did he touch the door with the silver myrtle than it flew open, and presented him with a free passage. He entered, and the door closed after him of its own accord. Guided by the moon-beams, he proceeded up the stair-case with slow and cautious steps. He looked round him every moment with apprehension and anxiety. He saw a spy in every shadow, and heard a voice in every murmur of the night-breeze. Consciousness of the guilty business on which he was employed appalled his heart, and rendered it more timid than a woman's. Yet still he proceeded. He reached the door of Antonia's chamber. He stopped, and listened. All was hushed within. The total silence persuaded him that his intended victim was retired to rest, and he ventured to lift up the latch. The door was fastened, and resisted his efforts. But no sooner was it touched by the talisman than the bolt flew back. The ravisher stepped on, and found himself in the chamber where slept the innocent girl, unconscious how dangerous a visitor was drawing near her couch. The door closed after him, and the bolt shot again into its fastening. Ambrosio advanced with precaution. He took care that not a board should creak under his foot, and held in his breath as he approached the bed. His first attention was to perform the magic ceremony, as Matilda had charged him: he breathed thrice upon the silver myrtle, pronounced over it Antonia's name, and laid it upon her pillow. The effects which it had already produced permitted not his doubting its success in prolonging the slumbers of his devoted mistress. No sooner was the enchantment performed than he considered her to be absolutely in his power, and his eyes flashed with lust and impatience. He now ventured to cast a glance upon the sleeping beauty. A single lamp, burning before the statue of St. Rosolia, shed a faint light through the room, and permitted him to examine all the charms of the lovely object before him. The heat of the weather had obliged her to throw off part of the bed-clothes. Those which still covered her Ambrosio's insolent hand hastened to remove. She lay with her cheek reclining upon

one ivory arm: the other rested on the side of the bed with graceful indolence. A few tresses of her hair had escaped from beneath the muslin which confined the rest, and fell carelessly over her bosom, as it heaved with slow and regular suspiration. The warm air had spread her cheek with a higher colour than usual. A smile inexpressibly sweet played round her ripe and coral lips, from which every now and then escaped a gentle sigh, or an half-pronounced sentence. An air of enchanting innocence and candour pervaded her whole form; and there was a sort of modesty in her very nakedness, which added fresh stings to the desires of the lustful monk. He remained for some moments devouring those charms with his eyes which soon were to be subjected to his illregulated passions. Her mouth half-opened seem to solicit a kiss: he bent over her: he joined his lips to hers, and drew in the fragrance of her breath with rapture. This momentary pleasure increased his longing for still greater. His desires were raised to that frantic height by which brutes are agitated. He resolved not to delay for one instant longer the accomplishment of his wishes, and hastily proceeded to tear off those garments which impeded the gratification of his lust. "Gracious God!" exclaimed a voice behind him: "Am I not deceived? Is not this an illusion?" Terror, confusion, and disappointment accompanied these words, as they struck Ambrosio's hearing. He started, and turned towards it. Elvira stood at the door of the chamber, and regarded the monk with looks of surprise and detestation. A frightful dream had represented to her Antonia on the verge of a precipice. She saw her trembling on the brink: every moment seemed to threaten her fall, and she heard her exclaim with shrieks, "Save me, mother! save me! — Yet a moment, and it will be too late." Elvira woke in terror. The vision had made too strong an impression upon her mind to permit her resting till assured of her daughter's safety. She hastily started from her bed, threw on a loose night-gown, and, passing through the closet in which slept the waiting-woman, reached Antonia's chamber just in time to rescue her from the grasp of the ravisher. His shame and her amazement seemed to have petrified into statues both Elvira and the monk. They remained gazing upon each other in silence. The lady was the first to recover herself. "It is no dream," she cried: "it is really Ambrosio who stands before me. It is the man whom Madrid esteems a saint that I find at this late hour near the couch of my unhappy child. Monster of hypocrisy! I already suspected your designs, but forbore your accusation in pity to human frailty. Silence would now be criminal. The whole city shall be informed of your incontinence. I will unmask you, villain, and convince the church what a viper she cherishes in her bosom." Pale and confused, the baffled culprit stood trembling before her. He would fain have extenuated his offence, but could find no apology for his conduct. He could produce nothing but broken sentences, and excuses which contradicted each other. Elvira was too justly incensed to grant the pardon which he requested. She protested that she would raise the neighbourhood, and make him an example to all future hypocrites. Then hastening to the bed, she called to Antonia to wake; and finding that her voice had no effect, she took her arm, and raised her forcibly from the pillow. The charm operated too powerfully. Antonia remained insensible; and, on being released by her mother, sank back upon the pillow. "This slumber cannot be natural," cried the amazed Elvira, whose indignation increased with every moment: "some mystery is concealed in it. But tremble, hypocrite! All your villainy shall soon be unravelled. Help! help!" she exclaimed aloud: "Within there! Flora! Flora!" "Hear me for one moment, lady!" cried the monk, restored to himself by the urgency of the danger: "by all that is sacred and holy, I swear that your daughter's honour is still unviolated. Forgive my transgression! Spare me the shame of a discovery, and permit me to regain the abbey undisturbed. Grant me this request in mercy! I promise not only that Antonia shall be secure from me in future, but that the rest of my life shall prove — " Elvira interrupted him abruptly. "Antonia secure from you? I will secure her. You shall betray no longer the confidence of parents. Your iniquity shall be unveiled to the public eye. All Madrid shall shudder at your perfidy, your hypocrisy, and incontinence. What ho! there! Flora! Flora! I say."

While she spoke thus, the remembrance of Agnes struck upon his mind. Thus had she sued to him for mercy, and thus had he refused her prayer! It was now his turn to suffer, and he could not but acknowledge that his punishment was just. In the mean while Elvira continued to call Flora to her assistance; but her voice was so choaked with passion, that the servant, who was buried in profound slumber, was insensible to all her cries: Elvira dared not go towards the closet in which Flora slept, lest the monk should take that opportunity to escape. Such indeed was his intention: he trusted that, could he reach the abbey unobserved by any other than Elvira, her single testimony would not suffice to ruin a reputation so well established as his was in Madrid. With this idea he gathered up such garments as he had already thrown off, and hastened towards the door. Elvira was aware of his design: she followed him, and, ere he could draw back the bolt, seized him by the arm, and detained him. "Attempt not to fly!" said she: "you quit not this room without witnesses of your guilt." Ambrosio struggled in vain to disengage himself. Elvira quitted not her hold, but redoubled her cries for succour. The friar's danger grew more urgent. He expected every moment to hear people assembling at her voice; and, worked up to madness by the approach of ruin, he adopted a resolution equally desperate and savage. Turning round suddenly, with one hand he grasped Elvira's throat so as to prevent her continuing her clamour, and with the other, dashing her violently upon the ground, he dragged her towards the bed. Confused by this unexpected attack, she scarcely had power to strive at forcing herself from his grasp: while the monk, snatching the pillow from beneath her daughter's head, covering with it Elvira's face, and pressing his knee upon her stomach with all his strength, endeavoured to put an end to her existence. He succeeded but too well. Her natural strength increased by the excess of anguish, long did the sufferer struggle to disengage herself, but in vain. The monk continued to kneel upon her breast, witnessed without mercy the convulsive trembling of her limbs beneath him, and sustained with inhuman firmness the spectacle of her agonies, when soul and body were on the point of separating. Those agonies at length were over. She ceased to struggle for life. The monk took off the pillow, and gazed upon her. Her face was covered with a frightful blackness: her limbs moved no more: the blood was chilled in her veins: her heart had forgotten to beat; and her hands were stiff and frozen. Ambrosio beheld before him that once noble and majestic form, now become a corse, cold, senseless, and disgusting. This horrible act was no sooner perpetrated, than the friar beheld the enormity of his crime. A cold dew flowed over his limbs: his eyes closed: he staggered to a chair, and sank into it almost as lifeless as the unfortunate who lay extended at his feet. From this state he was roused by the necessity of flight, and the danger of being found in Antonia's apartment. He had no desire to profit by the execution of his crime. Antonia now appeared to him an object of disgust. A deadly cold had usurped the place of that warmth which glowed in his bosom. No ideas offered themselves to his mind but those of death and guilt, of present shame and future punishment. Agitated by remorse and fear, he prepared for flight: yet his terrors did not so completely master his recollection as to prevent his taking the precautions necessary for his safety. He replaced the pillow upon the bed, gathered up his garments, and, with the fatal talisman in his hand, bent his unsteady steps towards the door. Bewildered by fear, he fancied that his flight was opposed by legions of phantoms. Wherever he turned, the disfigured corse seemed to lie in his passage, and it was long before he succeeded in reaching the door. The enchanted myrtle produced its former effect. The door opened, and he hastened down the stair-case. He entered the abbey unobserved; and having shut himself into his cell, he abandoned his soul to the tortures of unavailing remorse, and terrors of impending detection.

Jane Austen, from Northanger Abbey Northanger Abbey, not published until 1818, a year after Jane Austen's death, was written in the later 1790s, the decade of four of Ann Radcliffe's widely read Gothic works, beginning with A Sicilian Romance (1790) andThe Romance of the Forest (1791). Austen's heroine, Catherine Morland, is a wide-eyed reader of Radcliffe's books — much given, therefore, to romantic fantasizing — and the novel recounts her coming to understand, belatedly, the difference between such fiction and the reality of everyday life. In the excerpt below, from volume 2, chapter 5, Catherine and Henry Tilney are approaching the ancient abbey, the Tilney family seat, and Henry teasingly provides a description that is a composite of details from Radcliffe's novels, "just like what one reads about." For Austen's principal sources, see, in this topic, the extracts from Radcliffe's Romance of the Forest and The Mysteries of Udolpho. Catherine is the first speaker in this dialogue. From Volume 2, Chapter 5 *** "You must be so fond of the abbey! — After being used to such a home as the abbey, an ordinary parsonage-house must be very disagreeable." He smiled, and said, "You have formed a very favourable idea of the abbey." "To be sure I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what one reads about?" "And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building such as 'what one reads about' may produce? — Have you a stout heart? — Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?" "Oh! yes — I do not think I should be easily frightened, because there would be so many people in the house — and besides, it has never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as generally happens." "No, certainly. — We shall not have to explore our way into a hall dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire — nor be obliged to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors, or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by Dorothy the ancient housekeeper up a different staircase, and along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you, when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber — too lofty and extensive for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its size — its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting even a funereal appearance. Will not your heart sink within you?" "Oh! but this will not happen to me, I am sure." "How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! — And what will you discern? — Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over the fire-place the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy meanwhile, no less struck by your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single domestic within call. With this parting cordial she curtseys off — you listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as the last echo can reach you — and when, with fainting spirits, you attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm, that it has no lock." "Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! — This is just like a book! — But it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not really Dorothy. — Well, what then?"

"Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire to rest, and get a few hours' unquiet slumber. But on the second, or at farthest the third night after your arrival, you will probably have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake the edifice to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring mountains — and during the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you will probably think you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished) one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short search, you will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully constructed as to defy the minutest inspection, and on opening it, a door will immediately appear — which door being only secured by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts, succeed in opening, — and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through it into a small vaulted room." "No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing." "What! not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is a secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off — Could you shrink from so simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this small vaulted room, and through this into several others, without perceiving anything very remarkable in either. In one perhaps there may be a dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a third the remains of some instrument of torture; but there being nothing in all this out of the common way, and your lamp being nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own apartment. In repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes will be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and gold, which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you had passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you will eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search into every drawer; — but for some time without discovering anything of importance — perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner compartment will open — a roll of paper appears: — you seize it — it contains many sheets of manuscript — you hasten with the precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you been able to decipher 'Oh! thou — whomsoever thou mayst be, into whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall' — when your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in total darkness." "Oh! no, no — do not say so. Well, go on." But Henry was too amused by the interest he had raised, to be able to carry it farther; he could no longer command solemnity either of subject or voice, and was obliged to entreat her to use her own fancy in the perusal of Matilda's woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to assure him that her attention had been fixed without the smallest apprehension of really meeting with what he related. "Miss Tilney, she was sure, would never put her into such a chamber as he had described! — She was not at all afraid." ***

Thomas Love Peacock, from Nightmare Abbey Thomas Love Peacock, novelist, poet, and friend of Percy Shelley, published Nightmare Abbey in 1818, the third in a series of satirical romances poking gentle fun at the posturing and other excesses of his fellow Romantics.Nightmare Abbey provides sustained caricatures of Byron (Mr. Cypress), Coleridge (Mr. Flosky), and Shelley (Scythrop Glowry, son of the master of Nightmare Abbey), among others. In the extract given here, from chapter 3, the focus is on Scythrop's (and Shelley's) unsettled relationships with women: Scythrop has been rejected by Emily Girouette and now has a place in his heart for the divine Marionetta. The brief scene refers incidentally to several standard Gothic motifs: the abbey itself, Scythrop's secret room in a tower, and pursuit of a female amid — and in this case frustrated by — some of the architecture typically encountered in Gothic novels. From Chapter 3 *** Miss Marionetta Celestina O'Carroll was a very blooming and accomplished young lady. Being a compound of the Allegro Vivace of the O'Carrolls, and of the Andante Doloroso of the Glowrys, she exhibited in her own character all the diversities of an April sky. Her hair was light-brown: her eyes hazel, and sparkling with a mild but fluctuating light: her features regular: her lips full, and of equal size: and her person surpassingly graceful. She was a proficient in music. Her conversation was sprightly, but always on subjects light in their nature and limited in their interest: for moral sympathies, in any general sense, had no place in her mind. She had some coquetry, and more caprice, liking and disliking almost in the same moment; pursuing an object with earnestness while it seemed unattainable, and rejecting it when in her power as not worth the trouble of possession. Whether she was touched with a penchant for her cousin Scythrop, or was merely curious to see what effect the tender passion would have on so outré>> note 1 a person, she had not been three days in the Abbey before she threw out all the lures of her beauty and accomplishments to make a prize of his heart. Scythrop proved an easy conquest. The image of Miss Emily Girouette was already sufficiently dimmed by the power of philosophy and the exercise of reason: for to these influences, or to any influence but the true one, are usually ascribed the mental cures performed by the great physician Time. Scythrop's romantic dreams had indeed given him many pure anticipated cognitions of combinations of beauty and intelligence, which, he had some misgivings, were not exactly realised in his cousin Marionetta; but, in spite of these misgivings, he soon became distractedly in love; which when the young lady clearly perceived, she altered her tactics, and assumed as much coldness and reserve as she had before shewn ardent and ingenuous attachment. Scythrop was confounded at the sudden change; but, instead of falling at her feet and requesting an explanation, he retreated to his tower, muffled himself in his night-cap, seated himself in the president's chair of his imaginary secret tribunal, summoned Marionetta with all terrible formalities, frightened her out of her wits, disclosed himself, and clasped the beautiful penitent to his bosom. While he was acting this reverie — in the moment in which the awful president of the secret tribunal was throwing back his cowl and his mantle, and discovering himself to the lovely culprit as her adoring and magnanimous lover — the door of the study opened, and the real Marionetta appeared. The motives which had led her to the tower were a little penitence, a little concern, a little affection, and a little fear as to what the sudden secession of Scythrop, occasioned by her sudden change of manner, might portend. She had tapped several times unheard, and of course unanswered; and at length, timidly and cautiously opening the door, she discovered him standing up before a black velvet chair, which was mounted on an old oak table, in the act of throwing open his striped calico dressing-gown, and flinging away his night-cap, — which is what the French call an imposing attitude. Each stood a few moments fixed in their respective places, — the lady in astonishment, and the gentleman in confusion. Marionetta was the first to break silence. "For heaven's sake," said she, "my dear Scythrop, what is the matter?" "For heaven's sake, indeed," said Scythrop, springing from the table; "for your sake, Marionetta, and you are my heaven, — distraction is the matter. I adore you, Marionetta, and your cruelty drives me mad." He threw himself at her knees, devoured her hand with kisses, and breathed a thousand vows in the most passionate language of romance.

Marionetta listened a long time in silence, till her lover had exhausted his eloquence and paused for a reply. She then said, with a very arch look, "I prithee deliver thyself like a man of this world." The levity of this quotation, >> note 2 and of the manner in which it was delivered, jarred so discordantly on the high-wrought enthusiasm of the romantic inamorato, that he sprang upon his feet, and beat his forehead with his clenched fists. The young lady was terrified; and, deeming it expedient to soothe him, took one of his hands in hers, placed the other hand on his shoulder, looked up in his face with a winning seriousness, and said, in the tenderest possible tone, "What would you have, Scythrop?" Scythrop was in heaven again. "What would I have? What but you, Marionetta? You, for the companion of my studies, the partner of my thoughts, the auxiliary of my great designs for the emancipation of mankind." "I am afraid I should be but a poor auxiliary, Scythrop. What would you have me do?" "Do as Rosalia does with Carlos, >> note 3 divine Marionetta. Let us each open a vein in the other's arm, mix our blood in a bowl, and drink it as a sacrament of love. Then we shall see visions of transcendental illumination, and soar on the wings of ideas into the space of pure intelligence." Marionetta could not reply; she had not so strong a stomach as Rosalia, and turned sick at the proposition. She disengaged herself suddenly from Scythrop, sprang through the door of the tower, and fled with precipitation along the corridors. Scythrop pursued her, crying, "Stop, stop, Marionetta, — my life, my love!" and was gaining rapidly on her flight, when, at an ill-omened corner, where two corridors ended in an angle, at the head of a staircase, he came into sudden and violent contact with Mr. Toobad, and they both plunged together to the foot of the stairs, like two billiard-balls into one pocket. This gave the young lady time to escape, and enclose herself in her chamber; while Mr. Toobad, rising slowly, and rubbing his knees and shoulders, said, "You see, my dear Scythrop, in this little incident, one of the innumerable proofs of the temporary supremacy of the devil; for what but a systematic design and concurrent contrivance of evil could have made the angles of time and place coincide in our unfortunate persons at the head of this accursed staircase?" "Nothing else, certainly," said Scythrop: "you are perfectly in the right, Mr. Toobad. Evil, and mischief, and misery, and confusion, and vanity, and vexation of spirit, and death, and disease, and assassination, and war, and poverty, and pestilence, and famine, and avarice, and selfishness, and rancour, and jealousy, and spleen, and malevolence, and the disappointments of philanthropy, and the faithlessness of friendship, and the crosses of love, — all prove the accuracy of your views, and the truth of your system; and it is not impossible that the infernal interruption of this fall down stairs may throw a colour of evil on the whole of my future existence." "My dear boy," said Mr. Toobad, "you have a fine eye for consequences." So saying, he embraced Scythrop, who retired, with a disconsolate step, to dress for dinner; while Mr. Toobad stalked across the hall, repeating, "Woe to the inhabiters of the earth, and of the sea, for the devil is come among you, having great wrath." ***

Strawberry Hill Eighteenth-century Gothic fiction actually begins with architecture, with Horace Walpole's transformation of Strawberry Hill, his famous Gothic creation on the Thames, into the famous haunted castle of his The Castle of Otranto (1764). Every Gothic tale thereafter, regardless of the specific setting, lavishes attention on the architectural details of halls, chambers, closets, cabinets, stairways, secret passages, and dungeons — the experiences of terror are inseparable from the floors, walls, ceilings, doors, windows, and screens enclosing them. Here, from Walpole's 1784Description of the Villa of Mr. Horace Walpole, Youngest Son of Sir Robert Walpole Earl of Orford, at Strawberry-Hill near Twickenham, Middlesex, with an Inventory of the Furniture, Pictures, Curiosities, &c., are five engraved illustrations showing (top row, left) the north front of the building; (right) the main entrance; (middle row, left) a staircase; (right) the library; and (bottom row) a small room called a cabinet.

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Many Romantic poems have elements of the Gothic without being wholly Gothic works. Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (NAEL 8, 2.430) and Christabel (NAEL 8, 2.449), Byron's Manfred (NAEL 8, 2.635), and Keats's The Eve of St. Agnes (NAEL 8, 2.888) are prime examples. What elements of the Gothic do you detect in any particular instance? What effects does the writer achieve by using them? What artistic (or other) purpose is accomplished by connecting the work with Gothic tradition? From its inception, the Gothic tale invited both flattering imitation and critical parody, and indeed the two are not always easy to distinguish. Furthermore, the first Gothic tale — The Castle of Otranto — itself seems rather like a parody of the genre it in fact inaugurates. a. What is it in the style or plot of the Gothic tale that invites these kinds of imitation? How is it that the reader is invited to become the writer? b. What place for individuality of plot or of style is left? How, given this emphasis on recycling and repetition, has it been possible for the genre to change over time? In the Gothic novel, interiors are linked with danger. Threats come from within the house, within the family, and within the self. The ever-mounting sense of danger that characterizes the genre depends on the continual revelation of unsuspected depths. a. How do the selections in this topic suggest and exploit associations among these different kinds of interior? b. To what extent does the "Gothic" effect rely on the constant contrast between the familiar and the exotic? The explicit treatment of sexuality among other factors has made the Gothic a genre of interest for psychoanalytic critics. You can see a sampling of these points of view, along with passages from many of the novels that are sampled here, gathered on the Web site Architecture of the Mind. a. How do you see the ideas about fantasy (discussed by Holland and Sherman) and repression (discussed by Brooks) reflected in the texts? b. Does the selection by Max Byrd, with its attention to real-world institutions like the madhouse and the brothel, explain more than can be explained by purely psychological readings of the texts? Gothic architecture is one of the major elements of the opium dreams described by Thomas De Quincey in The Pains of Opium (NAEL 8, 2.560–66). How do the nightmare cities that haunt De Quincey in his dreams echo — or contradict — what is terrifying in the architecture of the Gothic novel? Edmund Burke's Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful has relevance to the Gothic tale as well as to landscape. But whereas the Romantic idea of landscape locates the sublime in nature, the Gothic emphasizes the supernatural and the human. a. While the sublimity of the landscape is associated with male writers and characters, women (writers and characters) encounter the sublime within the confines of the Gothic. How does this pattern affect your understanding of Burke's analysis, especially of the place of power in the sublime? b. As suggested by Vathek, the Gothic's atmosphere of horror often slips into the realm of camp. Why do you think the dignity and majesty of the sublime prove so hard to sustain within the Gothic tale? Although Catherine Morland tells Henry Tilney that she "should be too much frightened to do any such thing," the heroines of Gothic novels are characterized by the courage they reveal as well as by the terror they constantly experience. a. What resources do Adeline in The Romance of the Forest and Emily in The Mysteries of Udolpho find to push them forward in their adventures and to prevent their collapse into terror when under threat? b. In the Gothic, terror and courage are experienced by men as well as women, and by the guilty as well as the innocent. How do Walpole's Manfred and Lewis's Monk respond to the horror they feel, and what drives them on? c. Do these comparisons suggest deeper affinities between the female heroines and male villains of the Gothic? How does this complicate the apparently polarized moral universe of these novels? In chapter 4 of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (NAEL 8, 2.189–95), Mary Wollstonecraft denounces the cultivation of women "brimful of sensibility, and teeming with capricious fancies." Their "fear is cherished," even though "ever restless and anxious, their over exercised sensibility not only renders them uncomfortable themselves, but troublesome . . . to others." a. How do Radcliffe's heroines exemplify Wollstonecraft's complaints? How does what Wollstonecraft presents of real women's lives help to account for the Gothic's attractions to women as both readers and writers? b. Peacock's Nightmare Abbey casts a cynical eye on matters of sexual pursuit. How does his satire replicate or differ from Wollstonecraft's complaints? Gothic tales, both in English and in German, were a dominant force in the late-eighteenth-century literary marketplace and were read by all the major Romantic poets. At the same time, with the notable exception of Byron, none of the poets garnered anything like the novelists' readership. Details about the poets' reading of

and opinions about the Gothic tale are gathered on Professor Douglass Thomson's site Gothic Literature: What the Romantic Writers Read. Briefly survey the site and then choose one poet to focus on in particular. What common points of praise or blame appear? What inconsistencies? How do you see the poet's reading of the Gothic reflected in his poetry?

The French Revolution – Apocalyptic Expectation : Overview Looking back to his early radical years from his conservative middle age, the English poet Robert Southey (1774– 1843) declared that few persons but those who have lived in it can conceive or comprehend what the memory of the French Revolution was, nor what a visionary world seemed to open upon those who were just entering it. Old things seemed passing away, and nothing was dreamt of but the regeneration of the human race. >> note 1 In the prologue to his successful play The Road to Ruin (1792), Thomas Holcroft predicted that the French Revolution would "fertilize a world, and renovate old earth!" And in The Prelude (1805), Wordsworth remembered the early years of the Revolution as a time when all Europe was thrilled with joy, France standing on the top of golden hours, And human nature seeming born again. (6.340–42; NAEL 2.346) Human nature regenerate in a world made new: this was the theme of many enthusiasts in England during the first four or five years after the outbreak of the French Revolution in 1789. These concepts are obviously theological. They originate in the apocalyptic and millennial passages of the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures, and their use indicates that for a number of British idealists, the early enthusiasm for the revolution had the momentum and excitement of a religious movement. The term apocalypse, derived from the Greek word meaning "revelation," designates the disclosure, in the Bible, of God's providential design for the end of human history. In its fully developed form, an apocalypse is a prophetic vision, elaborately symbolic of the imminent events that will abruptly end the existing world order and replace it with a new and perfected condition both of humanity and of the world. The root elements of apocalypse are the concern of the Hebrew prophets with the catastrophic punishments to be visited upon Israel and its enemies in "the latter end of the days," as well as with the expectation of a Messiah, a deliverer from suffering in this disaster-ridden world. These elements are collected in the writings attributed to the prophet Isaiah, which foretell, after God has vented His wrath, the advent of a renovated world of ease, joy, and peace. "For, behold, I create new heavens and a new earth," in which "the wolf and the lamb shall feed together, and the lion shall eat straw like the bullock" (Isaiah 65.17–25). The Hebrew Bible also contains a full-fledged apocalypse, the Book of Daniel. Passages predicting an imminent apocalypse occur in the New Testament, both in the Synoptic Gospels and in the Epistles of Paul. The New Testament then concludes with the most spectacular and intricately ordered of all apocalyptic prophecies, the Book of Revelation. A series of seven symbolic events signalize the conflict between the forces of Christ and of Antichrist, culminating in a prodigious violence in which the stars fall like ripe figs and the harvest of the earth is cast "into the great winepress of the wrath of God." (6.13). This fierce destruction, however, is a cleansing one, preparatory to the inauguration of the Kingdom of Christ on earth, which will last one thousand years — in Latin, a "millennium," from which are derived the terms "millennial" and "millenarian" to signify the belief in a blissful earthly condition at the end of history. At the end of the millennium, the forces of evil are loosed again and finally defeated, after which the original creation, its function in the divine plot accomplished, will pass away, to be replaced by a new creation and by a new Jerusalem that will reconstitute, for the deserving elect, the paradise that was lost at the Fall: "And there shall be no more death . . . neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away" (21.4). Two distinctive images occur persistently in later writings that derive from biblical apocalypses. One is the image of a sacred marriage that signifies the consummation of history. In Isaiah, the final redemption is figured as a marriage between the people of Israel and their land (62.2–5); in Revelation, it is figured as a marriage between Christ and the new, or purified, Jerusalem, "coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband" (21.2, 9–10). The second recurrent image represents the final condition of blessedness as a renovated heaven and earth. "For, behold," the Lord said to Isaiah, "I create new heavens and a new earth" (65.17, also 66.22). Thus also Revelation:

"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away" (21.1, also 21.5). The apocalyptic and millennial books in the Bible are readily convertible into a scenario for political revolution, since they consist of an infallible text ordaining a necessary destruction of the forces of evil and guaranteeing the outcome of this violence in peace, plenty, and consummate happiness. In the Civil Wars in seventeenth-century England, for example, there were fervent apocalyptic expectations among radical parliamentary sects that were shared by Oliver Cromwell, as well as by John Milton. The late eighteenth century was another age of widespread apocalyptic expectation, when the promise of the American Revolution, followed by the greater and more radical expectations raised by the early years of the French Revolution, revived among a number of English Nonconforming sects the millenarian excitement of Milton and other seventeenth-century predecessors. "Hey for the New Jerusalem! The millennium!" Thomas Holcroft exulted in 1791. >> note 2Preachers such as Richard Price, Joseph Fawcett, and Elhanan Winchester, as well as Joseph Priestley, who was not only a great chemist but a founder of the Unitarian Society, all interpreted the convulsions in France in terms of the prophecies in both the Hebrew and the Christian Scriptures. They thus invested the political events of the day with the explosive power of the great Western myth of apocalypse and expanded a local phenomenon into the expectation that humanity, everywhere, was at the threshold of an earthly paradise. The phenomenon is of great literary importance because, during their formative period in the early 1790s, the first generation of Romantic poets incorporated in their poems a vision of the French Revolution as the early stage of the abrupt culmination of history, in which there will emerge a new humanity on a new earth that is equivalent to a restored paradise. In 1793, while still a student at Oxford, Robert Southey wrote Joan of Arc: An Epic Poem. In it Joan is granted a vision of a "blest age" in the future when, in a violent spasm not quite named the French Revolution, humanity shall "burst his fetters," and "Earth shall once again / Be Paradise". >> note 3 In the Song of Liberty that he appended to The Marriage of Heaven and Hell in 1792, Blake represents a revolutionary "son of fire" moving from America to France and proclaiming an Isaian millennium: "Empire is no more! and now the lion & wolf shall cease" (NAEL 8, 2.122). In the short prophetic poems of revolution that he wrote in the early 1790s, Blake introduced the Giant Form that he names "Orc," the spirit of Energy that bursts out in total political and spiritual revolution. See also Blake's America: A Prophecy [1793], plates 6, 8, 16, and, for an earlier, nonsymbolic work on the events in France, The French Revolution. In 1793 Wordsworth concluded his Descriptive Sketches with the enthusiastic prophecy (which precisely matches the prophecy he attributed to the Solitary in his later poem The Excursion) that events following the French Revolution would fulfill the millennial prophecy of the Book of Revelation. In those happy early years of the revolution, Coleridge shared this expectation, in a historical sequence that he succinctly summarizes in his prose Argument of the plot of Religious Musings (1794) as "The French Revolution. Millennium. Universal Redemption. Conclusion." Two decades later, the young Percy Shelley recapitulated the millenarian expectations of his older contemporaries. His early principles, Shelley said, "had their origin" in those views that "occasioned the revolutions of America and France.">> note 4 Shelley's Queen Mab, which he began writing at nineteen, presents a vision of the woeful human past and the dreadful present, as preceding a blissful future "surpassing fabled Eden," of which most features are imparted from biblical millennialism. Looking back in 1815, Thomas Noon Talfourd — an eminent jurist who was also a poet and playwright — analyzed the fashion in which the French Revolution had shaped the great literature of the age: At one moment, all was hope and joy and rapture; the corruption and iniquity of ages seemed to vanish like a dream; the unclouded heavens seemed once more to ring with the exulting chorus of peace on earth and good-will to men. . . . But "on a sudden" the "sublime expectation[s] were swept away" in "the terrible changes of this August spectacle." And an immediate effect "of this moral hurricane . . . this rending of the general heart" was "to raise and darken the imagination," and so to contribute "to form that great age of poetry which is now flourishing around us." >> note 5 Talfourd recognized the religious, apocalyptic nature of the enthusiasm and hopes evoked by the early

years of the revolution; he recognized also, however, that the essential featureof the French Revolution as a cultural influence was that it had failed. The greatest poetry of the age was written not in the mood of revolutionary exaltation but in the mood of revolutionary disenchantment and despair, after the succession of disasters that began with the Reign of Terror in 1793–94. A number of the major Romantic poems, however, did not break with the formative past, but set out to salvage grounds for hope in a new and better world. That is, Romantic thought and imagination remained apocalyptic in form, but with a radical shift from faith in a violent outer transformation to faith in an inner moral and imaginative transformation — a shift from political revolution to a revolution in consciousness — to bring into being a new heaven and new earth.

The Revelation of St. John the Divine The Book of Revelation, the final book of the New Testament, is the most important single source of the ideas of millennium, the Last Judgment, the marriage of Christ and the new Jerusalem, and the resulting "new heaven and . . . new earth." The passages below, chapters 14 and 20–22 (the last three of the book), point up the fierce destruction and punishment attending these events. CHAPTER 14 And I looked, and, lo, a Lamb stood on the mount Sion, and with him an hundred forty and four thousand, having his Father's name written in their foreheads. 2. And I heard a voice from heaven, as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of a great thunder: and I heard the voice of harpers harping with their harps: 3. And they sung as it were a new song before the throne, and before the four beasts, and the elders: and no man could learn that song but the hundred and forty and four thousand, which were redeemed from the earth. 4. These are they which were not defiled with women; for they are virgins. These are they which follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth. These were redeemed from among men, being the first-fruits unto God and to the Lamb. 5. And in their mouth was found no guile: for they are without fault before the throne of God. 6. And I saw another angel fly in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gospel to preach unto them that dwell on the earth, and to every nation, and kindred, and tongue, and people, 7. Saying with a loud voice, Fear God, and give glory to him; for the hour of his judgment is come: and worship him that made heaven, and earth, and the sea, and the fountains of waters. 8. And there followed another angel, saying, Babylon is fallen, is fallen, that great city, because she made all nations drink of the wine of the wrath of her fornication. 9. And the third angel followed them, saying with a loud voice, If any man worship the beast and his image, and receive his mark in his forehead, or in his hand, 10. The same shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out without mixture into the cup of his indignation; and he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the presence of holy angels, and in the presence of the Lamb: 11. And the smoke of their torment ascendeth up for ever and ever: and they have no rest day nor night, who worship the beast and his image, and whosoever receiveth the mark of his name. 12. Here is the patience of the saints: here are they that keep the commandments of God, and the faith of Jesus. 13. And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them. 14. And I looked, and behold a white cloud, and upon the cloud one sat like unto the Son of man, having on his head a golden crown, and in his hand a sharp sickle. 15. And another angel came out of the temple, crying with a loud voice to him that sat on the cloud, Thrust in thy sickle, and reap: for the time is come for thee to reap; for the harvest of the earth is ripe. 16. And he that sat on the cloud thrust in his sickle on the earth; and the earth was reaped. 17. And another angel came out of the temple which is in heaven, he also having a sharp sickle. 18. And another angel came out from the altar, which had power over fire; and cried with a loud cry to him that had the sharp sickle, saying, Thrust in thy sharp sickle, and gather the clusters of the vine of the earth; for her grapes are fully ripe. 19. And the angel thrust in his sickle into the earth, and gathered the vine of the earth, and cast it into the great winepress of the wrath of God. 20. And the winepress was trodden without the city, and blood came out of the winepress, even unto the horse bridles, by the space of a thousand and six hundred furlongs. *** CHAPTER 20 And I saw an angel come down from heaven, having the key of the bottomless pit and a great chain in his hand. 2. And he laid hold on the dragon, that old serpent, which is the Devil, and Satan, and bound him a thousand years, 3. And cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal upon him, that he should deceive the

nations no more, till the thousand years should be fulfilled: and after that he must be loosed a little season. 4. And I saw thrones, and they sat upon them, and judgment was given unto them: and I saw the souls of them that were beheaded for the witness of Jesus, and for the word of God, and which had not worshipped the beast, neither his image, neither had received his mark upon their foreheads, or in their hands; and they lived and reigned with Christ a thousand years. 5. But the rest of the dead lived not again until the thousand years were finished. This is the first resurrection. 6. Blessed and holy is he that hath part in the first resurrection: on such the second death hath no power, but they shall be priests of God and of Christ, and shall reign with him a thousand years. 7. And when the thousand years are expired, Satan shall be loosed out of his prison, 8. And shall go out to deceive the nations which are in the four quarters of the earth, Gog and Magog, to gather them together to battle: the number of whom is as the sand of the sea. 9. And they went up on the breadth of the earth, and compassed the camp of the saints about, and the beloved city: and fire came down from God out of heaven, and devoured them. 10. And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever. 11. And I saw a great white throne, and him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled away; and there was found no place for them. 12. And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God; and the books were opened: and another book was opened, which is the book of life: and the dead were judged out of those things which were written in the books, according to their works. 13. And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them: and they were judged every man according to their works. 14. And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death. 15. And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire. CHAPTER 21 And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. 2. And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. 3. And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God. 4. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. 5. And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful. 6. And he said unto me, It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely. 7. He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son. 8. But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death. 9. And there came unto me one of the seven angels which had the seven vials full of the seven last plagues, and talked with me, saying, Come hither, I will shew thee the bride, the Lamb's wife. 10. And he carried me away in the spirit to a great and high mountain, and shewed me that great city, the holy Jerusalem, descending out of heaven from God, 11. Having the glory of God: and her light was like unto a stone most precious, even like a jasper stone, clear as crystal; 12. And had a wall great and high, and had twelve gates, and at the gates twelve angels, and names written thereon, which are the names of the twelve tribes of the children of Israel: 13. On the east three gates; on the north three gates; on the south three gates; and on the west three gates. 14. And the wall of the city had twelve foundations, and in them the names of the twelve apostles of the Lamb. 15. And he that talked with me had a golden reed to measure the city, and the gates thereof, and the wall thereof. 16. And the city lieth foursquare, and the length is as large as the breadth: and he measured the city with the reed, twelve thousand furlongs. The length and the breadth and the height of it are equal. 17. And he measured the wall thereof, an hundred and forty and four cubits, according to the measure of a man, that is, of the angel. 18. And the building of the wall of it was of jasper: and the city was pure gold, like unto clear glass. 19. And the foundations of the wall of the city were garnished with all manner of precious stones. The first foundation was jasper; the second, sapphire; the third, a chalcedony; the fourth, an emerald;

20. The fifth, sardonyx; the sixth, sardius; the seventh, chrysolyte; the eighth, beryl; the ninth, a topaz; the tenth, a chrysosprasus; the eleventh, a jacinth; the twelfth, an amethyst. 21. And the twelve gates were twelve pearls: every several gate was of one pearl: and the street of the city was pure gold, as it were transparent glass. 22. And I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it. 23. And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. 24. And the nations of them which are saved shall walk in the light of it: and the kings of the earth do bring their glory and honour into it. 25. And the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day: for there shall be no night there. 26. And they shall bring the glory and honour of the nations into it. 27. And there shall in no wise enter into it any thing that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie: but they which are written in the Lamb's book of life. CHAPTER 22 And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb. 2. In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. 3. And there shall be no more curse: but the throne of God and of the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him: 4. And they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. 5. And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever. 6. And he said unto me, These sayings are faithful and true: and the Lord God of the holy prophets sent his angel to shew unto his servants the things which must shortly be done. 7. Behold, I come quickly: blessed is he that keepeth the sayings of the prophecy of this book. 8. And I John saw these things, and heard them. And when I had heard and seen, I fell down to worship before the feet of the angel which shewed me these things. 9. Then saith he unto me, See thou do it not: for I am thy fellow-servant, and of thy brethren the prophets, and of them which keep the sayings of this book: worship God. 10. And he saith unto me, Seal not the sayings of the prophecy of this book: for the time is at hand. 11. He that is unjust, let him be unjust still: and he which is filthy, let him be filthy still: and he that is righteous, let him be righteous still: and he that is holy, let him be holy still. 12. And, behold, I come quickly; and my reward is with me, to give every man according as his work shall be. 13. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last. 14. Blessed are they that do his commandments, that they may have right to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city. 15. For without are dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie. 16. I Jesus have sent mine angel to testify unto you these things in the churches. I am the root and the offspring of David, and the bright and morning star. 17. And the Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely. 18. For I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book, If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book: 19. And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life, and out of the holy city, and from the things which are written in this book. 20. He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly. Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus. 21. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.

Richard Price, from A Discourse on the Love of Our Country Richard Price (1723–1791) was a Unitarian minister in London and a writer on moral philosophy, population, and the national debt, among other topics. The British statesman and political theorist Edmund Burke singled out Price'sDiscourse on the Love of Our Country (1789), delivered a scant two and a half months after the Fall of the Bastille, for attack in his antirevolutionary Reflections on the Revolution in France (1790), which inaugurated a protracted and violent debate in England between those who favored and those who opposed the French Revolution. The full title of Price's address is A Discourse on the Love of Our Country, Delivered on Nov. 4, 1789, at the Meeting-House in the Old Jewry, to the Society for Commemorating the Revolution in Great Britain. The "Revolution" being commemorated — the subject of the first two-thirds of the extracts given here — is the "bloodless" Glorious Revolution of 1688, which ended the short reign of James II. In the final third, beginning "What an eventful period is this!" Price greets with religious fervor "two other Revolutions" — that is, the American and the French revolutions.

We are met to thank God for that event in this country to which the name of THE REVOLUTION has been given; and which, for more than a century, it has been usual for the friends of freedom, and more especially Protestant Dissenters, under the title of the REVOLUTION SOCIETY, to celebrate with expressions of joy and exultation. * * * By a bloodless victory, the fetters which despotism had been long preparing for us were broken; the rights of the people were asserted, a tyrant expelled, and a Sovereign of our own choice appointed in his room. Security was given to our property, and our consciences were emancipated. The bounds of free enquiry were enlarged; the volume in which are the words of eternal life, was laid more open to our examination; and that [era] of light and liberty was introduced among us, by which we have been made an example to other kingdoms, and became the instructors of the world. Had it not been for this deliverance, the probability is, that, instead of being thus distinguished, we should now have been a base people, groaning under the infamy and misery of popery and slavery. Let us, therefore, offer thanksgivings to God, the author of all our blessings. * * * It is well known that King James was not far from gaining his purpose; and that probably he would have succeeded, had he been less in a hurry. But he was a fool as well as a bigot. He wanted courage as well as prudence; and, therefore, fled, and left us to settle quietly for ourselves that constitution of government which is now our boast. We have particular reason, as Protestant Dissenters, to rejoice on this occasion. It was at this time we were rescued from persecution, and obtained the liberty of worshipping God in the manner we think most acceptable to him. It was then our meeting houses were opened, our worship was taken under the protection of the law, and the principles of toleration gained a triumph. We have, therefore, on this occasion, peculiar reasons for thanksgiving. — But let us remember that we ought not to satisfy ourselves with thanksgivings. Our gratitude, if genuine, will be accompanied with endeavours to give stability to the deliverance our country has obtained, and to extend and improve the happiness with which the Revolution has blest us. — Let us, in particular, take care not to forget the principles of the Revolution. This Society has, very properly, in its Reports, held out these principles, as an instruction to the public. I will only take notice of the three following: First: The right to liberty of conscience in religious matters. Secondly: The right to resist power when abused. And, Thirdly: The right to chuse our own governors; to cashier them for misconduct; and to frame a government for ourselves. *** I would farther direct you to remember, that though the Revolution was a great work, it was by no means a perfect work; and that all was not then gained which was necessary to put the kingdom in the secure and complete possession of the blessings of liberty. — In particular, you should recollect, that the toleration then obtained was imperfect. It included only those who could declare their faith in the doctrinal articles of the church of England. It has, indeed, been since extended, but not sufficiently; for there still exist penal laws on account of religious opinions, which (were they carried into execution) would shut up many of our places of worship, and silence and imprison some

of our ablest and best men. — The TEST LAWS are also still in force; and deprive of eligibility to civil and military offices, all who cannot conform to the established worship. It is with great pleasure I find that the body of Protestant Dissenters, though defeated in two late attempts to deliver their country from this disgrace to it, have determined to persevere. Should they at last succeed, they will have the satisfaction, not only of removing from themselves a proscription they do not deserve, but of contributing to lessen the number of public iniquities. For I cannot call by a gentler name, laws which convert an ordinance appointed by our Saviour to commemorate his death, into an instrument of oppressive policy, and a qualification of rakes and atheists for civil posts. — I have said, should they succeed — but perhaps I ought not to suggest a doubt about their success. And, indeed, when I consider that in Scotland the established church is defended by no such test — that in Ireland it has been abolished — that in a great neighbouring country it has been declared to be an indefeasible right of all citizens to be equally eligible to public offices — that in the same kingdom a professed Dissenter from the established church holds the first office in the state — that in the Emperor's dominions Jews have been lately admitted to the enjoyment of equal privileges with other citizens — and that in this very country, a Dissenter, though excluded from the power ofexecuting the laws, yet is allowed to be employed in making them. — When, I say, I consider such facts as these, I am disposed to think it impossible that the enemies of the repeal of the Test Laws should not soon become ashamed, and give up their opposition. But the most important instance of the imperfect state in which the Revolution left our constitution, is the inequality of our representation. I think, indeed, this defect in our constitution so gross and so palpable, as to make it excellent chiefly in form and theory. You should remember that a representation in the legislature of a kingdom is the basis of constitutional liberty in it, and of all legitimate government; and that without it a government is nothing but an usurpation. When the representation is fair and equal, and at the same time vested with such powers as our House of Commons possesses, a kingdom may be said to govern itself, and consequently to possess true liberty. When the representation is partial, a kingdom possesses liberty only partially; and if extremely partial, it only gives asemblance of liberty; but if not only extremely partial, but corruptly chosen, and under corrupt influence after being chosen, it becomes a nuisance, and produces the worst of all forms of government — a government by corruption, a government carried on and supported by spreading venality and profligacy through a kingdom. May heaven preserve this kingdom from a calamity so dreadful! It is the point of depravity to which abuses under such a government as ours naturally tend, and the last stage of national unhappiness. We are, at present, I hope, at a great distance from it. But it cannot be pretended that there are no advances towards it, or that there is no reason for apprehension and alarm. * * * What an eventful period is this! I am thankful that I have lived to it; and I could almost say, Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation[Luke 2.29–30]. I have lived to see a diffusion of knowledge, which has undermined superstition and error — I have lived to see the rights of men better understood than ever; and nations panting for liberty, which seemed to have lost the idea of it. — I have lived to see THIRTY MILLIONS of people, indignant and resolute, spurning at slavery, and demanding liberty with an irresistible voice; their king led in triumph, and an arbitrary monarch surrendering himself to his subjects. — After sharing in the benefits of one Revolution, I have been spared to be a witness to two other Revolutions, both glorious. — And now, methinks, I see the ardour for liberty catching and spreading; a general amendment beginning in human affairs; the dominion of kings changed for the dominion of laws, and the dominion of priests giving way to the dominion of reason and conscience. Be encouraged, all ye friends of freedom, and writers in its defence! The times are auspicious. Your labours have not been in vain. Behold kingdoms, admonished by you, starting from sleep, breaking their fetters, and claiming justice from their oppressors! Behold, the light you have struck out, after setting America free, reflected to France, and there kindled into a blaze that lays despotism in ashes, and warms and illuminates Europe! Tremble all ye oppressors of the world! Take warning all ye supporters of slavish governments, and slavish hierarchies! Call no more (absurdly and wickedly) REFORMATION, innovation. You cannot now hold the world in darkness. Struggle no longer against increasing light and liberality. Restore to mankind their rights; and consent to the correction of abuses, before they and you are destroyed together.

Joseph Priestley, from The Present State of Europe Joseph Priestley (1733–1804) was a Unitarian minister, political writer, philosopher, and scientist in the fields of psychology and chemistry (he popularized David Hartley's theory of association of ideas and is credited with the discovery of oxygen). His enthusiastic endorsement of the French Revolution led to the destruction of his house, library, and laboratory in Birmingham by rioters on the second anniversary of the Fall of the Bastille, July 14, 1791. Priestley emigrated to Pennsylvania shortly after publishing this sermon, whose full title is The Present State of Europe Compared with Antient Prophecies; A Sermon, Preached at the Gravel Pit Meeting in Hackney, February 28, 1794, Being the Day Appointed for a General Fast. Priestley interprets the events in France in terms of the prophecy in the Book of Revelation, with the revolutionary violence as prelude to "the millennium, of the future peaceable and happy state of the world."

If we can learn anything concerning what is before us, from the language of prophecy, great calamities, such as the world has never yet experienced, will precede that happy state of things, in which the "kingdoms of this world will become the kingdom of our Lord Jesus Christ." * * * And it appears to me highly probable, as I hinted in my last discourse on this occasion, that the present disturbances in Europe are the beginning of those very calamitous times. * * * It is enough for us to know the certainty of these great events, that our faith may not fail on the approach of the predicted calamity, confident that it will have the happiest issue in God's own time. For the same being who foretold the evil which we shall see come to pass, has likewise foretold the good that is to follow it. That the second coming of Christ will be coincident with the millennium, of the future peaceable and happy state of the world (which, according to all the prophecies, will take place after the restoration of the Jews), is evident from what Peter said, in his address to the Jews, on the occasion of his healing the lame man at the gate of the temple (Acts 3.19). This great event of the late revolution in France appears to me, and many others, to be not improbably the accomplishment of the following part of the Revelation, chap. xi. 3: "And the same hour there was a great earthquake, and the tenth part of the city fell, and in the earthquake were slain of men (or literally, names of men) seven thousand, and the remnant were affrighted, and gave glory to God." An earthquake, as I have observed, may signify a great convulsion, and revolution, in states; and as the Papal dominions were divided into ten parts, one of which, and one of the principal of them, was France, it is properly called a tenth part of the city, or of the mystical Babylon. And if by names of men, we understand their titles, such as those of the nobility, and other hereditary distinctions, all of which are now abolished, the accomplishment of the prediction will appear to be wonderfully exact. * * * * * * What could have been more unexpected than the events of any one of the last four years, at the beginning of it? What a total revolution in the ideas, and conduct of a whole nation! What a total subversion of principles, what reverses of fortune, and what a waste of life! In how bloody and eventful a war are we engaged, how inconsiderable in its beginning, how rapid and wide in its progress, and how dark with respect to its termination! At first it resembled Elijah's cloud, appearing no bigger than a man's hand [1 Kings 18.44]; but now it covers, and darkens, the whole European hemisphere! Now, whatever we may think, as politicians (and with us every man will have his own opinion, on a subject so interesting to us all) I would, in this place, admonish you not to overlook the hand of God in the great scene that is now opening upon us. Nothing can ever come to pass without his appointment, or permission; and then, whatever be the views of men, we cannot doubt, but that his are always wise, righteous, and good. Let us, therefore, exercise faith in him, believing that though "clouds and darkness are round about him, righteousness and judgment are for ever the habitation of his throne" [Psalms 97.2]. All those who appear in the theatre of public affairs, in the field, or the cabinet, both those whom we praise, and those whom we blame, are equally instruments in his hands, and execute all his pleasure. Let this reflection, then, in our cooler moments (and I hope we shall endeavour, in all the tumult of affairs, to

make these as many as possible), lead us to look more to God, and less to man; and consequently, in all the troubles in which we may be involved, repose the most unshaken confidence in him, and thence "in patience possess our own souls" [Luke 21.19], especially when it is evident that it is wholly out of our power to alter the course of events. If we be careful so to live as to be at all times prepared to die, what have we to fear, even though, as the Psalmist says, the "earth be removed, and the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea?" [Psalms 46.2]. Whatever turn the course of things may take, it cannot then be to our disadvantage. What, then, should hinder our contemplating the great scene, that seems now to be opening upon us, awful as it is, with tranquillity, and even with satisfaction, from our firm persuasion, that its termination will be glorious and happy?

William Blake, from The French Revolution: A Poem in Seven Books The first book of William Blake's The French Revolution was set in type in 1791 but was never actually published (it survives in a single set of page proofs). It traces, largely without symbolism, the history of the revolution shortly before and just after the Fall of the Bastille (July 14, 1789). As the critic David Erdman describes it, "the revolutionary events of June and July are treated as a single Day of Judgment or Morning of Resurrection during which the dark night of oppression lingers and fades in the marble hall of the Old Order while the Sun of democracy rises above the city streets and the people's Assembly." >> note 1 Blake's speaker in the extract here, the revolutionist and statesman Abbé Sieyès (1748–1793), addressed the French National Assembly, urging the withdrawal of troops from Paris, on July 6. The Abbé predicts the end of all forms of oppression (including black slavery, lines 213–16), and the coming of a millennial state in which "men walk with their fathers in bliss" (line 237).

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* * * Then the Abbé de S[i]eyes rais'd his feet On the steps of the Louvre; like a voice of God following a storm, the Abbé follow'd The pale fires of Aumont into the chamber, as a father that bows to his son; Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the voice of the people bowed Before the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains to be renewed. "Hear, O Heavens of France, the voice of the people, arising from valley and hill, O'erclouded with power. Hear the voice of vallies, the voice of meek cities, Mourning oppressed on village and field, till the village and field is a waste. For the husbandman weeps at blights of the fife, and blasting of trumpets consume The souls of mild France; the pale mother nourishes her child to the deadly slaughter. When the heavens were seal'd with a stone, and the terrible sun clos'd in an orb, and the moon Rent from the nations, and each star appointed for watchers of night, The millions of spirits immortal were bound in the ruins of sulphur heaven To wander inslav'd; black, deprest in dark ignorance, kept in awe with the whip, To worship terrors, bred from the blood of revenge and breath of desire, In beastial forms; or more terrible men, till the dawn of our peaceful morning, Till dawn, till morning, till the breaking of clouds, and swelling of winds, and the universal voice, Till man raise his darken'd limbs out of the caves of night, his eyes and his heart Expand: where is space? where O Sun is thy dwelling? where thy tent, O faint slumb'rous Moon? Then the valleys of France shall cry to the soldier, 'Throw down thy sword and musket, And run and embrace the meek peasant.' Her Nobles shall hear and shall weep, and put off The red robe of terror, the crown of oppression, the shoes of contempt, and unbuckle The girdle of war from the desolate earth;

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then the Priest in his thund'rous cloud Shall weep, bending to earth embracing the valleys, and putting his hand to the plow Shall say, 'No more I curse thee; but now I will bless thee: No more in deadly black Devour thy labour; nor lift up a cloud in thy heavens, O laborious plow, That the wild raging millions, that wander in forests, and howl in law blasted wastes, Strength madden'd with slavery, honesty, bound in the dens of superstition, May sing in the village, and shout in the harvest, and woo in pleasant gardens Their once savage loves, now beaming with knowledge, with gentle awe adorned; And the saw, and the hammer, the chisel, the pencil, the pen, and the instruments Of heavenly song sound in the wilds once forbidden, to teach the laborious plowman And shepherd deliver'd from clouds of war, from pestilence, from night-fear, from murder, From falling, from stifling, from hunger, from cold, from slander, discontent and sloth; That walk in beasts and birds of night, driven back by the sandy desart Like pestilent fogs round cities of men: and the happy earth sing in its course, The mild peaceable nations be opened to heav'n, and men walk with their fathers in bliss.' Then hear the first voice of the morning: 'Depart, O clouds of night, and no more Return; be withdrawn cloudy war, troops of warriors depart, nor around our peaceable city Breathe fires, but ten miles from Paris, let all be peace, nor a soldier be seen!' "

William Blake, from America: A Prophecy William Blake's America, connecting recent American history with current events in France, is dated 1793 but was drafted and revised over a period of several years. The speaker in plates 6 and 7 in the extract here is "Albion's Angel," a representation of the tyrant King George III, an advocate of Urizen, who is misconceived as the God of prohibition and oppression. The opponent of Urizen is Orc, "a figure who struggles against political oppression, sexual repression, and all rational constrictions and restrictions on energy.">> note 1 In Europe: A Prophecy (1794), Orc, with a blare of the seventh trumpet of the Book of Revelation, descends into "vineyards of red France" to herald the day when the earth and its inhabitants will be resurrected in a burst of unbounded and lustful energy.

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[PLATE 6] The morning comes, the night decays, the watchmen leave their stations; The grave is burst, the spices shed, the linen wrapped up; The bones of death, the cov'ring clay, the sinews shrunk & dry'd, Reviving shake, inspiring move, breathing! awakening! Spring like redeemed captives when their bonds & bars are burst. Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field: Let him look up into the heavens & laugh in the bright air; Let the inchained soul shut up in darkness and in sighing, Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years, Rise and look out; his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open. And let his wife and children return from the opressor's scourge. They look behind at every step & believe it is a dream, Singing, 'The Sun has left his blackness, & has found a fresher morning And the fair Moon rejoices in the clear & cloudless night; For Empire is no more, and now the Lion & Wolf shall cease.' " [PLATE 7] In thunders ends the voice. Then Albion's Angel wrathful burnt Beside the Stone of Night; and like the Eternal Lion's howl In famine & war, reply'd, "Art thou not Orc; who serpent-form'd Stands at the gate of Enitharmon to devour her children? Blasphemous Demon, Antichrist, hater of Dignities; Lover of wild rebellion, and transgresser of God's Law, Why dost thou come to Angels' eyes in this terrific form?" [PLATE 8] The terror answerd: "I am Orc, wreath'd round the accursed tree: The times are ended; shadows pass, the morning 'gins to break; The fiery joy, that Urizen perverted to ten commands, What night he led the starry hosts thro' the wide wilderness: That stony law I stamp to dust: and scatter religion abroad To the four winds as a torn book, & none shall gather the leaves; But they shall rot on desart sands, & consume in bottomless deeps, To make the desarts blossom, & the deeps shrink to their fountains, And to renew the fiery joy, and burst the stony roof, That pale religious letchery, seeking Virginity, May find it in a harlot, and in coarse-clad honesty The undefil'd, tho' ravish'd in her cradle night and morn: For every thing that lives is holy, life delights in life; Because the soul of sweet delight can never be defil'd. Fires inwrap the earthly globe, yet man is not consumed; Amidst the lustful fires he walks: his feet become like brass, His knees and thighs like silver, & his breast and head like gold."

William Wordsworth, from Descriptive Sketches Descriptive Sketches is one of William Wordsworth's first two books (the other is An Evening Walk); both were published by Joseph Johnson in January 1793. Descriptive Sketchesdescribes Wordsworth's observations during a walking tour through the Alps in the summer of 1790, when the French were celebrating the first anniversary of the Fall of the Bastille. The concluding section of this poem, included here, describes the promise of the French Revolution in terms that enjoin biblical millennialism with the Roman poet Virgil's fourth eclogue, which envisions the return of the primeval golden age. But as we see in the later books of The Prelude(see NAEL 8, 2.381–89) and elsewhere, Wordsworth's ardor could not survive the Reign of Terror (1793–94) and the events that followed it. "The promise," as Wordsworth wrote in the revision quoted just below, was "too fair / For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air."

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— Tho' Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise Red on his hills his beacon's comet blaze; Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound, And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound; His larum-bell from village-tow'r to tow'r Swing on th' astounded ear its dull undying roar: Yet, yet rejoice, tho' Pride's perverted ire Rouze Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills in fire. Lo! from th' innocuous flames, a lovely birth! With its own Virtues springs another earth; Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train; With pulseless hand, and fix'd unwearied gaze, Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys: No more, along thy vales and viny groves, Whole hamlets disappearing as he moves, With cheeks o'erspread by smiles of baleful glow, On his pale horse shall fell Consumption go. >> note 1 Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride, To break, the vales where Death with Famine scow'rs, And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribb'd tow'rs; Where Machination her fell soul resigns, Fled panting to the centre of her mines; Where Persecution decks with ghastly smiles Her bed, his mountains mad Ambition piles; Where Discord stalks dilating, every hour, And crouching fearful at the feet of Pow'r, Like Lightnings eager for th' almighty word, Look up for sign of havoc, Fire, and Sword; — Give them, beneath their breast while Gladness springs, To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings; And grant that every sceptred child of clay, Who cries, presumptuous, "here their tides shall stay," Swept in their anger from th' affrighted shore, With all his creatures sink — to rise no more. To-night, my friend, within this humble cot Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot, Renewing, when the rosy summits glow At morn, our various journey, sad and slow.

William Wordsworth, from The Excursion William Wordsworth's longest poem, The Excursion, appeared in 1814, the subject of some famous negative reviews (for example, Francis Jeffrey's "This will never do" in The Edinburgh Review) but also one of the most influential works of its time. The following passage — in the late text of 1849–50, but essentially identical in wording with that of the first edition — is spoken by one of Wordsworth's mouthpieces called the Solitary, who in the description of the Argument to book 3 is "Roused by the French Revolution" but then dashed by "Disappointment and Disgust." For Wordsworth's more openly autobiographical accounts of the same progression, see, in this topic,Descriptive Sketches and the headnote there. Wordsworth's Solitary is modeled in part on Joseph Fawcett, a preacher and poet who had succeeded Richard Price in 1791 at the Dissenting Chapel in Old Jewry. During Wordsworth's residence in London in 1791, he had attended Fawcett's sermons, which attracted a large and fashionable audience. The Solitary projects the promise of the French Revolution in terms that, like Wordsworth's autobiographical passage in Descriptive Sketches, fuel biblical prophecy with Virgil's prediction of the recurrence in the present of the golden age of humanity during the reign of the god Saturn. From Book 3, DESPONDENCY

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"From that abstraction I was roused, — and how? Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave Of these wild hills. For, lo! the dread Bastille, With all the chambers in its horrid towers, Fell to the ground: — by violence overthrown Of indignation; and with shouts that drowned The crash it made in falling! From the wreck A golden palace rose, or seemed to rise, The appointed seat of equitable law And mild paternal sway. The potent shock I felt: the transformation I perceived, As marvellously seized as in that moment When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld Glory — beyond all glory ever seen, Confusion infinite of heaven and earth, Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps In every grove were ringing, 'War shall cease; Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured? Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck The tree of Liberty.' — My heart rebounded; My melancholy voice the chorus joined; — 'Be joyful all ye nations; in all lands, Ye that are capable of joy be glad! Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves In others ye shall promptly find; — and all, Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth, Shall with one heart honour their common kind.' "Thus was I reconverted to the world; Society became my glittering bride, And airy hopes my children. — From the depths Of natural passion, seemingly escaped, My soul diffused herself in wide embrace Of institutions, and the forms of things; As they exist, in mutable array, Upon life's surface. What, though in my veins

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There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal Kindled and burned among the sapless twigs Of my exhausted heart. If busy men In sober conclave met, to weave a web Of amity, whose living threads should stretch Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole, There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise And acclamation, crowds in open air Expressed the tumult of their minds, my voice There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song I left not uninvoked; and, in still groves, Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay Of thanks and expectation, in accord With their belief, I sang Saturnian rule Returned, — a progeny of golden years Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. — With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem: I felt their invitation; and resumed A long-suspended office in the House Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase Of ancient inspiration serving me, I promised also, — with undaunted trust Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy; The admiration winning of the crowd; The help desiring of the pure devout. "Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed! But History, time's slavish scribe, will tell How rapidly the zealots of the cause Disbanded — or in hostile ranks appeared; Some, tired of honest service; these, outdone, Disgusted therefore, or appalled, by aims Of fiercer zealots — so confusion reigned, And the more faithful were compelled to exclaim, As Brutus did to Virtue, 'Liberty, I worshipped thee, and find thee but a Shade!' "Such recantation had for me no charm, Nor would I bend to it; who should have grieved At aught, however fair, that bore the mien Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. Why then conceal, that, when the simply good In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought Other support, not scrupulous whence it came; And, by what compromise it stood, not nice? Enough if notions seemed to be high-pitched, And qualities determined. — Among men So charactered did I maintain a strife Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour; But, in the process, I began to feel That, if the emancipation of the world Were missed, I should at least secure my own, And be in part compensated. For rights, Widely — inveterately usurped upon, I spake with vehemence; and promptly seized All that Abstraction furnished for my needs Or purposes; nor scrupled to proclaim, And propagate, by liberty of life, Those new persuasions. * * *

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from Religious Musings Samuel Taylor Coleridge was twenty-two when he drafted Religious Musings: A Desultory Poem, Written on Christmas' Eve, in the Year of Our Lord, 1794. It was first published in his Poems of 1796 and was his most ambitious work at the time. The passage given here, in the text of 1796, covers the first three of the last four items in the Argument: "The French Revolution. Millennium. Universal Redemption." Coleridge's notes accompanying the text emphasize his conviction that the events in France fulfill the prophecies in the Book of Revelation that a period of violence will be the necessary prelude to an earthly millennium. ARGUMENT Introduction. Person of Christ. His Prayer on the Cross. The process of his Doctrines on the mind of the Individual. Character of the Elect. Superstition. Digression to the present War. Origin and Uses of Government and Property. The present State of Society. The French Revolution. Millennium. Universal Redemption. Conclusion. ***

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O ye numberless, Whom foul Oppression's ruffian gluttony Drives from life's plenteous feast! O thou poor Wretch, Who nurs'd in darkness and made wild by want Dost roam for prey, yea thy unnatural hand Liftest to deeds of blood! O pale-eyed Form, The victim of seduction, doom'd to know Polluted nights and days of blasphemy; Who in loath'd orgies with lewd wassailers Must gaily laugh, while thy remember'd Home Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart! O aged Women! ye who weekly catch The morsel tost by law-forc'd Charity, And die so slowly, that none call it murder! O loathly-visag'd Suppliants! ye that oft Rack'd with disease, from the unopen'd gate Of the full Lazar-house, heart-broken crawl! O ye to scepter'd Glory's gore-drench'd field Forc'd or ensnar'd, who swept by Slaughter's scythe, (Stern nurse of Vultures!) steam in putrid heaps! O thou poor Widow, who in dreams dost view Thy Husband's mangled corse, and from short doze Start'st with a shriek: or in thy half-thatch'd cot Wak'd by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold, Cow'rest o'er thy screaming baby! Rest awhile, Children of Wretchedness! More groans must rise, More blood must steam, or ere your wrongs be full. Yet is the day of Retribution nigh: The Lamb of God hath open'd the fifth seal: >> note 1 And upward rush on swiftest wing of fire Th' innumerable multitude of Wrongs By man on man inflicted! Rest awhile, Children of Wretchedness! The hour is nigh: And lo! the Great, the Rich, the Mighty Men, The Kings and the Chief Captains of the World, With all that fix'd on high like stars of Heaven Shot baleful influence, shall be cast to earth,

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Vile and down-trodden, as the untimely fruit Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm. Ev'n now the storm begins: >> note 2 each gentle name, Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy Tremble far-off — for lo! the Giant FRENZY Uprooting empires with his whirlwind arm Mocketh high Heaven; burst hideous from the cell Where the old Hag, unconquerable, huge, Creation's eyeless drudge, black RUIN, sits Nursing th' impatient earthquake. O return! Pure FAITH! meek PIETY! The abhorred Form >> note 3 Whose scarlet robe was stiff with earthly pomp, Who drank iniquity in cups of gold, Whose names were many and all blasphemous, Hath met the horrible judgement! Whence that cry? The mighty army of foul Spirits shriek'd Disherited of earth! For She hath fallen On whose black front was written MYSTERY; She that reel'd heavily, whose wine was blood; She that work'd whoredom with the DAEMON POWER And from the dark embrace all evils things Brought forth and nurtur'd: mitred ATHEISM! And patient FOLLY who on bended knee Gives back the steel that stabb'd him; and pale FEAR Hunted by ghastlier terrors than surround Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at midnight! Return pure FAITH! return meek PIETY! The kingdoms of the world are yours: each heart Self-govern'd, the vast family of Love Rais'd from the common earth by common toil Enjoy the equal produce. Such delights As float to earth, permitted visitants! When on some solemn jubilee of Saints The sapphire-blazing gates of Paradise Are thrown wide open, and thence voyage forth Detachments wild of seraph-warbled airs, And odors snatch'd from beds of amaranth, And they, that from the crystal river of life Spring up on freshen'd wing, ambrosial gales! The favor'd good man in his lonely walk Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks Strange bliss which he shall recognize in heaven. And such delights, such strange beatitude Seize on my young anticipating heart When that blest future rushes on my view! For in his own and in his Father's might The SAVIOUR comes! While as to solemn strains The THOUSAND YEARS >> note 4 lead up their mystic dance, Old OCEAN claps his hands! The DESERT shouts! And soft gales wafted from the haunts of Spring Melt the primaeval North! The mighty Dead Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time With conscious zeal had urg'd Love's wond'rous plan, Coadjutors of God. To MILTON'S trump The odorous groves of earth reparadis'd Unbosom their glad echoes: inly hush'd Adoring NEWTON his serener eye Raises to heaven: and he of mortal kind Wisest, he >> note 5 first who mark'd the ideal tribes

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Down the fine fibres from the sentient brain Roll subtly-surging. Pressing on his steps Lo! Priestley there, Patriot, and Saint, and Sage, Whom that my fleshly eye hath never seen A childish pang of impotent regret Hath thrill'd my heart. Him from his native land Statesmen blood-stain'd and Priests idolatrous By dark lies mad'ning the blind multitude Drove with vain hate: calm, pitying he retir'd, And mus'd expectant on these promis'd years. O Years! the blest preeminence of Saints! Sweeping before the rapt prophetic Gaze Bright as what glories of the jasper throne Stream from the gorgeous and face-veiling plumes Of Spirits adoring! Ye, blest Years! must end, And all beyond is darkness! * * *

Percy Bysshe Shelley, from Queen Mab Queen Mab: A Philosophical Poem, Shelley's first long work in verse, was written mainly in 1812 and printed and privately distributed (but never published by the author) in February 1813. It is a dream-vision allegory in which the fairy Queen Mab takes the mortal maiden Ianthe on an extraterrestrial excursion in order to show her the past, present, and future states of the human world. The past is irrational, the record of one mistake after another. The present, corrupted by the institutions of kings, priests, and statesmen, is similarly bad. But the future, described in cantos 8 and 9, is a glorious affair of apocalyptic renovation. Shelley's version of this event is not religious but secular, with the Spirit of Necessity replacing God's providence as the agent of redemption. Nonetheless, Shelley's anticipation of a "taintless" humanity in a renovated world is for the most part imported from biblical millennialism, especially in Isaiah and the Book of Revelation. In the selections included here from cantos 8 and 9, Queen Mab is speaking to Ianthe. Canto 8 The Fairy

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"The present and the past thou hast beheld: It was a desolate sight. Now, Spirit, learn The secrets of the future. — Time! Unfold the brooding pinion of thy gloom, Render thou up thy half-devoured babes, And from the cradles of eternity, Where millions lie lulled to their portioned sleep By the deep murmuring stream of passing things, Tear thou that gloomy shroud. — Spirit, behold Thy glorious destiny!" Joy to the Spirit came. Through the wide rent in Time's eternal veil, Hope was seen beaming through the mists of fear: Earth was no longer hell; Love, freedom, health, had given Their ripeness to the manhood of its prime, And all its pulses beat Symphonious to the planetary spheres: Then dulcet music swelled Concordant with the life-strings of the soul; It throbbed in sweet and languid beatings there, Catching new life from transitory death, — Like the vague sighings of a wind at even, That wakes the wavelets of the slumbering sea And dies on the creation of its breath, And sinks and rises, fails and swells by fits: Was the pure stream of feeling That sprung from these sweet notes, And o'er the Spirit's human sympathies With mild and gentle motion calmly flowed. Joy to the Spirit came, — Such joy as when a lover sees The chosen of his soul in happiness, And witnesses her peace Whose woe to him were bitterer than death, Sees her unfaded cheek Glow mantling in first luxury of health, Thrills with her lovely eyes, Which like two stars amid the heaving main

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Sparkle through liquid bliss. Then in her triumph spoke the Fairy Queen: "I will not call the ghost of ages gone To unfold the frightful secrets of its lore; The present now is past, And those events that desolate the earth Have faded from the memory of Time, Who dares not give reality to that Whose being I annul. To me is given The wonders of the human world to keep, Space, matter, time, and mind. Futurity Exposes now its treasure; let the sight Renew and strengthen all thy failing hope. O human Spirit! spur thee to the goal Where virtue fixes universal peace, And midst the ebb and flow of human things, Show somewhat stable, somewhat certain still, A lighthouse o'er the wild of dreary waves. "The habitable earth is full of bliss; Those wastes of frozen billows that were hurled By everlasting snow-storms round the poles, Where matter dared not vegetate or live, But ceaseless frost round the vast solitude Bound its broad zone of stillness, are unloosed; And fragrant zephyrs there from spicy isles Ruffle the placid ocean-deep, that rolls Its broad, bright surges to the sloping sand, Whose roar is wakened into echoings sweet To murmur through the heaven-breathing groves And melodize with man's blest nature there. "Those desarts of immeasurable sand, Whose age-collected fervors scarce allowed A bird to live, a blade of grass to spring, Where the shrill chirp of the green lizard's love Broke on the sultry silentness alone, Now teem with countless rills and shady woods, Corn-fields and pastures and white cottages; And where the startled wilderness beheld A savage conqueror stained in kindred blood, A tygress sating with the flesh of lambs The unnatural famine of her toothless cubs, Whilst shouts and howlings through the desart rang, Sloping and smooth the daisy-spangled lawn, Offering sweet incense to the sun-rise, smiles To see a babe before his mother's door, Sharing his morning's meal With the green and golden basilisk That comes to lick his feet. "Those trackless deeps, where many a weary sail Has seen above the illimitable plain, Morning on night, and night on morning rise, Whilst still no land to greet the wanderer spread Its shadowy mountains on the sun-bright sea, Where the loud roarings of the tempest-waves So long have mingled with the gusty wind In melancholy loneliness, and swept The desart of those ocean solitudes, But vocal to the sea-bird's harrowing shriek, The bellowing monster, and the rushing storm,

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Now to the sweet and many mingling sounds Of kindliest human impulses respond. Those lonely realms bright garden-isles begem, With lightsome clouds and shining seas between, And fertile vallies, resonant with bliss, Whilst green woods overcanopy the wave, Which like a toil-worn labourer leaps to shore, To meet the kisses of the flowrets there. "All things are recreated, and the flame Of consentaneous love inspires all life: The fertile bosom of the earth gives suck To myriads, who still grow beneath her care, Rewarding her with their pure perfectness: The balmy breathings of the winds inhale Her virtues, and diffuse them all abroad: Health floats amid the gentle atmosphere, Glows in the fruits, and mantles on the stream: No storms deform the beaming brow of heaven, Nor scatter in the freshness of its pride The foliage of the ever verdant trees; But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair, And autumn proudly bears her matron grace, Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of spring, Whose virgin bloom beneath the ruddy fruit Reflects its tint, and blushes into love. "The lion now forgets to thirst for blood: There might you see him sporting in the sun Beside the dreadless kid; his claws are sheathed, His teeth are harmless, custom's force has made His nature as the nature of a lamb. Like passion's fruit, the nightshade's tempting bane Poisons no more the pleasure it bestows: All bitterness is past; the cup of joy Unmingled mantles to the goblet's brim, And courts the thirsty lips it fled before. "But chief, ambiguous man, he that can know More misery, and dream more joy than all; Whose keen sensations thrill within his breast To mingle with a loftier instinct there, Lending their power to pleasure and to pain, Yet raising, sharpening, and refining each; Who stands amid the ever-varying world, The burthen or the glory of the earth; He chief perceives the change, his being notes The gradual renovation, and defines Each movement of its progress on his mind. "Man, where the gloom of the long polar night Lowers o'er the snow-clad rocks and frozen soil, Where scarce the hardiest herb that braves the frost Basks in the moonlight's ineffectual glow, Shrank with the plants, and darkened with the night; His chilled and narrow energies, his heart, Insensible to courage, truth, or love, His stunted stature and imbecile frame, Marked him for some abortion of the earth, Fit compeer of the bears that roamed around, Whose habits and enjoyments were his own: His life a feverish dream of stagnant woe,

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Whose meagre wants, but scantily fulfilled, Apprised him ever of the joyless length Which his short being's wretchedness had reached; His death a pang which famine, cold and toil, Long on the mind, whilst yet the vital spark Clung to the body stubbornly, had brought: All was inflicted here that earth's revenge Could wreak on the infringers of her law; One curse alone was spared — the name of God. "Nor where the tropics bound the realms of day With a broad belt of mingling cloud and flame, Where blue mists through the unmoving atmosphere Scattered the seeds of pestilence, and fed Unnatural vegetation, where the land Teemed with all earthquake, tempest and disease, Was man a nobler being; slavery Had crushed him to his country's bloodstained dust; Or he was bartered for the fame of power, Which all internal impulses destroying, Makes human will an article of trade; Or he was changed with Christians for their gold, And dragged to distant isles, where to the sound Of the flesh-mangling scourge, he does the work Of all-polluting luxury and wealth, Which doubly visits on the tyrants' heads The long-protracted fulness of their woe; Or he was led to legal butchery, To turn to worms beneath that burning sun, Where kings first leagued against the rights of men, And priests first traded with the name of God. "Even where the milder zone afforded man A seeming shelter, yet contagion there, Blighting his being with unnumbered ills, Spread like a quenchless fire; nor truth till late Availed to arrest its progress, or create That peace which first in bloodless victory waved Her snowy standard o'er this favoured clime: There man was long the train-bearer of slaves, The mimic of surrounding misery, The jackal of ambition's lion-rage, The bloodhound of religion's hungry zeal. "Here now the human being stands adorning This loveliest earth with taintless body and mind; Blest from his birth with all bland impulses, Which gently in his noble bosom wake All kindly passions and all pure desires. Him, still from hope to hope the bliss pursuing Which from the exhaustless lore of human weal Dawns on the virtuous mind, the thoughts that rise In time-destroying infiniteness, gift With self-enshrined eternity, that mocks The unprevailing hoariness of age, And man, once fleeting o'er the transient scene Swift as an unremembered vision, stands Immortal upon earth: no longer now He slays the lamb that looks him in the face, And horribly devours his mangled flesh, Which still avenging nature's broken law, Kindled all putrid humours in his frame, All evil passions, and all vain belief,

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Hatred, despair, and loathing in his mind, The germs of misery, death, disease, and crime. No longer now the winged habitants, That in the woods their sweet lives sing away, Flee from the form of man; but gather round, And prune their sunny feathers on the hands Which little children stretch in friendly sport Towards these dreadless partners of their play. All things are void of terror: man has lost His terrible prerogative, and stands An equal amidst equals: happiness And science dawn though late upon the earth; Peace cheers the mind, health renovates the frame; Disease and pleasure cease to mingle here, Reason and passion cease to combat there; Whilst each unfettered o'er the earth extend Their all-subduing energies, and wield The sceptre of a vast dominion there; Whilst every shape and mode of matter lends Its force to the omnipotence of mind, Which from its dark mine drags the gem of truth To decorate its paradise of peace."

From Canto 9

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"O happy Earth! reality of Heaven! To which those restless souls that ceaselessly Throng through the human universe, aspire; Thou consummation of all mortal hope! Thou glorious prize of blindly working will! Whose rays, diffused throughout all space and time, Verge to one point and blend for ever there: Of purest spirits thou pure dwelling-place! Where care and sorrow, impotence and crime, Languor, disease, and ignorance dare not come: O happy Earth, reality of heaven! . . .

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What features of the prophecies of the last days in the Book of Revelationmake it an appropriate scenario for a political revolution? What features, if any, stand in the way of such an application? What phrases and images, as well as conception of history, are shared in the millennial early poetry of Blake, Wordsworth, and Coleridge? It has been suggested that the spirit of Romanticism owed less to the millenarian hopes excited by the French Revolution than to the disappointment and disillusionment which followed. As Thomas Noon Talfourd wrote in 1815, horror at the excesses of the Revolution had served "to raise and darken the imagination." To what extent is Talfourd's analysis of the genesis of Romanticism persuasive? Does it apply equally to all members of the "first generation" of major Romantic poets? What evidence do you find in the careers of Blake, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, respectively, of the process Talfourd describes? Apocalypticism, often linked with the question of revolution, has deep roots in British political thought and continues to play a powerful role in the late twentieth century. a. Compare the fourteenth-century poet John Gower's account of theUprising of 1381 with the texts gathered in this topic. How does Gower make use of apocalyptic imagery in his account of the rebellion, and how does his use of such imagery sort with the fact that Gower is deeply hostile to the rebels and their aims? b. Based on what you discover in the Twentieth Century section of Norton Topics Online, to what extent have the "apocalyptic expectations" engendered by the French Revolution continued to resonate in English thought about politics, history, and the future? c. Is it more accurate to characterize apocalyptic thought, from the thirteenth century to the present, as a continuous tradition with innate characteristics, or as a textual resource which different groups in different historical periods have drawn upon to meet their specific needs? d. Finally, you may wish to consider and analyze the role of apocalyptic themes and images in your own thinking about society and its future in the next millennium. How, if at all, do the texts gathered here help you to "historicize" your own ideas and impressions? The Civil Wars in seventeenth-century England aroused fervent expectations of imminent apocalypse among radical sects, expectations shared to some extent by such leading figures as Oliver Cromwell and John Milton. a. What is the role of millenarian thought in texts by seventeenth-century English radicals such as Gerrard Winstanley's The True Levelers' Standard Advanced and Abiezer Coppe's A Fiery Flying Roll? How do these writings compare to the apocalyptic expectations of the Romantics? b. The Unitarian ministers Richard Price and Joseph Priestleybelonged to the tradition of Protestant dissent, which traced itself back to the parliamentary side in the Civil Wars. How do the responses of Price and Priestley to the French Revolution suggest a link or continuity between millenarian thought in the mid-seventeenth century and in the late eighteenth? While the Romantic poets greeted the French Revolution in language suggestive of universal liberation, Karl Marx, writing in the mid-nineteenth century, saw it as a bourgeois revolution which overthrew the antiquated trappings of feudalism to make way for capitalist society. At the same time, as Marx noted in The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Napoleon, the revolutionaries "needed to conceal from themselves the bourgeois-limited content of their struggles and to keep their passion on the high plane of great historic tragedy." a. To what extent does Marx's analysis of the French Revolution, and of the self-deception practiced by its adherents, apply to the early poetry of Blake, Wordsworth, and Coleridge? b. To what extent do the revolutionary visions of Shelley, in Queen Maband in his later verse, differ from those of the older Romantics? The element of fire plays a prominent role in the prophecies of the Book of Revelation, and in contemporary English responses to the French Revolution. Richard Price hailed the revolution as "a blaze that lays despotism in ashes, and warms and illuminates Europe!" The image of fire, real or metaphysical, external or internal, figures prominently in Blake'sAmerica and A Song of Liberty (NAEL 8, 2.121), and in Wordsworth'sDescriptive Sketches and The Excursion. a. What roles does fire play in these texts? What are its properties and associations? b. How does the Romantic image of fire as an element associated with revolution compare with its significance in Revelation? Romanticism is often associated with radical individualism, and much Romantic poetry focuses on the struggles of the individual will to break or transcend its social and metaphysical bonds. Millenarianism, on the other hand, consists of the expectation of the fulfilment of God's providential design, in which the place left for individual human agency is limited if not nonexistent. The French Revolution could thus be viewed either as the work of heroic individuals struggling for liberty or as an act of God. What is the role of the individual in poems such as Coleridge's Religious Musings, Blake'sAmerica, and Wordsworth's Descriptive Sketches, and Shelley's Queen Mab? How does the vision of history and the individual's role in these works compare with the later writings of these Romantic poets? What might explain this?

Another source of the expectations that a blissful outcome of history was at hand — in addition to biblical apocalypses — was the Roman poet Virgil's prophecy, in his fourth Eclogue, of the return of a lost golden age. a. What themes and images of Virgil's poem are taken over in the millennial passages of Wordsworth's Descriptive Sketches? b. Are there Virgilian echoes in other poets' millennial responses to the French Revolution? c. What does Virgil's prophecy have in common with biblical apocalypses? In what ways does it differ? 10. Percy Bysshe Shelley was born in 1792, the year of the deposition of Louis XVI and the September massacres in Paris. Like those of the first generation of Romantic poets, Shelley's views were shaped by the French Revolution and its aftermath, but he came to maturity in a very different political climate. a. In what ways does Shelley's early poem Queen Mab repeat the millenarian view of history expressed by the first generation of Romantic poets in the early years of the French Revolution? 9.

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How do the poems which Shelley addressed to the English working class, A Song: "Men of England" (NAEL 8, 2.770), England in 1819(NAEL 8, 2.771), and To Sidmouth and Castlereagh (NAEL 8, 2.771), compare, in their vision of history and of social struggle, to Shelley's earlier Queen Mab and to the works of the first generation of Romantic poets? 11. Prose writers contemporary with the Romantic poets were also deeply affected by the French Revolution. Mary Wollstonecraft wrote A Vindication of the Rights of Men (1790) in response to Edmund Burke's hostile Reflections on the Revolution in France and lived in France in the climactic years from 1793 to 1794. William Hazlitt saw the revolution as the source of The Spirit of the Age (1825). The prose of Thomas Carlyle, historian of the revolution, epitomized this turbulent spirit. Consider the explicit or implicit significance of the French Revolution and apocalyptic expectations in one of the following: a. Mary Wollstonecraft's A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (NAEL 8, 2.170–95). b. William Hazlitt's Mr. Wordsworth from The Spirit of the Age. c. Thomas Carlyle's Sartor Resartus (NAEL 8, 2.1005) and The French Revolution.

Romantic Orientalism : Overview

"Romantic Orientalism" — the second term sometimes expanded to "Oriental exoticism" or "Oriental fantasy" — brings together two concepts that continue to be much in dispute among theorists and literary historians. For practical purposes, "Romantic" here refers to the writers (and the ideas and culture they reflect) of the Romantic Period section of the Norton Anthology of English Literature, where the dates are given as 1785–1830. "Orientalism" refers to the geography and culture of large parts of Asia and North Africa, plus some of what we now think of as Eastern Europe. Above all, from a British point of view, "Orientalism" connotes foreignness or otherness — things decidedly not British — and it sometimes seems as if the "East" signified by "Orient" is not only what is east of Europe and the Mediterranean but everything east of the English Channel. In literary history, Romantic Orientalism is the recurrence of recognizable elements of Asian and African place names, historical and legendary people, religions, philosophies, art, architecture, interior decoration, costume, and the like in the writings of the British Romantics. At first glance, Romantic literature may seem to be divided between the natural settings of sheep fields in the southwest of England or the Lake District and the unnatural settings of medieval castles that are, for all their remoteness from present-day reality, always Christian and at least European, if not always British. But a closer look reveals a tiger — decidedly not indigenous to the British Isles — in one of Blake's most famous songs; an impressive dream of "an Arab of the Bedouin Tribes" in book 5 of Wordsworth's Prelude; the founder of the Mongol dynasty in China as well as an Abyssinian "damsel with a dulcimer" in Coleridge's "Kubla Khan"; Eastern plots, characters, and themes in Byron's "Oriental tales," some of which show up later in Don Juan; a poet's journey into the innermost reaches of the Caucasus (the legendary boundary between Europe and Asia) in Percy Shelley's Alastor; a tempting affair with an Indian maiden in Keats's "Endymion" and a feast of "dainties" from Fez, Samarcand, and Lebanon in "The Eve of St. Agnes"; an Arab maiden, Safie, as the most liberated character in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Orientalism, via the literature and art of the time, was increasingly in the air (as well as the texts) in both London and the British countryside. The Orientalism of British Romantic literature has roots in the first decade of the eighteenth century, with the earliest translations of The Arabian Nights into English (from a version in French, 1705–08). The popularity of The Arabian Nights inspired writers to develop a new genre, the Oriental tale, of which Samuel Johnson'sHistory of Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia (1759) is the best mid-century example (NAEL 8, 1.2680–2743). Romantic Orientalism continues to develop into the nineteenth century, paralleling another component of Romanticism already presented in the Norton Web sites, "Literary Gothicism." Two of the authors here — Clara Reeve and William Beckford — are important figures in the history of both movements. Like Gothic novels and plays, Oriental tales feature exotic settings, supernatural happenings, and deliberate extravagance of event, character, behavior, emotion, and speech — an extravagance sometimes countered by wry humor even to the point of buffoonery. It is as though the "otherness" of Oriental settings and characters gives the staid British temperament a holiday. Gothicism and Orientalism do the work of fiction more generally — providing imaginary characters, situations, and stories as alternative to, even as escape from, the reader's everyday reality. But they operate more sensationally than other types of fiction. Pleasurable terror and pleasurable exoticism are kindred experiences, with unreality and strangeness at the root of both. Before the publication of Edward Said's extremely influential and controversialOrientalism (1978), scholars tended to view the Eastern places, characters, and events pervading late-eighteenth- and early-nineteenth-century British literature as little more than stimuli for easy thrills. But this attitude has changed dramatically. Along with its wellstudied interests in the inner workings of the mind, connections with nature, and exercise of a transcendental imagination, the Romantic Period in Britain is now recognized as a time of global travel and exploration, accession of colonies all over the world, and development of imperialist ideologies that rationalized the British takeover of distant territories. In the introduction to their fine collection of essays in Romanticism, Race, and Imperial Culture, 1780– 1834(1996), Alan Richardson and Sonia Hofkosh notice references to the Spanish "discovery" and penetration of the Americas, British colonial wars, and "ethnographic exoticism" in several shorter pieces of Lyrical Ballads (1798) and connect the Ancient Mariner's voyage to a "growing maritime empire of far-flung islands, trading-posts, and stretches of coastline on five continents." Wordsworth and Coleridge were more aware of British expansionism than we had realized. Such recontextualizing of Romantic Orientalism gives it a decidedly contemporary and political character involving questions of national identity, cultural difference, the morality of imperialist domination, and consequent anxiety and guilt concerning such issues. A handy example is the call for papers at an international conference on the topic at

Gregynog, Wales, in July 2002, whose focus is "the cultural, political, commercial, and aesthetic dimensions of the synchronous growth of Romanticism and Orientalism. The European Romantic imagination was saturated with Orientalism, but it reflected persistent ambivalence concerning the East, complicated in Britain by colonial anxiety and imperial guilt. We shall consider how Western notions of cultural hegemony were bolstered by imperial rhetoric and challenged by intercultural translation." As a spate of new books and articles attests, a political approach to Romantic Orientalism is currently one of the major enterprises among critics and theorists. Colonial anxiety and imperial guilt may not be immediately apparent in the extracts assembled for this online topic, from Frances Sheridan's History of Nourjahad, Sir Willliam Jones's Palace of Fortune and Hymn to Narayena, Clara Reeve's History of Charoba, Queen of Ægypt, William Beckford's Vathek, W. S. Landor's Gebir, Robert Southey's Curse of Kehama, Byron's Giaour, and Thomas Moore's Lalla Rookh. But the texts are representative of the materials that scholars are currently working with, and three of them — the works by Sheridan, Beckford, and Byron — have recently been reprinted in a New Riverside Edition, Three Oriental Tales (2002), with an introduction and notes by Alan Richardson pointing out the works' "use of ‘Oriental' motifs to criticize European social arrangements." The texts and additional background materials included in this topic enhance the reading of canonical Romantic poems and fictions, as well as suggest how those poems and fictions connect with the political and social concerns of their real-life historical contexts.

Frances Sheridan, from The History of Nourjahad Frances Sheridan (1724–1766), mother of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, who wrote The Rivals, The School for Scandal, and several other memorable comedies, is remembered chiefly for The Memoirs of Miss Sidney Bidulph (1761), an epistolary "novel of sensibility" in the manner of her friend Richardson's Pamela and Clarissa, and a highly successful sentimental comedy, The Discovery, produced by Garrick in 1763. Her one attempt in the genre of the Oriental tale, The History of Nourjahad, was published posthumously in 1767 and enjoyed considerable popularity in a succession of English editions as well as translations into French, Russian, and Polish. A musical version, Illusion, or the Trances of Nourjahad, staged at Drury Lane in November 1813, was attributed to Byron (whose Giaour was just then going into its seventh edition since initial publication in June). The plot of Sheridan's highly moral tale is incredibly complicated. Young Schemzeddin, the new ruler of Persia, wishes to appoint his friend Nourjahad as First Minister but meets objections from his advisers, who consider Nourjahad too young, frivolous, and irreligious for the office. Nourjahad confirms their opinion by telling Schemzeddin that the things he most desires are inexhaustible riches and everlasting life — a statement that he retracts when he sees Schemzeddin's displeasure. Schemzeddin devises an elaborate trick to test Nourjahad's true character, giving him the riches that he wants and what is made to appear (by the use of drugs and some elaborate stagings by Nourjahad's household and harem) an endless life. A series of experiences teaches Nourjahad the vanity of his desire, and he is humbled — and restored to good standing with his ruler — at the end. The paragraphs extracted here occur near the beginning of the story, when Nourjahad awakens to realize that he was foolish to tell Schemzeddin his desires but also that he does in fact crave the extravagances he described. The male "youth of more than mortal beauty," claiming to be his guardian genius, is in fact Mandana, his favorite woman among the harem, in disguise, and this encounter is the first of a long series of deceptions (of Nourjahad and the reader) by which he is taught his lesson.

*** Nourjahad awoke in agonies: "Oh heaven," cried he aloud, "that I could now inherit the secret wish I was fool enough to disclose to thee, how little should I regard thy threats!" "And thou shalt, Oh Nourjahad," replied a voice, "possess the utmost wishes of thy soul!" Nourjahad started up in his bed, and rubbed his eyes, doubting whether he was really awake, or whether it was not his troubled imagination which cheated him with this delusive promise; when behold! to his unutterable astonishment, he saw a refulgent light in his chamber, and at his bed's side stood a youth of more than mortal beauty. The lustre of his white robes dazzled his eyes; his long and shining hair was incircled with a wreath of flowers that breathed the odours of paradise. Nourjahad gazed at him, but had not power to open his mouth. "Be not afraid," said the divine youth, with a voice of ineffable sweetness; "I am thy guardian genius, who have carefully watched over thee from thy infancy, though never till this hour have I been permitted to make myself visible to thee. I was present at thy conversation in the garden with Schemzeddin, I was a witness to thy unguarded declaration, but found thee afterwards awed by his frowns to retract what thou hadst said: I saw too the rigour of the sultan's looks as he departed from thee, and know that they proceeded from his doubting thy truth. I, though an immortal spirit, am not omniscient; to God only are the secrets of the heart revealed; speak boldly then, thou highly favoured of our prophet, and know that I have power from Mahomet to grant thy request, be it what it will. Wouldst thou be restored to the favour and confidence of thy master, and receive from his friendship and generosity the reward of thy long attachment to him, or dost thou really desire the accomplishment of that extravagant wish, which thou didst in the openness of thy heart avow to him last night?" Nourjahad, a little recovered from his amazement, and encouraged by the condescension of his celestial visitant, bowed his head low in token of adoration. "Disguise to thee, Oh son of paradise," replied he, "were vain and fruitless; if I dissembled to Schemzeddin it was in order to reinstate myself in his good opinion, the only means in my power to secure my future prospects: from thee I

can have no reason to conceal my thoughts; and since the care of my happiness is consigned to thee my guardian angel, let me possess that wish, extravagant as it may seem, which I first declared." "Rash mortal," replied the shining vision, "reflect once more, before you receive the fatal boon; for once granted, you will wish perhaps, and wish in vain, to have it recalled." "What have I to fear," answered Nourjahad, "possessed of endless riches and of immortality?" "Your own passions," said the heavenly youth. "I will submit to all the evils arising from them," replied Nourjahad, "give me but the power of gratifying them in their full extent." "Take thy wish then," cried the genius, with a look of discontent. "The contents of this vial will confer immortality on thee, and tomorrow's sun shall behold thee richer than all the kings of the East." Nourjahad stretched his hands out eagerly to receive a vessel of gold, enriched with precious stones, which the angel took from under his mantle. "Stop," cried the aerial being, "and hear the condition, with which thou must accept the wondrous gift I am now about to bestow. Know then, that your existence here shall equal the date of this sublunary globe; yet to enjoy life all that while, is not in my power to grant." Nourjahad was going to interrupt the celestial, to desire him to explain this, when he prevented him, by proceeding thus: "Your life," said he, "will be frequently interrupted by the temporary death of sleep." "Doubtless," replied Nourjahad, "nature would languish without that sovereign balm." "Thou misunderstandest me," cried the genius; "I do not mean that ordinary repose which nature requires: The sleep thou must be subject to, at certain periods, will last for months, years, nay, for a whole revolution of Saturn at a time, or perhaps for a century." "Frightful!" cried Nourjahad, with an emotion that made him forget the respect which was due to the presence of his guardian angel. He seemed suspended, while the radiant youth proceeded; "It is worth considering, resolve not too hastily." "If the frame of man," replied Nourjahad, "in the usual course of things, requires for the support of that short span of life which is allotted to him, a constant and regular portion of sleep, which includes at least one third of his existence, my life, perhaps, stretched so much beyond its natural date, may require a still greater proportion of rest, to preserve my body in due health and vigour. If this be the case, I submit to the conditions; for what is thirty or fifty years out of eternity?" "Thou art mistaken," replied the genius; "and though thy reasoning is not unphilosophical, yet is it far from reaching the true cause of these mysterious conditions which are offered thee; know that these are contingencies which depend entirely on thyself." "Let me beseech you," said Nourjahad, "to explain this." "If thou walkest," said the genius, "in the paths of virtue, thy days will be crowned with gladness, and the even tenor of thy life undisturbed by any evil; but if, on the contrary, thou pervertest the good which is in thy power, and settest thy heart on iniquity, thou wilt thus be occasionally punished by a total privation of thy faculties." "If this be all," cried Nourjahad, "then I am sure I shall never incur the penalty; for though I mean to enjoy all the pleasures that life can bestow, yet am I a stranger to my own heart, if it ever lead me to the wilful commission of a crime." The genius sighed. "Vouchsafe then," proceeded Nourjahad, "vouchsafe, I conjur you, most adorable and benign spirit, to fulfil your promise, and keep me not longer in suspence." Saying this, he again reached forth his hand for the golden vessel, which the genius no longer withheld from him. "Hold thy nostrils over that vial," said he, "and let the fumes of the liquor which it contains ascend to thy brain." Nourjahad opened the vessel, out of which a vapour issued of a most exquisite fragrance; it formed a thick atmosphere about his head, and sent out such volatile and sharp effluvia, as made his eyes smart exceedingly, and he was obliged to shut them whilst he snuffed up the essence. He remained not long in this situation, for the subtle spirit quickly evaporating, the effects instantly ceased, and he opened his eyes; but the apparition was vanished, and his apartment in total darkness. Had not he still found the vial in his hands, which contained the precious liquor, he would have looked on all this as a dream; but so substantial a proof of the reality of what had happened, leaving no room for doubts, he returned thanks to his guardian genius, whom he concluded, though invisible, to be still within hearing, and putting the golden vessel under his pillow, filled as he was with the most delightful ideas, composed himself to sleep. The sun was at his meridian height when he awoke next day; and the vision of the preceding night immediately recurring to his memory, he sprung hastily from his bed; but how great was his surprize, how high his transports, at seeing the accomplishment of the genius's promise! His chamber was surrounded with several large urns of polished brass, some of which were filled with gold coin of different value and impressions; others with ingots of fine gold; and others with precious stones of prodigious size and lustre. Amazed, enraptured at the sight, he greedily examined his treasures, and looking into each of the urns one after the other, in one of them he found a scroll of paper, with these words written on it. "I have fulfilled my promise to thee, Oh Nourjahad. Thy days are without number, thy riches inexhaustible, yet cannot I exempt thee from the evils to which all the sons of Adam are subject. I cannot screen thee from the machinations of envy, nor the rapaciousness of power: thy own prudence must henceforth be thy guard. There is a subterraneous cave in thy garden where thou mayst conceal thy treasure: I have marked the place, and thou wilt easily find it. Farewel, my charge is at an end."

"And well hast thou acquitted thyself of this charge, most munificent and benevolent genius," cried Nourjahad; "ten thousand thanks to thee for this last friendly warning; I should be a fool indeed if I had not sagacity enough to preserve myself against rapaciousness or envy; I will prevent the effects of the first, by concealing thee, my precious treasure, thou source of all felicity, where no mortal shall discover thee; and for the other, my bounty shall disarm it of its sting. Enjoy thyself, Nourjahad, riot in luxurious delights, and laugh at Schemzeddin's impotent resentment." He hastened down into his garden, in order to find the cave, of which he was not long in search. In a remote corner, stood the ruins of a small temple, which in former days, before the true religion prevailed in Persia, had been dedicated to the worship of the Gentiles. The vestiges of this little building were so curious, that they were suffered to remain, as an ornament, where they stood. It was raised on a mount, and according to the custom of idolaters, surrounded with shady trees. On a branch of one of these, Nourjahad perceived hanging a scarf of fine white taffety, to which was suspended a large key of burnished steel. Nourjahad's eager curiosity soon rendered his diligence successful, in finding the door, to which this belonged; it was within-side the walls of the temple, and under what formerly seemed to have been the altar. He descended by a few steps into a pretty spacious cavern, and by groping about, for there was scarce any light, he judged it large enough to contain his treasures. Whether his guardian genius had contrived it purely for his use, or whether it had been originally made for some other purpose, he did not trouble himself to enquire; but glad to have found so safe a place, in which to deposite his wealth, he returned to his house; and having given orders that no visitors should approach him, he shut himself up in his chamber for the rest of the day, in order to contemplate his own happiness, and without interruption, to lay down plans of various pleasures and delights for ages to come. * * *

Sir William Jones, from The Palace of Fortune, An Indian Tale Written in the Year 1769 Sir William Jones (1746–1794), sometimes referred to as "Oriental Jones" and "Asiatick Jones," was the preeminent Orientalist of his day, a distinguished jurist (he was judge of the high court at Calcutta for the last eleven years of his life), and a friend of Dr. Johnson and other leading writers and thinkers. He was a pioneer in discovering the affinity between Sanskrit and Greek and Latin, and made it the basis of both Orientalism and modern linguistics as academic disciplines. He was also a principal founder of comparative literature studies and comparative legal studies, as well as an important figure in the field of the history of ideas. And he wrote and published a considerable amount of poetry, both original and as translation, most often with Eastern sources and themes at its center. The Palace of Fortune, which Jones wrote in 1769 in his student rooms at Oxford, employs a machinery of dreamvision allegory that was a hackneyed device when Chaucer took it over from some medieval French poets in hisHous of Fame. It is "Oriental" mainly because of its subtitle — "An Indian Tale" — and the circumstances of its first publication, in Jones's Poems, Consisting Chiefly of Translations from the Asiatick Languages (1772). But these were sufficient to establish, in the words of the best modern editor and scholar of Jones's works, Michael J. Franklin, "the basis of the genre of the Oriental verse tale which was to prove so popular with the Romantics and their readers. The tale concerns an Indian girl, significantly called Maia, who, bored with the simplicity of her rustic cell, longs for an environment more appreciative of her youth and beauty. At the command of the goddess Fortune, celestial spirits transport Maia in an aerial car drawn by peacocks to a paradisical palace. Here she witnesses a series of visions which ultimately reveal the vanity of human wishes" (Sir William Jones: Selected Poetical and Prose Works, 1995, p. 36). Readers familiar with Blake's Book of Thel (NAEL 8, 2.98–102) and Shelley's Queen Mab will see immediate connections with this earlier work. The extract given here, the opening 248 lines, sets up the framework and presents the first of Maia's morally instructive visions, that of the personification of Pleasure (with two lines introducing the second personification, that of Glory).

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Mild was the vernal gale, and calm the day, When Maia near a crystal fountain lay, Young Maia, fairest of the blue-eyed maids, That rov'd at noon in Tibet's musky shades; But, haply, wandering through the fields of air, Some fiend had whisper'd — Maia, thou art fair! Hence swelling pride had fill'd her simple breast, And rising passions robb'd her mind of rest; In courts and glittering towers she wish'd to dwell, And scorn'd her labouring parent's lowly cell. And now, as gazing o'er the glassy stream, She saw her blooming cheek's reflected beam, Her tresses brighter than the morning sky, And the mild radiance of her sparkling eye, Low sighs and trickling tears by turns she stole, And thus discharg'd the anguish of her soul: "Why glow those cheeks, if unadmir'd they glow? Why flow those tresses, if unprais'd they flow? Why dart those eyes their liquid ray serene, Unfelt their influence, and their light unseen? Ye heavens! was that love-breathing bosom made To warm dull groves, and cheer the lonely glade? Ah, no: those blushes, that enchanting face, Some tap'stried hall, or gilded bower, might grace; Might deck the scenes, where love and pleasure reign, And fire with amorous flames the youthful train." While thus she spoke, a sudden blaze of light Shot through the clouds, and struck her dazzled sight.

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She rais'd her head, astonish'd, to the skies, And veil'd with trembling hands her aching eyes; When through the yielding air she saw from far A goddess gliding in a golden car, That soon descended on the flowery lawn, By two fair yokes of starry peacocks drawn: A thousand nymphs with many a sprightly glance Form'd round the radiant wheels an airy dance, Celestial shapes! in fluid light array'd; Like twinkling stars their beamy sandals play'd; Their lucid mantles glitter'd in the sun, (Webs half so bright the silkworm never spun) Transparent robes, that bore the rainbow's hue, And finer than the nets of pearly dew That morning spreads o'er every opening flower, When sportive summer decks his bridal bower. The queen herself, too fair for mortal sight, Sat in the centre of encircling light. Soon with soft touch she rais'd the trembling maid, And by her side in silent slumber laid: Straight the gay birds display'd their spangled train, And flew refulgent through th' aerial plain; The fairy band their shining pinions spread, And, as they rose, fresh gales of sweetness shed; Fann'd with their flowing skirts, the sky was mild; And heaven's blue fields with brighter radiance smil'd. Now in a garden deck'd with verdant bowers The glittering car descends on bending flowers: The goddess still with looks divinely fair Surveys the sleeping object of her care; Then o'er her cheek her magick finger lays, Soft as the gale that o'er a violet plays, And thus in sounds, that favour'd mortals hear, She gently whispers in her ravish'd ear: "Awake, sweet maid, and view this charming scene For ever beauteous, and for ever green; Here living rills of purest nectar flow O'er meads that with unfading flowerets glow; Here amorous gales their scented wings display, Mov'd by the breath of ever-blooming May; Here in the lap of pleasure shalt thou rest, Our lov'd companion, and our honour'd guest." The damsel hears the heavenly notes distil, Like melting snow, or like a vernal rill. She lifts her head, and, on her arm reclin'd, Drinks the sweet accents in her grateful mind: On all around she turns her roving eyes, And views the splendid scene with glad surprize; Fresh lawns, and sunny banks, and roseate bowers, Hills white with flocks, and meadows gemm'd with flowers; Cool shades, a sure defence from summer's ray, And silver brooks, where wanton damsels play, Which with soft notes their dimpled crystal roll'd O'er colour'd shells and sands of native gold; A rising fountain play'd from every stream, Smil'd as it rose, and cast a transient gleam, Then, gently falling in a vocal shower, Bath'd every shrub, and sprinkled every flower,

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That on the banks, like many a lovely bride, View'd in the liquid glass their blushing pride; Whilst on each branch, with purple blossoms hung, The sportful birds their joyous descant sung. While Maia thus entranc'd in sweet delight, With each gay object fed her eager sight, The goddess mildly caught her willing hand, And led her trembling o'er the flowery land. Soon she beheld, where through an opening glade A spacious lake its clear expanse display'd; In mazy curls the flowing jasper wav'd O'er its smooth bed with polish'd agate pav'd; And on a rock of ice, by magick rais'd, High in the midst a gorgeous palace blaz'd; The sunbeams on the gilded portals glanc'd, Play'd on the spires, and on the turrets danc'd; To four bright gates four ivory bridges led, With pearls illumin'd, and with roses spread: And now, more radiant than the morning sun, Her easy way the gliding goddess won; Still by her hand she held the fearful maid, And, as she pass'd, the fairies homage paid: They enter'd straight the sumptuous palace-hall, Where silken tapestry emblaz'd the wall, Refulgent tissue, of an heavenly woof; And gems unnumber'd sparkled on the roof, On whose blue arch the flaming diamonds play'd, As on a sky with living stars inlay'd; Of precious diadems a regal store, With globes and sceptres, strew'd the porphyry floor; Rich vests of eastern kings around were spread, And glittering zones a starry lustre shed: But Maia most admir'd the pearly strings, Gay bracelets, golden chains, and sparkling rings. High in the centre of the palace shone, Suspended in mid-air, an opal throne: To this the queen ascends with royal pride, And sets the favour'd damsel by her side. Around the throne in mystick order stand The fairy train, and wait her high command; When thus she speaks: (the maid attentive sips Each word that flows, like nectar, from her lips.) "Favourite of heaven, my much-lov'd Maia, know, From me all joys, all earthly blessings, flow: Me suppliant men imperial Fortune call, The mighty empress of yon rolling ball": (She rais'd her finger, and the wondering maid At distance hung the dusky globe survey'd, Saw the round earth with foaming oceans vein'd, And labouring clouds on mountain tops sustain'd.) "To me has fate the pleasing task assign'd To rule the various thoughts of humankind; To catch each rising wish, each ardent prayer, And some to grant, and some to waste in air. Know farther; as I rang'd the crystal sky, I saw thee near the murmuring fountain lie; Mark'd the rough storm that gather'd in thy breast, And knew what care thy joyless soul opprest. Straight I resolv'd to bring thee quick relief,

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Ease every weight, and soften every grief; If in this court contented thou canst live, And taste the joys these happy gardens give: But fill thy mind with vain desires no more, And view without a wish yon shining store: Soon shall a numerous train before me bend, And kneeling votaries my shrine attend; Warn'd by their empty vanities beware, And scorn the folly of each human prayer." She said; and straight a damsel of her train With tender fingers touch'd a golden chain. Now a soft bell delighted Maia hears, That sweetly trembles on her listening ears; Through the calm air the melting numbers float, And wanton echo lengthens every note. Soon through the dome a mingled hum arose, Like the swift stream that o'er a valley flows; Now louder still it grew, and still more loud, As distant thunder breaks the bursting cloud: Through the four portals rush'd a various throng, That like a wintry torrent pour'd along: A crowd of every tongue, and every hue, Toward the bright throne with eager rapture flew. A lovely stripling stepp'd before the rest >> note 1 With hasty pace, and tow'rd the goddess prest; His mien was graceful, and his looks were mild, And in his eyes celestial sweetness smil'd: Youth's purple glow, and beauty's rosy beam, O'er his smooth cheeks diffus'd a lively gleam; The floating ringlets of his musky hair Wav'd on the bosom of the wanton air: With modest grace the goddess he addrest, And thoughtless thus preferr'd his fond request. "Queen of the world, whose wide-extended sway, Gay youth, firm manhood, and cold age obey, Grant me, while life's fresh blooming roses smile, The day with varied pleasures to beguile; Let me on beds of dewy flowers recline, And quaff with glowing lips the sparkling wine; Grant me to feed on beauty's rifled charms, And clasp a willing damsel in my arms; Her bosom fairer than a hill of snow, And gently bounding like a playful roe; Her lips more fragrant than the summer air, And sweet as Scythian musk her hyacinthine hair; Let new delights each dancing hour employ, Sport follow sport, and joy succeed to joy." The goddess grants the simple youth's request, And mildly thus accosts her lovely guest: "On that smooth mirror, full of magick light, Awhile, dear Maia, fix thy wandering sight." She looks; and in th' enchanted crystal sees A bower o'er-canopied with tufted trees: The wanton stripling lies beneath the shade, And by his side reclines a blooming maid; O'er her fair limbs a silken mantle flows, Through which her youthful beauty softly glows, And part conceal'd, and part disclos'd to sight, Through the thin texture casts a ruddy light,

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As the ripe clusters of the mantling vine Beneath the verdant foliage faintly shine, And, fearing to be view'd by envious day, Their glowing tints unwillingly display. The youth, while joy sits sparkling in his eyes, Pants on her neck, and on her bosom dies; From her smooth cheek nectareous dew he sips, And all his soul comes breathing to his lips. But Maia turns her modest eyes away, And blushes to behold their amorous play. She looks again, and sees with sad surprize On the clear glass far different scenes arise: The bower, which late outshone the rosy morn, O'erhung with weeds she saw, and rough with thorn; With stings of asps the leafless plants were wreath'd, And curling adders gales of venom breath'd: Low sat the stripling on the faded ground, And in a mournful knot his arms were bound; His eyes, that shot before a sunny beam, Now scarcely shed a saddening, dying gleam; Faint as a glimmering taper's wasted light, Or a dull ray that streaks the cloudy night: His crystal vase was on the pavement roll'd, And from the bank was fall'n his cup of gold; From which th' envenom'd dregs of deadly hue, Flow'd on the ground in streams of baleful dew, And, slowly stealing through the wither'd bower, Poison'd each plant, and blasted every flower: Fled were his slaves, and fled his yielding fair, And each gay phantom was dissolv'd in air; Whilst in their place was left a ruthless train, Despair, and grief, remorse, and raging pain. Aside the damsel turns her weeping eyes, And sad reflections in her bosom rise; To whom thus mildly speaks the radiant queen: "Take sage example from this moral scene; See, how vain pleasures sting the lips they kiss, How asps are hid beneath the bowers of bliss! Whilst ever fair the flower of temperance blows, Unchang'd her leaf, and without thorn her rose; Smiling she darts her glittering branch on high, And spreads her fragrant blossoms to the sky." Next tow'rd the throne she saw a knight advance; >> note 2 Erect he stood, and shook a quivering lance; * * *

Sir William Jones, A Hymn to Narayena Sir William Jones (see the headnote to Jones's Palace of Fortune, just above) wrote A Hymn to Narayena in the spring of 1785 and published it later the same year in the first issue of Asiatick Miscellany (Calcutta). It was reprinted and praised in several London magazines over the next couple of years, and is generally considered to be Jones's best effort in a lyric form (in this instance a type of Pindaric ode). Jones's lengthy "Argument" summarizes the content, which may be seen to have much in common with later expressions of mystical pantheism in Romantic lyrics by, among others, Wordsworth ("Tintern Abbey," NAEL 8, 2.258–62) and Percy Shelley ("Mont Blanc" and "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty," NAEL 8, 2.762–68).

The Argument A complete introduction to the following Ode would be no less than a full comment on the Vayds and Purans of the Hindus, the remains of Egyptian andPersian Theology, and the tenets of the Ionick andItalick Schools; but this is not the place for so vast a disquisition. It will be sufficient here to premise, that the inextricable difficulties attending the vulgar notionof material substances, concerning which "We know this only, that we nothing know," induced many of the wisest among the Ancients, and some of the most enlightened among the Moderns, to believe, that the whole Creation was rather an energy than a work, by which the Infinite Being, who is present at all times in all places, exhibits to the minds of his creatures a set of perceptions, like a wonderful picture or piece of musick, always varied, yet always uniform; so that all bodies and their qualities exist, indeed, to every wise and useful purpose, but exist only as far as they are perceived; a theory no less pious than sublime, and as different from any principle of Atheism, as the brightest sunshine differs from the blackest midnight. This illusive operation of the Deity the Hindu philosophers call, Maya, or Deception; and the word occurs in this sense more than once in the commentary on the Rig Vayd, by the great Vasishtha, of which Mr. Halhed has given us an admirable specimen. The first stanza of the Hymn represents the sublimest attributes of the Supreme Being, and the three forms, in which they most clearly appear to us, Power, Wisdom, and Goodness, or, in the language of Orpheus and his disciples, Love: the second comprises the Indian and Egyptian doctrine of the Divine Essence and Archetypal Ideas; for a distinct account of which the reader must be referred to a noble description in the sixth book of Plato'sRepublick; and the fine explanation of that passage in an elegant discourse by the author of Cyrus, from whose learned work a hint has been borrowed for the conclusion of this piece. The third and fourth are taken from the Institutes of Menu, and the eighteenth Puran of Vyasa, entitled Srey Bhagawat, part of which has been translated into Persian, not without elegance, but rather too paraphrastically. From Brehme, or the Great Being, in the neuter gender, is formed Brehma, in the masculine; and the second word is appropriated to the creative power of the Divinity. The spirit of God, call'd Narayena, or moving on the water, has a multiplicity of other epithets in Sanscrit, the principal of which are introduced, expressly or by allusion, in the fifth stanza; and two of them contain the names of theevil beings, who are feigned to have sprung from the ears of Vishnu; for thus the divine spirit is entitled, when considered as the preserving power: thesixth ascribes the perception of secondary qualities by our senses to the immediate influence of Maya; and the seventh imputes to her operation theprimary qualities of extension and solidity. The Hymn

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Spirit of Spirits, who, through ev'ry part Of space expanded and of endless time, Beyond the stretch of lab'ring thought sublime, Badst uproar into beauteous order start, Before Heav'n was, Thou art: Ere spheres beneath us roll'd or spheres above, Ere earth in firmamental ether hung, Thou satst alone; till, through thy mystick Love, Things unexisting to existence sprung, And grateful descant sung.

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What first impell'd thee to exert thy might? Goodness unlimited. What glorious light Thy pow'r directed? Wisdom without bound. What prov'd it first? Oh! guide my fancy right; Oh! raise from cumbrous ground My soul in rapture drown'd, That fearless it may soar on wings of fire; For Thou, who only knowst, Thou only canst inspire. Wrapt in eternal solitary shade, Th' impenetrable gloom of light intense, Impervious, inaccessible, immense, Ere spirits were infus'd or forms display'd, Brehm his own Mind survey'd, As mortal eyes (thus finite we compare With infinite) in smoothest mirrors gaze: Swift, at his look, a shape supremely fair Leap'd into being with a boundless blaze, That fifty suns might daze. Primeval Maya was the Goddess nam'd, Who to her sire, with Love divine inflam'd, A casket gave with rich Ideas fill'd, From which this gorgeous Universe he fram'd; For, when th' Almighty will'd, Unnumber'd worlds to build, From Unity diversified he sprang, While gay Creation laugh'd, and procreant Nature rang. First an all-potent all-pervading sound Bade flow the waters — and the waters flow'd, Exulting in their measureless abode, Diffusive, multitudinous, profound, Above, beneath, around; Then o'er the vast expanse primordial wind Breath'd gently till a lucid bubble rose, Which grew in perfect shape an Egg refin'd: Created substance no such lustre shows, Earth no such beauty knows. Above the warring waves it danc'd elate, Till from its bursting shell with lovely state A form cerulean flutter'd o'er the deep, Brightest of beings, greatest of the great: Who, not as mortals steep, Their eyes in dewy sleep, But heav'nly-pensive on the Lotos lay, That blossom'd at his touch and shed a golden ray. Hail, primal blossom! hail empyreal gem! Kemel, or Pedma, or whate'er high name Delight thee, say, what four-form'd Godhead came, With graceful stole and beamy diadem, Forth from thy verdant stem? Full-gifted Brehma! Rapt in solemn thought He stood, and round his eyes fire-darting threw; But, whilst his viewless origin he sought, One plain he saw of living waters blue, Their spring nor saw nor knew. Then, in his parent stalk again retir'd, With restless pain for ages he inquir'd What were his pow'rs, by whom, and why conferr'd: With doubts perplex'd, with keen impatience fir'd He rose, and rising heard Th' unknown all-knowing Word,

"Brehma! no more in vain research persist: My veil thou canst not move — Go; bid all worlds exist."

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Hail, self-existent, in celestial speech Narayen, from thy watry cradle, nam'd; Or Venamaly may I sing unblam'd, With flow'ry braids, that to thy sandals reach, Whose beauties, who can teach? Or high Peitamber clad in yellow robes Than sunbeams brighter in meridian glow, That weave their heav'n-spun light o'er circling globes? Unwearied, lotos-eyed, with dreadful bow, Dire Evil's constant foe! Great Pedmanabha, o'er thy cherish'd world The pointed Checra, by thy fingers whirl'd, Fierce Kytabh shall destroy and Medhu grim To black despair and deep destruction hurl'd. Such views my senses dim, My eyes in darkness swim: What eye can bear thy blaze, what utt'rance tell Thy deeds with silver trump or many-wreathed shell? Omniscient Spirit, whose all-ruling pow'r Bids from each sense bright emanations beam; Glows in the rainbow, sparkles in the stream, Smiles in the bud, and glistens in the flow'r That crowns each vernal bow'r; Sighs in the gale, and warbles in the throat Of ev'ry bird, that hails the bloomy spring, Or tells his love in many a liquid note, Whilst envious artists touch the rival string, Till rocks and forests ring; Breathes in rich fragrance from the sandal grove, Or where the precious musk-deer playful rove; In dulcet juice from clust'ring fruit distills, And burns salubrious in the tasteful clove: Soft banks and verd'rous hills Thy present influence fills; In air, in floods, in caverns, woods, and plains; Thy will inspirits all, thy sov'reign Maya reigns. Blue crystal vault, and elemental fires, That in th' ethereal fluid blaze and breathe; Thou, tossing main, whose snaky branches wreathe This pensile orb with intertwisted gyres; Mountains, whose radiant spires Presumptuous rear their summits to the skies, And blend their em'rald hue with sapphire light; Smooth meads and lawns, that glow with varying dyes Of dew-bespangled leaves and blossoms bright, Hence! vanish from my sight: Delusive Pictures! unsubstantial shows! My soul absorb'd One only Being knows, Of all perceptions One abundant source, Whence ev'ry object ev'ry moment flows: Suns hence derive their force, Hence planets learn their course; But suns and fading words I view no more: God only I perceive; God only I adore.

Clara Reeve, from The History of Charoba, Queen of Ægypt Clara Reeve (1729–1807) is the author of The Old English Baron (1777), a highly successful Gothic novel that made a point of domesticating and modernizing the medieval setting, characters, and machinery of Walpole's Castle of Otranto. She published several subsequent novels and a single important piece of criticism, a dialogue on, as the title page has it, The Progress of Romance, through Times, Countries, and Manners; with Remarks on the Good and Bad Effects of It, on Them Respectively (1785). A question posed in this last ("by a learned writer, whose friendship does me honour") is whether Reeve has ever seen an Egyptian romance, and she responds by including, as "proof" that she has, a separately titled History of Charoba, Queen of Ægypt, which constitutes the final thirty pages of Progress. Present-day scholars disagree concerning both Reeve's source(s) and her originality in The History of Charoba. In the preface to Progress, Reeve says that she "extracted" the story "from a book called — The History of Ancient Ægypt, according to the Traditions of the Arabians. — Written in Arabic, by the Reverend Doctor Murtadi . . . Translated into French by M. Vattier, Arabic Professor to Louis 14th King of France." Vattier's French was translated into English by John Davies as The Egyptian History (1672). Reeve may have worked from both the French and the English versions, but the steady superiority of Charoba in her conflict with the invading commander King Gebirus and the strongly feminist ideas of the conclusion of the story (given here) are decidedly modern in character. This work was the acknowledged source of W. S. Landor's Gebir (1798), which is also represented on this Web site. Reeve's and Landor's treatments of the same materials provide interesting contrasts in theme, style, and sexual politics, as well as politics more generally (Landor's account begins, in the words of his Argument, with passages "Against colonization in peopled countries. All nature dissuades from whatever is hostile to equality").

*** After the city was finished, Gebirus sent some of his chief men, with the tidings to Charoba; and invited her to come and see it. — She was almost overwhelmed with grief and apprehension, that she should now be compelled to marry: — but her nurse comforted her with these words. — "Do not yet despair, my royal mistress! — give not yourself further trouble concerning this audacious man. — Leave him to me, and I will shortly put it out of his power to give you any further concern, or to do you mischief." She returned with the messengers to Gebirus, and carried with her fine tapestry of great value, as a present from her mistress. — "Let this be put over the seat on which the King sitteth," said she, "then let him divide his people into three parties, and send them forward to meet the Queen, who will give them such treatment as they deserve. When the first party shall be about a third part of the way, you shall send away the second; and when the second are got to their station, you shall send away the third: — thus they shall be dispersed about the country for the Queen's safety, and she shall have no cause to fear the designs of her enemies, — she will be attended by the King's servants only, and when they return she will come with them." So Gebirus sent away his servants, according to her instructions, and she continued sending him rich presents every day, till such time as she knew that the first party were arrived at their station. Then by her orders there were tables set before them covered with refreshments of all kinds; but they were all poisoned meats. — And while they sat down to eat, the Queen's men and maid-servants stood all around them, with umbrellas and fans to keep them cool; — also their liquors were cooled. So while they sat at the tables they all died from the first to the last. — Then the Queen's servants went forwards to meet the second party, which they treated in the same manner. — Then they removed to the third party, and served them as they had done the others. — So the Queen's servants went forward; and a part of the Queen's army followed them, and they buried all the dead bodies. Then the Queen, sent a message to the King, that she had left his army in and about her own city of Masar, and that she was coming to meet him speedily. — So she set forward with many attendants, and her nurse met her, and accompanied her to the city of the King.

When she drew near the palace, the King rose up, and went forward to meet her. Then the nurse threw over his shoulders a regal garment, which was poisoned, and which she had prepared for that purpose; afterwards she blew a fume into his face, which almost deprived him of his senses; — then she sprinkled him with a water that loosened all his joints, and deprived him of his strength; so that he fell down in a swoon at the feet of Charoba. — The attendants raised him up and seated him in a chair of state, and the nurse said unto him — "Is the King well to night?" — He replied, — "A mischief on your coming hither! — may you be treated by others as you have treated me! — this only grieves me, that a man of strength and valour should be overcome by the subtilty of a woman." — "Is there any thing you would ask of me before you taste of death?" said the Queen — "I would only intreat," said he, "that the words I shall utter, may be engraven on one of the pillars of this palace which I have builded." Then said Charoba, "I give thee my promise that it shall be done; and I also will cause to be engraven on another pillar — 'This is the fate of such men as would compel Queens to marry them, and kingdoms to receive them for their Kings.' — Tell us now thy last words." Then the King said — "I Gebirus, the Metaphequian, the son of Gevirus, that have caused marbles to be polished, — both the red and the green stone to be wrought curiously; who was possessed of gold, and jewels, and various treasures; who have raised armies; built cities; erected palaces; — who have cut my way through mountains; have stopped rivers; and done many great and wonderful actions; — with all this my power, and my strength, and my valour, and my riches: I have been circumvented by the wiles of a woman; weak, impotent, and deceitful; who hath deprived me of my strength and understanding; and finally hath taken away my life: — Wherefore, whoever is desirous to be great and to prosper; (though there is no certainty of long success in this world,) — yet, let him put no trust in a woman; but let him, at all times, beware of the craft and subtilty of a woman." After saying these words, he fainted away, and they supposed him dead; but after some time he revived again. — Charoba comforted him, and renewed her promise to him. — Being at the point of death, he said, — "Oh Charoba!— triumph not in my death! — for there shall come upon thee a day like unto this, and the time is not very far distant. — Then shalt thou reflect on the vicissitudes of fortune, and the certainty of death." Soon after this he expired. — Charoba ordered his body to be honorably interred in the city which he had builded. — Afterwards, she built an high tower in the same city; and caused to be engraven upon it her own name, and that of Gebirus: and an history of all that she had done unto him, and also those his last words. — So her fame went forth, and came to the ears of many Kings, and they feared and respected her. And she received many offers of friendship and alliance; but Charoba remained a virgin to the end of her life. Now it happened about three years after the death of Gebirus, that Charobahaving embarked on board a small vessel, in which she was wont to take her pleasure upon the Nile by moon-light; went on shore with some of her attendants. As they were returning to the ship, with great mirth and jollity, it so happened that the Queen trod upon a serpent; which turned again, and stung her in the heel; the pain whereof, took away her sight. — Her women comforted her, — saying, it would be nothing. — "You are deceived," said she. — "The day is come with which Gebirus threatened me: — a day which all the great ones of the earth must meet and submit to. — Carry me home immediately, that I may die there." The day following Charoba died; — having first appointed Dalica, her kinswoman, to succeed her. — She was the daughter of that kinsman, whom Charoba preserved from the cruelty of her father Totis. So died Charoba, Queen of Ægypt; but her name died not with her, for it remaineth, and is honoured unto this day. Queen Dalica was endowed with beauty and wisdom. — She followed the example of her predecessor, and governed her kingdom with great prudence. — She did many great works in Ægypt, — and caused many castles to be erected on the frontiers of the kingdom, to repel her enemies on whatever side they should be attacked. She caused the body of Charobato be embalmed with camphire and spices; and it was carried into the city ofGebirus: for Charoba had caused her tomb to be prepared there in her lifetime, and embellished it with regal ornaments, and appointed priests to attend on it. Queen Dalica solemnized the funeral of Charoba with great magnificence. She made her subjects rich and happy by her wise government; and, after reigning seventy years in Ægypt, died also a virgin, and was succeeded by her sister's son, Ablinos, whose posterity wore the crown of Ægypt for many generations.

finis William Beckford, from Vathek William Beckford (1760–1844) has already been briefly introduced in the headnote to the Vathek pages in the Norton Web site for "Literary Gothicism." Though he wrote several other works, including two books of travel, he is now principally known for the raucous and sensational Vathek, originally written in French in 1782, first published in English translation (largely by Samuel Henley) in 1786, and subsequently read by practically everyone of note in the next hundred years. Keats mentions it in his letters and drew on it for some of his descriptions in Hyperion; Byron used it extensively in his notes to The Giaour; Stéphane Mallarmé, who issued an edition of the French version in 1876, termed it "one of the proudest freaks of the nascent modern imagination" (Alan Richardson, introduction to Three Oriental Tales, 2002, p. 10). The extract below, the first half-dozen pages of the novel, introduces the eponymous hero and establishes the tone of much of the proceedings (epic high seriousness punctuated with zany moments worthy of Dave Barry). For the much more serious outcome, beginning "A deathlike stillness reigned over the mountain, and through the air" and continuing to the inevitable hour when Vathek and his beloved Nouronihar's hearts are set afire and they "wait in direful suspense the moment which should render them to each other . . . objects of terror," see the "Literary Gothicism" Web site.

Vathek, ninth Caliph of the race of the Abassides, was the son of Motassem, and the grandson of Haroun al Raschid. From an early accession to the throne, and the talents he possessed to adorn it, his subjects were induced to expect that his reign would be long and happy. His figure was pleasing and majestic; but when he was angry, one of his eyes became so terrible, that no person could bear to behold it; and the wretch upon whom it was fixed, instantly fell backward, and sometimes expired. For fear, however, of depopulating his dominions and making his palace desolate, he but rarely gave way to his anger. Being much addicted to women and the pleasures of the table, he sought by his affability, to procure agreeable companions; and he succeeded the better as his generosity was unbounded and his indulgencies unrestrained: for he did not think, with the Caliph Omar Ben Abdalaziz, that it was necessary to make a hell of this world to enjoy paradise in the next. He surpassed in magnificence all his predecessors. The palace of Alkoremi, which his father, Motassem, had erected on the hill of Pied Horses, and which commanded the whole city of Samarah, was, in his idea, far too scanty: he added, therefore, five wings, or rather other palaces, which he destined for the particular gratification of each of the senses. In the first of these were tables continually covered with the most exquisite dainties; which were supplied both by night and by day, according to their constant consumption; whilst the most delicious wines and the choicest cordials flowed forth from a hundred fountains that were never exhausted. This palace was called The Eternal or Unsatiating Banquet. The second was styled, The Temple of Melody, or The Nectar of the Soul. It was inhabited by the most skilful musicians and admired poets of the time; who not only displayed their talents within, but dispersing in bands without, caused every surrounding scene to reverberate their songs; which were continually varied in the most delightful succession. The palace named The Delight of the Eyes, or The Support of Memory, was one entire enchantment. Rarities, collected from every corner of the earth, were there found in such profusion as to dazzle and confound, but for the order in which they were arranged. One gallery exhibited the pictures of the celebrated Mani, and statues that seemed to be alive. Here a well-managed perspective attracted the sight; there the magic of optics agreeably deceived it: whilst the naturalist on his part exhibited in their several classes the various gifts that Heaven had bestowed on our globe. In a word, Vathek omitted nothing in this palace that might gratify the curiosity of those who resorted to it, although he was not able to satisfy his own; for, of all men, he was the most curious.

The Palace of Perfumes, which was termed likewise The Incentive to Pleasure, consisted of various halls, where the different perfumes which the earth produces were kept perpetually burning in censers of gold. Flambeaux and aromatic lamps were here lighted in open day. But the too powerful effects of this agreeable delirium might be alleviated by descending into an immense garden, where an assemblage of every fragrant flower diffused through the air the purest odours. The fifth palace, denominated The Retreat of Mirth, or the Dangerous, was frequented by troops of young females beautiful as the Houris, and not less seducing; who never failed to receive with caresses, all whom the Caliph allowed to approach them, and enjoy a few hours of their company. Notwithstanding the sensuality in which Vathek indulged, he experienced no abatement in the love of his people, who thought that a sovereign giving himself up to pleasure, was as able to govern, as one who declared himself an enemy to it. But the unquiet and impetuous disposition of the Caliph would not allow him to rest there. He had studied so much for his amusement in the life-time of his father, as to acquire a great deal of knowledge, though not a sufficiency to satisfy himself; for he wished to know every thing; even sciences that did not exist. He was fond of engaging in disputes with the learned; but did not allow them to push their opposition with warmth. He stopped with presents the mouths of those whose mouths could be stopped; whilst others, whom his liberality was unable to subdue, he sent to prison to cool their blood; a remedy that often succeeded. Vathek discovered also a predilection for theological controversy; but it was not with the orthodox that he usually held. By this means he induced the zealots to oppose him, and then persecuted them in return; for he resolved, at any rate, to have reason on his side. The great prophet, Mahomet, whose vicars the caliphs are, beheld with indignation from his abode in the seventh heaven, the irreligious conduct of such a vicegerent. "Let us leave him to himself," said he to the Genii, who are always ready to receive his commands: "let us see to what lengths his folly and impiety will carry him: if he run into excess, we shall know how to chastise him. Assist him, therefore, to complete the tower, which, in imitation of Nimrod, he hath begun; not, like that great warrior, to escape being drowned, but from the insolent curiosity of penetrating the secrets of heaven: — he will not divine the fate that awaits him." The Genii obeyed; and, when the workmen had raised their structure a cubit in the day time, two cubits more were added in the night. The expedition, with which the fabric arose, was not a little flattering to the vanity of Vathek: he fancied that even insensible matter shewed a forwardness to subserve his designs; not considering that the successes of the foolish and wicked form the first rod of their chastisement. His pride arrived at its height, when having ascended, for the first time, the fifteen hundred stairs of his tower, he cast his eyes below, and beheld men not larger than pismires; mountains, than shells; and cities, than bee-hives. The idea, which such an elevation inspired of his own grandeur, completely bewildered him: he was almost ready to adore himself; till, lifting his eyes upward, he saw the stars as high above him as they appeared when he stood on the surface of the earth. He consoled himself, however, for this intruding and unwelcome perception of his littleness, with the thought of being great in the eyes of others; and flattered himself that the light of his mind would extend beyond the reach of his sight, and extort from the stars the decrees of his destiny. With this view, the inquisitive Prince passed most of his nights on the summit of his tower, till becoming an adept in the mysteries of astrology, he imagined that the planets had disclosed to him the most marvelous adventures, which were to be accomplished by an extraordinary personage, from a country altogether unknown. Prompted by motives of curiosity, he had always been courteous to strangers; but, from this instant, he redoubled his attention, and ordered it to be announced, by sound of trumpet through all the streets of Samarah, that no one of his subjects, on peril of his displeasure, should either lodge or detain a traveller, but forthwith bring him to the palace. Not long after this proclamation, arrived in his metropolis a man so abominably hideous that the very guards who arrested him were forced to shut their eyes, as they led him along: the Caliph himself appeared startled at so horrible a visage; but joy succeeded to this emotion of terror, when the stranger displayed to his view such rarities as he had never before seen, and of which he had no conception. In reality, nothing was ever so extraordinary as the merchandize this stranger produced: most of his curiosities, which were not less admirable for their workmanship than splendour, had, besides, their several virtues described on a parchment fastened to each. There were slippers which, by spontaneous springs, enabled the feet to walk; knives

that cut without motion of the hand; sabres that dealt the blow at the person they were wished to strike; and the whole enriched with gems that were hitherto unknown. The sabres, especially, the blades of which emitted a dazzling radiance, fixed, more than all the rest, the Caliph's attention; who promised himself to decipher, at his leisure, the uncouth characters engraven on their sides. Without, therefore, demanding their price, he ordered all the coined gold to be brought from his treasury, and commanded the merchant to take what he pleased. The stranger obeyed, took little, and remained silent. Vathek, imagining that the merchant's taciturnity was occasioned by the awe which his presence inspired, encouraged him to advance; and asked him, with an air of condescension, who he was? whence he came? and where he obtained such beautiful commodities? The man, or rather monster, instead of making a reply, thrice rubbed his forehead, which, as well as his body, was blacker than ebony; four times clapped his paunch, the projection of which was enormous; opened wide his huge eyes, which glowed like firebrands; began to laugh with a hideous noise, and discovered his long amber-coloured teeth, bestreaked with green. The Caliph, though a little startled, renewed his inquiries, but without being able to procure a reply. At which, beginning to be ruffled, he exclaimed: — "Knowest thou, wretch, who I am, and at whom thou art aiming thy gibes?" — Then, addressing his guards, — "Have ye heard him speak? — is he dumb?" — "He hath spoken," they replied, "but to no purpose." "Let him speak then again," said Vathek, "and tell me who he is, from whence he came, and where he procured these singular curiosities; or I swear, by the ass of Balaam, that I will make him rue his pertinacity." This menace was accompanied by one of the Caliph's angry and perilous glances, which the stranger sustained without the slightest emotion; although his eyes were fixed on the terrible eye of the Prince. No words can describe the amazement of the courtiers, when they beheld this rude merchant withstand the encounter unshocked. They all fell prostrate with their faces on the ground, to avoid the risk of their lives; and would have continued in the same abject posture, had not the Caliph exclaimed in a furious tone — "Up, cowards! seize the miscreant! see that he be committed to prison, and guarded by the best of my soldiers! Let him, however, retain the money I gave him; it is not my intent to take from him his property; I only want him to speak." No sooner had he uttered these words, than the stranger was surrounded, pinioned and bound with strong fetters, and hurried away to the prison of the great tower; which was encompassed by seven empalements of iron bars, and armed with spikes in every direction, longer and sharper than spits. The Caliph, nevertheless, remained in the most violent agitation. He sat down indeed to eat; but, of the three hundred dishes that were daily placed before him, he could taste of no more than thirty-two. A diet to which he had been so little accustomed was sufficient of itself to prevent him from sleeping; what then must be its effect when joined to the anxiety that preyed upon his spirits? At the first glimpse of dawn he hastened to the prison, again to importune this intractable stranger; but the rage of Vathek exceeded all bounds on finding the prison empty, the grates burst asunder, and his guards lying lifeless around him. In the paroxism of his passion he fell furiously on the poor carcases, and kicked them till evening without intermission. His courtiers and vizirs exerted their efforts to soothe his extravagance; but, finding every expedient ineffectual, they all united in one vociferation — "The Caliph is gone mad! the Caliph is out of his senses!" * * *

Walter Savage Landor, from Gebir: A Poem in Seven Books Walter Savage Landor (1775–1864) was an exquisite classicist lyric poet, "master of the spare, elegant, and severely formal utterance of lyric feeling". He was also longwindedly unspare in his principal contribution to Romantic Orientalism, a seven-book epic in blank verse published anonymously in 1798 (the year of Wordsworth and Coleridge's Lyrical Ballads). The poem tells the story of Gebir, king of the Gades (in Cádiz, southwest Spain), who invades Egypt to establish a city of monuments, falls in love with the Egyptian queen, Charoba, but on their wedding day is killed by a poisoned robe prepared and administered by one of Charoba's attendants. The final book is given here in its entirety. Landor's main source for this poem was The History of Charoba, Queen of Ægypt, included in Clara Reeve's The Progress of Romance (1785), which his friend Rose Aylmer had borrowed from a circulating library. Comparison with the earlier text corresponding to the material of Landor's Seventh Book, which is also given in this Web site, shows drastic changes by Landor in the characters of both Gebir and Charoba, as well as in thematic focus and the manner in which the events are presented. The Seventh Book of Gebir Argument Against colonization in peopled countries. All nature dissuades from whatever is hostile to equality. The day, according to expectation, ofCharoba's marriage with Gebir. The games of the Tartessians, Gadites, Nebrissans, &c. Sensations of Gebir — of Charoba. Description of her bath. Preparations. Ardor of the people. She sets out. Gebir meets her. Observation by one of her handmaids. The procession. They mount their thrones. Dalica appears — throws perfumes over the head and feet of Gebir— draws over his shoulders the deadly garment. Charoba, who observes, but misinterprets, the change in his countenance, with an emotion of tenderness and fear, expects the declaration of his love. He descends from his throne. Astonishment of the Iberians. Horror of Charoba — her grief — her love — repeats his name — embraces him in the agonies of despair — calls earth and heaven to attest her innocence — laments most passionately that wretchedness like hers must seem infinitely too great for any thing but guilt — implores instant death — appeals to Dalica — acquitsher of any evil intentions — but accuses the demons of tainting the deadly robe — apostrophe to her parents, particularly to her mother — to Gebir. He recovers to perceive her sorrows, is consoled, and dies.

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What mortal first, by adverse fate assail'd, Trampled by tyranny, or scoft by scorn, Stung by remorse, or wrung by poverty, Bade, with fond sigh, his native land farewel? Wretched! but tenfold wretched, who resolv'd Against the waves to plunge th' expatriate keel, Deep with the richest harvest of his land! Driven with that weak blast which Winter leaves, Closing his palace-gates on Caucasus, Oft hath a berry risen forth a shade: From the same parent plant, another lies Deaf to the daily call of weary hind — Zephyrs pass by, and laugh at his distress. By every lake's and every river's side The Nymphs and Naiads teach Equality: In voices gently querulous they ask "Who would with aching head and toiling arms Bear the full pitcher to the stream far off? Who would, of power intent on high emprize, Deem less the praise to fill the vacant gulph Than raise Charybdis upon Etna's brow?" Amidst her darkest caverns most retired, Nature calls forth her filial Elements To close around and crush that monster Void. — Fire, springing fierce from his resplendent throne, And Water, dashing the devoted wretch

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Woundless and whole, with iron-colour'd mace, Or whirling headlong in his war-belt's fold. Mark well the lesson, man! and spare thy kind. Go, from their midnight darkness wake the woods, Woo the lone forest in her last retreat — Many still bend their beauteous heads unblest And sigh aloud for elemental man. Thro' palaces and porches, evil eyes Light upon ev'n the wretched, who have fled The house of bondage, or the house of birth: Suspicions, murmurs, treacheries, taunts, retorts, Attend the brighter banners that invade; And the first horn of hunter, pale with want, Sounds to the chase; the second to the war. The long awaited day at last arrived, When, linkt together by the seven-arm'd Nile, Egypt with proud Iberia should unite. Here the Tartessian, there the Gadite tents Rang with impatient pleasure: here engaged Woody Nebrissa's quiver-bearing crew, Contending warm with amicable skill: While they of Durius raced along the beach, And scatter'd mud and jeers on those behind. The strength of Botis, too, removed the helm, And stript the corslet off, and staunched the foot Against the mossy maple, while they tore Their quivering lances from the hissing wound. Others pushed forth the prows of their compeers; And the wave, parted by the pouncing beak, Swells up the sides, and closes far astern: The silent oars now dip their level wings, And weary with strong stroke the whitening wave. Others, afraid of tardiness, return. Now, entering the still harbour, every surge Runs with a louder murmur up their keel, And the slack cordage rattles round the mast. Sleepless, with pleasure and expiring fears, Had Gebir risen ere the break of dawn, And o'er the plains appointed for the feast Hurried with ardent step: the swains admired What could so transversely sweep off the dew, For never long one path had Gebir trod, Nor long, unheeding man, one pace preserved. Not thus Charoba. She despair'd the day. The day was present: true: yet she despair'd. In the too tender and once tortured heart Doubts gather strength from habit, like disease; Fears, like the needle verging to the pole, Tremble and tremble into certainty. How often, when her maids with merry voice Call'd her, and told the sleepless queen 'twas morn, How often would she feign some fresh delay, And tell them (tho' they saw) that she arose. Next to her chamber, closed by cedar doors, A bath, of purest marble, purest wave, On its fair surface bore its pavement high. Arabian gold inclosed the crystal roof, With fluttering boys adorn'd and girls unrobed, These, when you touch the quiet water, start From their aërial sunny arch, and pant Entangled midst each other's flowery wreaths,

And each pursuing is in turn pursued.

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Here came at last, as ever wont at morn, Charoba: long she linger'd at the brink, Often she sighed, and, naked as she was, Sat down, and leaning on the couch's edge, On the soft inward pillow of her arm Rested her burning cheek: she moved her eyes; She blush'd; and blushing plung'd into the wave. Now brazen chariots thunder thro' each street, And neighing steeds paw proudly from delay. While o'er the palace breathes the dulcimer, Lute, and aspiring harp, and lisping reed; Loud rush the trumpets, bursting thro' the throng, And urge the high-shoulder'd vulgar; now are heard Curses and quarrels and constricted blows, Threats and defiance and suburban war. Hark! the reiterated clangor sounds! Now murmurs, like the sea, or like the storm, Or like the flames on forests, move and mount From rank to rank, and loud and louder roll, Till all the people is one vast applause. Yes, 'tis herself — Charoba — now the strife! To see again a form so often seen. Feel they some partial pang, some secret void, Some doubt of feasting those fond eyes again? Panting imbibe they that refreshing sight To reproduce in hour of bitterness? She goes; the king awaits her from the camp. Him she descried; and trembled ere he reached Her car; but shudder'd paler at his voice. So the pale silver at the festive board Grows paler fill'd afresh and dew'd with wine; So seems the tenderest herbage of the spring To whiten, bending from a balmy gale. The beauteous queen alighting he received, And sighed to loose her from his arms; she hung A little longer on them thro' her fears, Her maidens followed her: and one that watch'd, One that had call'd her in the morn, observ'd How virgin passion with unfuel'd flame Burns into whiteness; while the blushing cheek Imagination heats and Shame imbues. Between both nations, drawn in ranks, they pass. The priests, with linen ephods, linen robes, Attend their steps, some follow, some precede, Where, cloath'd with purple intertwined with gold, Two lofty thrones commanded land and main. Behind and near them, numerous were the tents As freckled clouds o'erfloat our vernal skies, Numerous as wander in warm moonlight nights, Along Meander's or Cäyster's marsh, Swans, pliant-neckt, and village storks, revered. Throughout each nation moved the hum confused, Like that from myriad wings, o'er Scythian cups Of frothy milk, concreted soon with blood. Throughout the fields the savory smoke ascends, And boughs and branches shade the hides unbroached. Some roll the flowery turf to form a seat, And others press the helmet — now resounds

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The signal! — queen and monarch mount the thrones. The brazen clarion hoarsens: many leagues Above them, many to the south, the hern Rising with hurried croak and throat outstretched, Plows up the silvering surface of her plain. Tottering, with age's zeal, and mischief's haste, Now was discover'd Dalica: she reached The throne: she lean'd against the pedestal; And now ascending stood before the king. Prayers for his health and safety she prefer'd, And o'er his head and o'er his feet she threw Myrrh, nard, and cassia, from three golden urns. His robe of native woof she next removed, And round his shoulders drew the garb accurst, And bow'd her head, and parted: soon the queen Saw the blood mantle in his manly cheeks, And fear'd, and fault'ring sought her lost replies, And blest the silence that she wished were broke. Alas, unconscious maiden! night shall close, And love, and sovereignty, and life dissolve, And Egypt be one desart drench'd in blood. When thunder overhangs the fountain's head, Losing their wonted freshness, every stream Grows turbid, grows with sickly warmth suffused: Thus were the brave Iberians, when they saw The king of nations from his throne descend. Scarcely, with pace uneven, knees unnerved, Reach'd he the waters: in his troubled ear They sounded murmuring drearily; they rose Wild, in strange colours, to his parching eyes: They seem'd to rush around him, seem'd to lift From the receding earth his helpless feet. He fell — Charoba shriek'd aloud — she ran — Frantic with fears and fondness, wild with woe, Nothing but Gebir dying she beheld. The turban that detray'd its golden charge Within, the veil that down her shoulders hung, All fallen at her feet! the furthest wave Creeping with silent progress up the sand, Glided thro' all, and rais'd their hollow folds. In vain they bore him to the sea, in vain Rubb'd they his temples with the briny warmth. He struggled from them, strong with agony, He rose half up; he fell again; he cried "Charoba! O Charoba!" She embraced His neck, and raising on her knee one arm, Sighed when it moved not, when it fell she shrieked, And clapping loud both hands above her head, She call'd on Gebir, call'd on earth, on heaven. "Who will believe me; what shall I protest; How innocent, thus wretched? God of Gods, Strike me — who most offend thee most defy — Charoba most offends thee — strike me, hurl From this accursed land, this faithless throne. O Dalica! see here the royal feast! See here the gorgeous robe! you little thought How have the demons dyed that robe with death. Where are ye, dear fond parents! when ye heard My feet in childhood pat the palace floor,

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Ye started forth, and kist away surprize — Will ye now meet me! how, and where, and when? And must I fill your bosom with my tears, And, what I never have done, with your own! Why have the Gods thus punish'd me? what harm Have ever I done them? have I profaned Their temples, ask'd too little, or too much? Proud if they granted, griev'd if they withheld? O mother! stand between your child and them! Appease them, soothe them, soften their revenge, Melt them to pity with maternal tears. Alas, but if you cannot! — they themselves Will then want pity rather than your child. O Gebir! best of monarchs, best of men, What realm hath ever thy firm even hand Or lost by feebleness, or held by force! Behold, thy cares and perils how repaid! Behold the festive day, the nuptial hour! Me miserable, desolate, undone!" Thus raved Charoba: horror, grief, amaze, Pervaded all the host: all eyes were fixt: All stricken motionless and mute — the feast Was like the feast of Cepheus, when the sword Of Phineus, white with wonder, shook restrain'd, And the hilt rattled in his marble hand. She heard not, saw not; every sense was gone; One passion banish'd all; dominion, praise, The world itself was nothing — Senseless man — What would thy fancy figure now from worlds? There is no world to those that grieve and love. She hung upon his bosom, prest his lips, Breath'd, and would feign it his that she resorbed. She chafed the feathery softness of his veins, That swell'd out black, like tendrils round their vase After libation: lo! he moves! he groans! He seems to struggle from the grasp of death. Charoba shriek'd, and fell away; her hand Still clasping his, a sudden blush o'erspread Her pallid humid cheek, and disappear'd. 'Twas not the blush of shame — what shame has woe? — 'Twas not the genuine ray of hope; it flashed With shuddering glimmer thro' unscatter'd clouds; It flash'd from passions rapidly opposed. Never so eager, when the world was waves, Stood the less daughter of the ark, and tried (Innocent this temptation!) to recall With folded vest, and casting arm, the dove: Never so fearful, when amidst the vines Rattled the hail, and when the light of heaven Closed, since the wreck of Nature, first eclipsed — As she was eager for his life's return, As she was fearful how his groans might end. They ended: — cold and languid calm succeeds. His eyes have lost their lustre; but his voice Is not unheard, tho' short: he spake these words. "And weepest thou, Charoba! shedding tears More precious than the jewels that surround The neck of kings entomb'd! — then weep, fair queen, At once thy pity and my pangs assuage.

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Ah! what is grandeur — glory — they are past! When nothing else, nor life itself, remains, Still the fond mourner may be call'd our own. Should I complain of Fortune? how she errs, Scattering her bounty upon barren ground, Slow to allay the lingering thirst of Toil? Fortune, 'tis true, may err, may hesitate; Death follows close, nor hesitates nor errs. I feel the stroke! I die!" He would extend His dying arm; it fell upon his breast. Cold sweat and shivering ran o'er every limb, His eyes grew stiff; he struggled and expired. THE END

Robert Southey, from The Curse of Kehama Robert Southey (1774–1843) was one of the most prolific authors in all of British literature. His published prose and poetry would, if collected in a standard format, add up to more than fifty substantial volumes. Yet he figures only marginally in modern literary history — as the friend of Coleridge and Wordsworth, whose course of youthful radicalism supplanted by middle-aged conservatism he paralleled at every stage, and as the enemy of Byron, who made him the target of brilliant satire in English Bards and Scotch Reviewers (1809), Don Juan (1819–24), and The Vision of Judgment (1822), among others. He was poet laureate of England for the last three decades of his life (from 1813), and is currently being reevaluated as an epitomizing male professional writer of the age, useful in a way that the more distinguished, from Blake through Keats, are not, because they were so conspicuously exceptional in whatever we take them to represent. The Curse of Kehama (1810), close to 5,300 lines in twenty-four sections (the number is modeled on the twenty-four books of Homer'sIliad and Odyssey), is Southey's most impressive contribution to the genre of British Oriental epic. The first two sections (given here) present the funeral of Arvalan, son of the cruel Indian rajah Kehama, and the curse that Kehama pronounces on Ladurlad, the peasant who killed Arvalan to protect his daughter Kailyal from being raped. The remainder tells of Kehama's pursuit of Ladurlad and Kailyal until, in a last-minute reversal of fortunes, Kehama is doomed to eternal suffering in hell while Ladurlad and Kailyal are granted immortal lives in heaven. The work went through several editions. Shelley called it "my most favorite poem" in a letter of June 1811, and modeled Prometheus's powerful curse on it (Prometheus Unbound, Act 1, NAEL 8, 2.779–802) seven years later. Keats drew on it for several narrative details in Endymion. I. The Funeral 1

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Midnight, and yet no eye Through all the Imperial City closed in sleep! Behold her streets a-blaze With light that seems to kindle the red sky, Her myriads swarming through the crowded ways! Master and slave, old age and infancy, All, all abroad to gaze; House-top and balcony Clustered with women, who throw back their veils With unimpeded and insatiate sight To view the funeral pomp which passes by, As if the mournful rite Were but to them a scene of joyance and delight. 2

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Vainly, ye blessed twinklers of the night, Your feeble beams ye shed, Quench'd in the unnatural light which might out-stare Even the broad eye of day; And thou from thy celestial way Pourest, O Moon, an ineffectual ray! For lo! ten thousand torches flame and flare Upon the midnight air, Blotting the lights of heaven With one portentous glare. Behold the fragrant smoke in many a fold Ascending, floats along the fiery sky, And hangeth visible on high, A dark and waving canopy.

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Hark! 'tis the funeral trumpet's breath! 'Tis the dirge of death! At once ten thousand drums begin, With one long thunder-peal the ear assailing; Ten thousand voices then join in, And with one deep and general din Pour their wild wailing. The song of praise is drown'd Amid the deafening sound; You hear no more the trumpet's tone, You hear no more the mourner's moan, Though the trumpet's breath, and the dirge of death, Swell with commingled force the funeral yell. But rising over all in one acclaim Is heard the echoed and re-echoed name, From all that countless rout; "Arvalan! Arvalan! Arvalan! Arvalan!" Ten times ten thousand voices in one shout Call "Arvalan!" The overpowering sound, From house to house repeated rings about, From tower to tower rolls round. 4

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The death-procession moves along; Their bald heads shining to the torches' ray, The Bramins lead the way, Chaunting the funeral song. And now at once they shout, "Arvalan! Arvalan!" With quick rebound of sound, All in accordance cry, "Arvalan! Arvalan!" The universal multitude reply. In vain ye thunder on his ear the name; Would ye awake the dead? Borne upright in his palankeen, There Arvalan is seen! A glow is on his face, . . . a lively red; It is the crimson canopy Which o'er his cheek a reddening shade hath shed; He moves, . . . he nods his head, . . . But the motion comes from the bearers' tread, As the body, borne aloft in state, Sways with the impulse of its own dead weight. 5

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Close following his dead son, Kehama came, Nor joining in the ritual song, Nor calling the dear name; With head deprest and funeral vest, And arms enfolded on his breast, Silent and lost in thought he moves along. King of the World, his slaves, unenvying now, Behold their wretched Lord; rejoiced they see The mighty Rajah's misery; That Nature in his pride hath dealt the blow, And taught the Master of Mankind to know

Even he himself is man, and not exempt from woe. 6

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O sight of grief! the wives of Arvalan, Young Azla, young Nealliny, are seen! Their widow-robes of white, With gold and jewels bright, Each like an Eastern queen. Woe! woe! around their palankeen, As on a bridal day, With symphony, and dance, and song, Their kindred and their friends come on. The dance of sacrifice! the funeral song! And next the victim slaves in long array, Richly bedight to grace the fatal day, Move onward to their death; The clarions' stirring breath Lifts their thin robes in every flowing fold, And swells the woven gold, That on the agitated air Flutters and glitters to the torch's glare. 7 A man and maid of aspect wan and wild, Then, side by side, by bowmen guarded, came; O wretched father! O unhappy child! Them were all eyes of all the throng exploring . . . Is this the daring man Who raised his fatal hand at Arvalan? Is this the wretch condemn'd to feel Kehama's dreadful wrath? Then were all hearts of all the throng deploring; For not in that innumerable throng Was one who loved the dead; for who could know What aggravated wrong Provoked the desperate blow! 8

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Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight, In order'd files the torches flow along, One ever-lengthening line of gliding light: Far . . . far behind, Rolls on the undistinguishable clamour, Of horn, and trump, and tambour; Incessant as the roar Of streams which down the wintry mountain pour, And louder than the dread commotion Of breakers on a rocky shore, When the winds rage over the waves, And Ocean to the Tempest raves. 9

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And now toward the bank they go, Where winding on their way below, Deep and strong the waters flow. Here doth the funeral pile appear With myrrh and ambergris bestrew'd, And built of precious sandal wood. They cease their music and their outcry here,

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Gently they rest the bier; They wet the face of Arvalan, No sign of life the sprinkled drops excite; They feel his breast, . . . no motion there; They feel his lips, . . . no breath; For not with feeble, nor with erring hand, The brave avenger dealt the blow of death. Then with a doubling peal and deeper blast, The tambours and the trumpets sound on high, And with a last and loudest cry, They call on Arvalan. 10

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Woe! woe! for Azla takes her seat Upon the funeral pile! Calmly she took her seat, Calmly the whole terrific pomp survey'd; As on her lap the while The lifeless head of Arvalan was laid. 11

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Woe! woe! Nealliny, The young Nealliny! They strip her ornaments away, Bracelet and anklet, ring, and chain, and zone; Around her neck they leave The marriage knot alone, . . . That marriage band, which when Yon waning moon was young, Around her virgin neck With bridal joy was hung. Then with white flowers, the coronal of death, Her jetty locks they crown. 12

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O sight of misery! You cannot hear her cries, . . . their sound In that wild dissonance is drown'd; . . . But in her face you see The supplication and the agony, . . . See in her swelling throat the desperate strength That with vain effort struggles yet for life; Her arms contracted now in fruitless strife, Now wildly at full length Towards the crowd in vain for pity spread, . . . They force her on, they bind her to the dead. 13

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Then all around retire; Circling the pile, the ministering Bramins stand, Each lifting in his hand a torch on fire. Alone the Father of the dead advanced And lit the funeral pyre. 14 At once on every side The circling torches drop,

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At once on every side The fragrant oil is pour'd, At once on every side The rapid flames rush up. Then hand in hand the victim band Roll in the dance around the funeral pyre; Their garments' flying folds Float inward to the fire; In drunken whirl they wheel around; One drops, . . . another plunges in; And still with overwhelming din The tambours and the trumpets sound; And clap of hand, and shouts, and cries, From all the multitude arise; While round and round, in giddy wheel, Intoxicate they roll and reel, Till one by one whirl'd in they fall, And the devouring flames have swallow'd all. 15

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Then all was still; the drums and clarions ceased; The multitude were hush'd in silent awe; Only the roaring of the flames was heard.

II. The Curse 1

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Alone towards the Table of the Dead Kehama moved; there on the alter-stone Honey and rice he spread. There with collected voice and painful tone He call'd upon his son. Lo! Arvalan appears; Only Kehama's powerful eye beheld The thin ethereal spirit hovering nigh; Only the Rajah's ear Received his feeble breath. "And is this all?" the mournful Spirit said, "This all that thou canst give me after death? This unavailing pomp, These empty pageantries that mock the dead!" 2

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In bitterness the Rajah heard, And groan'd, and smote his breast,and o'er his face Cowl'd the white mourning vest. 3

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ARVALAN "Art thou not powerful, . . . even like a God? And must I, through my years of wandering, Shivering and naked to the elements, In wretchedness await The hour of Yamen's wrath? I thought thou wouldst embody me anew, Undying as I am, . . . Yea, re-create me! . . . Father, is this all?

This all? and thou Almighty!" 4

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But in that wrongful and upbraiding tone, Kehama found relief, For rising anger half supprest his grief. "Reproach not me!" he cried, "Had I not spell-secured thee from disease, Fire, sword, . . . all common accidents of man, . . . And thou! . . . fool, fool . . . to perish by a stake! And by a peasant's arm! . . . Even now, when from reluctant Heaven, Forcing new gifts and mightier attributes, So soon I should have quell'd the Death-God's power." 5

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"Waste not thy wrath on me," quoth Arvalan, "It was my hour of folly! Fate prevail'd, Nor boots it to reproach me that I fell. I am in misery, Father! Other souls Predoom'd to Indra's Heaven, enjoy the dawn Of bliss, . . . to them the temper'd elements Minister joy: genial delight the sun Sheds on their happy being, and the stars Effuse on them benignant influences; And thus o'er earth and air they roam at will, And when the number of their days is full, Go fearlessly before the aweful throne. But I, . . . all naked feeling and raw life, . . . What worse than this hath Yamen's hell in store? If ever thou didst love me, mercy, Father! Save me, for thou canst save . . . the Elements Know and obey thy voice." 6

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KEHAMA "The Elements Shall sin no more against thee; whilst I speak Already dost thou feel their power is gone. Fear not! I cannot call again the past, Fate hath made that its own; but Fate shall yield To me the future; and thy doom be fix'd By mine, not Yamen's will. Meantime all power Whereof thy feeble spirit can be made Participant, I give. Is there aught else To mitigate thy lot?" ARVALAN "Only the sight of vengeance. Give me that! Vengeance, full, worthy, vengeance! . . . not the stroke Of sudden punishment, . . . no agony That spends itself and leaves the wretch at rest, But lasting long revenge." KEHAMA "What, boy? is that cup sweet? then take thy fill!"

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So as he spake, a glow of dreadful pride Inflamed his cheek, with quick and angry stride He moved toward the pile, And raised his hand to hush the crowd, and cried, "Bring forth the murderer!" At the Rajah's voice Calmly, and like a man whom fear had stunn'd, Ladurlad came, obedient to the call; But Kailyal started at the sound, And gave a womanly shriek, and back she drew, And eagerly she roll'd her eyes around, As if to seek for aid, albeit she knew No aid could there be found. 8

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It chanced that near her on the river brink, The sculptured form of Marriataly stood; It was an Idol roughly hewn of wood, Artless, and mean, and rude; The Goddess of the poor was she; None else regarded her with piety. But when that holy Image Kailyal view'd, To that she sprung, to that she clung, On her own Goddess, with close-clasping arms, For life the maiden hung. 9

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They seized the maid; with unrelenting grasp They bruised her tender limbs; She, nothing yielding, to this only hope Clings with the strength of frenzy and despair. She screams not now, she breathes not now, She sends not up one vow, She forms not in her soul one secret prayer, All thought, all feeling, and all powers of life In the one effort centering. Wrathful they With tug and strain would force the maid away; . . . Didst thou, O Marriataly, see their strife, In pity didst thou see the suffering maid? Or was thine anger kindled, that rude hands Assail'd thy holy Image? . . . for behold The holy image shakes! 10

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Irreverently bold, they deem the maid Relax'd her stubborn hold, And now with force redoubled drag their prey; And now the rooted Idol to their sway Bends, . . . yields, . . . and now it falls. But then they scream, For lo! they feel the crumbling bank give way, And all are plunged into the stream. 11

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"She hath escaped my will," Kehama cried, "She hath escaped, . . . but thou art here, I have thee still, The worser criminal!" And on Ladurlad, while he spake, severe

He fix'd his dreadful frown. The strong reflection of the pile Lit his dark lineaments, Lit the protruded brow, the gathered front, The steady eye of wrath.

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But while the fearful silence yet endured, Ladurlad roused himself; Ere yet the voice of destiny Which trembled on the Rajah's lips was loosed, Eager he interposed, As if despair had waken'd him to hope; "Mercy! oh mercy! only in defence . . . Only instinctively, . . . Only to save my child, I smote the Prince; King of the world, be merciful! Crush me, . . . but torture not!" 13

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The Man-Almighty deign'd him no reply, Still he stood silent; in no human mood Of mercy, in no hesitating thought Of right and justice. At the length he raised His brow yet unrelax'd, . . . his lips unclosed, And uttered from the heart, With the whole feeling of his soul enforced, The gathered vengeance came. 14

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"I charm thy life From the weapons of strife, From stone and from wood, From fire and from flood, From the serpent's tooth, And the beasts of blood: From Sickness I charm thee, And Time shall not harm thee; But Earth which is mine, Its fruits shall deny thee; And Water shall hear me, And know thee and fly thee; And the Winds shall not touch thee When they pass by thee, And the Dews shall not wet thee, When they fall nigh thee: And thou shalt seek Death To release thee, in vain; Thou shalt live in thy pain While Kehama shall reign, With a fire in thy heart, And a fire in thy brain; And Sleep shall obey me, And visit thee never, And the Curse shall be on thee For ever and ever."

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There where the Curse had stricken him, There stood the miserable man, There stood Ladurlad, with loose-hanging arms; And eyes of idiot wandering. Was it a dream? alas, He heard the river flow, He heard the crumbling of the pile, He heard the wind which shower'd The thin white ashes round. There motionless he stood, As if he hoped it were a dream, And feared to move, lest he should prove The actual misery; And still at times he met Kehama's eye, Kehama's eye that fastened on him still. ***

Lord Byron, from The Giaour: A Fragment of a Turkish Tale Lord Byron (1788–1824; see the author introduction in NAEL 8, 2.607–11), the most "major" of the writers gathered here for the topic of Romantic Orientalism, began writing Oriental tales in verse in the wake of the phenomenal success of the first two cantos of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, published in March 1812 (these were the occasion of the poet's awakening to find himself internationally famous overnight). The earliest versions of The Giaour were drafted between September 1812 and March 1813, and a version of close to seven hundred lines was published in June of that year. Six or seven more editions appeared before the year was out, each one longer than the preceding, until the poem had grown to 1334 lines. It had gone through fourteen editions by 1815, when it was incorporated into the first collected edition of Byron's poems. It was the smash hit of the publishing season. Lord Byron in Albanian Costume, Thomas Phillips, 1813. "Stick to the East," Byron urged his friend Tom Moore in a letter of late August 1813, adding that "the public are orientalizing." Following his own advice, he dashed off and published three more "Turkish tales" before the next year was out — The Bride of Abydos (published in December 1813 and reissued in ten further editions of 1814 and 1815), The Corsair (published in February 1814 — selling ten thousand copies on the first day — and reissued in eight or more editions through 1815), and Lara (published in August 1814, with five or six subsequent editions in the next couple of years). Never before had "colonial anxiety and imperial guilt" done so well at the box office. Byron himself was the best early commentator on his success with a popular audience, in these lines from a wry digression in Beppo (1818): Oh! that I had the art of easy writing What should be easy reading! . . . How quickly would I print (the world delighting) A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale; And sell you, mixed with western Sentimentalism, Some samples of the finest Orientalism. The Giaour is formally more complicated than any of these other narratives, a purposely fragmentary work with three narrators (and three points of view) of the disjointed events. The main story, in the Oxford Companion to English Literature's concise description, "is of a female slave, Leila, who loves the Giaour . . . and is in consequence bound and thrown in a sack into the sea by her Turkish lord, Hassan. The Giaour avenges her by killing Hassan, then in grief and remorse banishes himself to a monastery." The word "giaour" means foreigner or infidel, and in this Moslem context Byron's hero is a Christian outsider, in a situation enabling contrasts of ideas about love, sex, death, and the hereafter. The extract below, the Giaour's deathbed confession to the abbot of the monastery, makes an interesting comparison with Manfred's dying speech to an abbot in a much more dramatic display of Byronism four years later (NAEL 8, 2.666–69). The Combat of the Giaour and Hassan, Eugene Delacroix, 1835.

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"Father! thy days have passed in peace, 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer; To bid the sins of others cease, Thyself without a crime or care, Save transient ills that all must bear, Has been thy lot from youth to age; And thou wilt bless thee from the rage Of passions fierce and uncontrolled, Such as thy penitents unfold, Whose secret sins and sorrows rest Within thy pure and pitying breast. My days, though few, have passed below In much of Joy, but more of Woe; Yet still in hours of love or strife,

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I've 'scaped the weariness of Life: Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, I loathed the languor of repose. Now nothing left to love or hate, No more with hope or pride elate, I'd rather be the thing that crawls Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, Than pass my dull, unvarying days, Condemned to meditate and gaze. Yet, lurks a wish within my breast For rest — but not to feel 'tis rest. Soon shall my Fate that wish fulfil; And I shall sleep without the dream Of what I was, and would be still, Dark as to thee my deeds may seem: My memory now is but the tomb Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom: Though better to have died with those Than bear a life of lingering woes. My spirit shrunk not to sustain The searching throes of ceaseless pain; Nor sought the self-accorded grave Of ancient fool and modern knave: Yet death I have not feared to meet; And in the field it had been sweet, Had Danger wooed me on to move The slave of Glory, not of Love. I've braved it — not for Honour's boast; I smile at laurels won or lost; To such let others carve their way, For high renown, or hireling pay: But place again before my eyes Aught that I deem a worthy prize — The maid I love, the man I hate — And I will hunt the steps of fate, To save or slay, as these require, Through rending steel, and rolling fire: Nor needst thou doubt this speech from one Who would but do — what he hath done. Death is but what the haughty brave, The weak must bear, the wretch must crave; Then let life go to Him who gave: I have not quailed to Danger's brow When high and happy — need I now? *****

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"I loved her, Friar! nay, adored — But these are words that all can use — I proved it more in deed than word; There's blood upon that dinted sword, A stain its steel can never lose: 'Twas shed for her, who died for me, It warmed the heart of one abhorred: Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, Nor midst my sins such act record; Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, For he was hostile to thy creed! The very name of Nazarene Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. Ungrateful fool! since but for brands Well wielded in some hardy hands,

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And wounds by Galileans given — The surest pass to Turkish heaven — For him his Houris still might wait Impatient at the Prophet's gate. I loved her — Love will find its way Through paths where wolves would fear to prey; And if it dares enough, 'twere hard If Passion met not some reward — No matter how, or where, or why, I did not vainly seek, nor sigh: Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain I wish she had not loved again. She died — I dare not tell thee how; But look — 'tis written on my brow! There read of Cain the curse and crime, In characters unworn by Time: Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause; Not mine the act, though I the cause. Yet did he but what I had done Had she been false to more than one. Faithless to him — he gave the blow; But true to me — I laid him low: Howe'er deserved her doom might be Her treachery was truth to me; To me she gave her heart, that all Which Tyranny can ne'er enthrall; And I, alas! too late to save! Yet all I then could give, I gave — 'Twas some relief — our foe a grave. His death sits lightly; but her fate Has made me — what thou well mayst hate. His doom was sealed — he knew it well, Warned by the voice of stern Taheer, Deep in whose darkly boding ear The deathshot pealed of murder near, As filed the troop to where they fell! He died too in the battle broil, A time that heeds nor pain nor toil; One cry to Mahomet for aid, One prayer to Alla all he made: He knew and crossed me in the fray — I gazed upon him where he lay, And watched his spirit ebb away: Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel, He felt not half that now I feel. I searched, but vainly searched, to find The workings of a wounded mind; Each feature of that sullen corse Betrayed his rage, but no remorse. Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace Despair upon his dying face! The late repentance of that hour When Penitence hath lost her power To tear one terror from the grave, And will not soothe, and cannot save. *****

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"The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name; But mine was like the lava flood That boils in Ætna's breast of flame.

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I cannot prate in puling strain Of Ladye-love, and Beauty's chain: If changing cheek, and scorching vein, Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, If bursting heart, and maddening brain, And daring deed, and vengeful steel, And all that I have felt, and feel, Betoken love — that love was mine, And shewn by many a bitter sign. 'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, I knew but to obtain or die. I die — but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed. Shall I the doom I sought upbraid? No — reft of all, yet undismayed But for the thought of Leila slain, Give me the pleasure with the pain, So would I live and love again. I grieve, but not, my holy Guide! For him who dies, but her who died: She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — Ah! had she but an earthly grave, This breaking heart and throbbing head Should seek and share her narrow bed. She was a form of Life and Light, That, seen, became a part of sight; And rose, where'er I turned mine eye, The Morning-star of Memory! "Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fire With angels shared, by Alla given, To lift from earth our low desire. Devotion wafts the mind above, But Heaven itself descends in Love; A feeling from the Godhead caught, To wean from self each sordid thought; A ray of Him who formed the whole; A Glory circling round the soul! I grant my love imperfect, all That mortals by the name miscall; Then deem it evil, what thou wilt; But say, oh say, hers was not Guilt! She was my Life's unerring Light: That quenched — what beam shall break my night? Oh! would it shone to lead me still, Although to death or deadliest ill! Why marvel ye, if they who lose This present joy, this future hope, No more with Sorrow meekly cope; In phrensy then their fate accuse; In madness do those fearful deeds That seem to add but Guilt to Woe? Alas! the breast that inly bleeds Hath nought to dread from outward blow: Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss. Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now To thee, old man, my deeds appear: I read abhorrence on thy brow, And this too was I born to bear! 'Tis true, that, like that bird of prey,

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With havock have I marked my way: But this was taught me by the dove, To die — and know no second love. This lesson yet hath man to learn, Taught by the thing he dares to spurn: The bird that sings within the brake, The swan that swims upon the lake, One mate, and one alone, will take. And let the fool still prone to range, And sneer on all who cannot change, Partake his jest with boasting boys; I envy not his varied joys, But deem such feeble, heartless man, Less than yon solitary swan; Far, far beneath the shallow maid He left believing and betrayed. Such shame at least was never mine — Leila! each thought was only thine! My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, My hope on high — my all below. Earth holds no other like to thee, Or, if it doth, in vain for me: For worlds I dare not view the dame Resembling thee, yet not the same. The very crimes that mar my youth, This bed of death — attest my truth! 'Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art The cherished madness of my heart! "And she was lost — and yet I breathed, But not the breath of human life: A serpent round my heart was wreathed, And stung my every thought to strife. Alike all time, abhorred all place, Shuddering I shrank from Nature's face, Where every hue that charmed before The blackness of my bosom wore. The rest thou dost already know, And all my sins, and half my woe. But talk no more of penitence; Thou seest I soon shall part from hence: And if thy holy tale were true, The deed that's done canst thou undo? Think me not thankless — but this grief Looks not to priesthood for relief. My soul's estate in secret guess: But wouldst thou pity more, say less. When thou canst bid my Leila live, Then will I sue thee to forgive; Then plead my cause in that high place Where purchased masses proffer grace. Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung From forest-cave her shrieking young, And calm the lonely lioness: But soothe not — mock not my distress! "In earlier days, and calmer hours, When heart with heart delights to blend, Where bloom my native valley's bowers, I had — Ah! have I now? — a friend! To him this pledge I charge thee send, Memorial of a youthful vow;

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I would remind him of my end: Though souls absorbed like mine allow Brief thought to distant Friendship's claim, Yet dear to him my blighted name. 'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, And I have smiled — I then could smile — When Prudence would his voice assume, And warn — I recked not what — the while: But now Remembrance whispers o'er Those accents scarcely marked before. Say — that his bodings came to pass, And he will start to hear their truth, And wish his words had not been sooth: Tell him — unheeding as I was, Through many a busy bitter scene Of all our golden youth had been, In pain, my faltering tongue had tried To bless his memory — ere I died; But Heaven in wrath would turn away, If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. I do not ask him not to blame, Too gentle he to wound my name; And what have I to do with Fame? I do not ask him not to mourn, Such cold request might sound like scorn; And what than Friendship's manly tear May better grace a brother's bier? But bear this ring, his own of old, And tell him — what thou dost behold! The withered frame, the ruined mind, The wrack by passion left behind, A shrivelled scroll, a scattered leaf, Seared by the autumn blast of Grief! *****

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"Tell me no more of Fancy's gleam, No, father, no, 'twas not a dream; Alas! the dreamer first must sleep, I only watched, and wished to weep; But could not, for my burning brow Throbbed to the very brain as now: I wished but for a single tear, As something welcome, new, and dear: I wished it then, I wish it still; Despair is stronger than my will. Waste not thine orison, despair Is mightier than thy pious prayer: I would not, if I might, be blest; I want no Paradise, but rest. 'Twas then — I tell thee — father! then I saw her; yes, she lived again; And shining in her white symar As through yon pale gray cloud the star Which now I gaze on, as on her, Who looked and looks far lovelier; Dimly I view its trembling spark; To-morrow's night shall be more dark; And I, before its rays appear, That lifeless thing the living fear. I wander — father! for my soul Is fleeting towards the final goal.

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I saw her — friar! and I rose Forgetful of our former woes; And rushing from my couch, I dart, And clasp her to my desperate heart; I clasp — what is it that I clasp? No breathing form within my grasp, No heart that beats reply to mine — Yet, Leila! yet the form is thine! And art thou, dearest, changed so much As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold, I care not — so my arms enfold The all they ever wished to hold. Alas! around a shadow prest They shrink upon my lonely breast; Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands, And beckons with beseeching hands! With braided hair, and bright-black eye — I knew 'twas false — she could not die! But he is dead! within the dell I saw him buried where he fell; He comes not — for he cannot break From earth; — why then art thou awake? They told me wild waves rolled above The face I view — the form I love; They told me — 'twas a hideous tale! — I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail: If true, and from thine ocean-cave Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave, Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er This brow that then will burn no more; Or place them on my hopeless heart: But, Shape or Shade! whate'er thou art, In mercy ne'er again depart! Or farther with thee bear my soul Than winds can waft or waters roll! *****

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"Such is my name, and such my tale. Confessor! to thy secret ear I breathe the sorrows I bewail, And thank thee for the generous tear This glazing eye could never shed. Then lay me with the humblest dead, And save the cross above my head, Be neither name nor emblem spread, By prying stranger to be read, Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." He passed — nor of his name and race Hath left a token or a trace, Save what the Father must not say Who shrived him on his dying day: This broken tale was all we knew Of her he loved, or him he slew.

Thomas Moore, from Lalla Rookh: An Oriental Romance Thomas Moore (1779–1852) has a permanent place in literary history as the friend and biographer of Byron and as the preeminent "Irish melodist" (after his Irish Melodies, which went through scores of editions beginning in 1807). He was a best-selling author for most of his career, rivaling and sometimes outdistancing Byron in this respect. His major venture in Romantic Orientalism, Lalla Rookh (1817), earned him £3,000 from Longman even before it was well under way, at that time the largest sum ever offered for a single poem. It was a sound investment for the publisher, going through more than twenty editions during the author's lifetime. The work consists of four highly imaginative tales told by a young Cashmerian poet named Feramorz, employed to entertain the Indian princess Lalla Rookh on her travels from Delhi to Cashmere to be married to the king of Bucharia (Bukhara, in what is now Uzbekistan). The tales are high melodrama, with roles that could have been played by Rudolph Valentino and Agnes Ayres in early motion pictures like The Sheik. The frame of these stories, by contrast, becomes increasingly interesting as the emissary Fadladeen, one of Lalla Rookh's entourage on the journey, assumes the role of ill-tempered critic of Feramorz's tales in the manner of the Tory critics of Blackwood's and the Edinburgh Review (this was the year before they lambasted young Keats for the faults of Endymion) and as Lalla Rookh falls in love with the poet Feramorz, who at the end turns out to be the very king of Bucharia to whom she is betrothed. The extract given here, three hundred lines from near the beginning of the third tale, "The Fire-Worshippers," establishes the principal characters of a kind of Romeo-and-Juliet plot of young (and ultimately tragic) love in a context of warring families and cultures. Hafed, the leader of the Persian Ghebers, falls in love with Hinda, daughter of his enemy, the Moslem emir al Hassan. "The overtones are unmistakably those of Irish rebellion, particularly the Robert Emmet episode," writes Howard Mumford Jones, in a still-useful biography of Moore published more than six decades ago (The Harp That Once — A Chronicle of the Life of Thomas Moore, 1937). "Moore hymns the doomed patriots and goes out of his way to excoriate the wretch who betrayed their cause. . . . [T]he suggestion that Hafed is a Persian Robert Emmet, Hinda the unfortunate Sarah Curran, and the traitor a composite portrait of government spies, is irresistible." The Fire-Worshippers ***

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Such is the maid who, at this hour, Hath risen from her restless sleep, And sits alone in that high bower, Watching the still and shining deep. Ah! 'twas not thus, — with tearful eyes And beating heart, — she used to gaze On the magnificent earth and skies, In her own land, in happier days. Why looks she now so anxious down Among those rocks, whose rugged frown Blackens the mirror of the deep? Whom waits she all this lonely night? Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep, For man to scale that turret's height! — So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire, When high, to catch the cool night-air, After the day-beam's withering fire, He built her bower of freshness there, And had it deck'd with costliest skill, And fondly thought it safe as fair: — Think, reverend dreamer! think so still, Nor wake to learn what Love can dare; — Love, all-defying Love, who sees No charm in trophies won with ease; Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss Are pluck'd on Danger's precipice!

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Bolder than they who dare not dive For pearls, but when the sea's at rest, Love, in the tempest most alive, Hath ever held that pearl the best He finds beneath the stormiest water. Yes — ARABY'S unrivall'd daughter, Though high that tower, that rock-way rude, There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek, Would climb the untrodden solitude Of ARARAT'S tremendous peak, And think its steeps, though dark and dread, Heaven's pathways, if to thee they led! Even now thou seest the flashing spray, That lights his oar's impatient way; — Even now thou hear'st the sudden shock Of his swift bark against the rock, And stretchest down thy arms of snow, As if to lift him from below! Like her, to whom at dead of night, The bridegroom, with his locks of light, Came, in the flush of love and pride, And scal'd the terrace of his bride; — When, as she saw him rashly spring, And midway up in danger cling, She flung him down her long black hair, Exclaiming, breathless, "There, love, there!" And scarce did manlier nerve uphold The hero ZAL in that fond hour, Than wings the youth who, fleet and bold, Now climbs the rocks to HINDA'S bower. See — light as up their granite steeps The rock-goats of ARABIA clamber, Fearless from crag to crag he leaps, And now is in the maiden's chamber. She loves — but knows not whom she loves, Nor what his race, nor whence he came; — Like one who meets, in Indian groves, Some beauteous bird without a name, Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, From isles in the undiscover'd seas, To show his plumage for a day To wondering eyes, and wing away! Will he thus fly — her nameless lover? ALLA forbid! 'twas by a moon As fair as this, while singing over Some ditty to her soft Kanoon, Alone, at this same witching hour, She first beheld his radiant eyes Gleam through the lattice of the bower, Where nightly now they mix their sighs; And thought some spirit of the air (For what could waft a mortal there?) Was pausing on his moonlit way To listen to her lonely lay! This fancy ne'er hath left her mind: And though, when terror's swoon had past, She saw a youth, of mortal kind, Before her in obeisance cast, Yet often since, when he hath spoken Strange, awful words, — and gleams have broken From his dark eyes, too bright to bear, —

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Oh! she hath fear'd her soul was given To some unhallow'd child of air, Some erring Spirit cast from heaven, Like those angelic youths of old, Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould, Bewilder'd left the glorious skies, And lost their heaven for woman's eyes. Fond girl! nor fiend nor angel he Who woos thy young simplicity; But one of earth's impassion'd sons, As warm in love, as fierce in ire, As the best heart whose current runs Full of the Day-God's living fire. But quench'd to-night that ardor seems, And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow; — Never before, but in her dreams, Had she beheld him pale as now: And those were dreams of troubled sleep, From which 'twas joy to wake and weep; Visions, that will not be forgot, But sadden every waking scene, Like warning ghosts, that leave the spot All wither'd where they once have been. "How sweetly," said the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood, Looking upon that tranquil flood — "How sweetly does the moonbeam smile To-night upon yon leafy isle! Oft, in my fancy's wanderings, I've wish'd that little isle had wings, And we, within its fairy bowers, Were wafted off to seas unknown Where not a pulse should beat but ours, And we might live, love, die alone! Far from the cruel and the cold, — Where the bright eyes of angels only Should come around us, to behold A paradise so pure and lonely. Would this be world enough for thee?" — Playful she turn'd, that he might see The passing smile her cheek put on; But when she mark'd how mournfully His eyes met hers, that smile was gone; And, bursting into heartfelt tears, "Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears, My dreams have boded all too right — We part — forever part — to-night! I knew, I knew it could not last — 'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past! Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never lov'd a tree or flower, But 'twas the first to fade away. I never nurs'd a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die! Now too — the joy most like divine Of all I ever dreamt or knew, To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine, —

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Oh misery! must I lose that too? Yet go — on peril's brink we meet; — Those frightful rocks — that treacherous sea — No, never come again — though sweet, Though heaven, it may be death to thee. Farewell — and blessings on thy way, Where'er thou goest, beloved stranger! Better to sit and watch that ray, And think thee safe, though far away, Than have thee near me, and in danger!"

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"Danger! — oh, tempt me not to boast — " The youth exclaim'd — "thou little know'st What he can brave, who, born and nurst In Danger's paths, has dar'd her worst; Upon whose ear the signal word Of strife and death is hourly breaking; Who sleeps with head upon the sword His fever'd hand must grasp in waking. Danger! — " "Say on — thou fear'st not then, And we may meet — oft meet again?"

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"Oh! look not so — beneath the skies I now fear nothing but those eyes. If aught on earth could charm or force My spirit from its destin'd course, — If aught could make this soul forget The bond to which its seal is set, 'Twould be those eyes; — they, only they, Could melt that sacred seal away! But no — 'tis fix'd — my awful doom Is fix'd — on this side of the tomb We meet no more; — why, why did Heaven Mingle two souls that earth has riven, Has rent asunder wide as ours? O Arab maid, as soon the Powers Of Light and Darkness may combine, As I be link'd with thee or thine! Thy Father — — " "Holy ALLA save His gray head from that lightning glance! Thou know'st him not — he loves the brave; Nor lives there under heaven's expanse One who would prize, would worship thee And thy bold spirit, more than he. Oft when, in childhood, I have play'd With the bright falchion by his side, I've heard him swear his lisping maid In time should be a warrior's bride. And still, whene'er at Haram hours I take him cool sherbets and flowers, He tells me, when in playful mood, A hero shall my bridegroom be, Since maids are best in battle woo'd, And won with shouts of victory! Nay, turn not from me — thou alone Art form'd to make both hearts thy own. Go — join his sacred ranks — thou know'st The unholy strife these Persians wage: Good Heaven, that frown! — even now thou glow'st With more than mortal warrior's rage,

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Haste to the camp by morning's light, And when that sword is rais'd in fight, Oh still remember, Love and I Beneath its shadow trembling lie! One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire, Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire Abhors — — " "Hold, hold — thy words are death — " The stranger cried, as wild he flung His mantle back, and show'd beneath The Gheber belt that round him clung — "Here, maiden, look — weep — blush to see All that thy sire abhors in me! Yes — I am of that impious race, Those Slaves of Fire, who, morn and even, Hail their Creator's dwelling-place Among the living lights of heaven; Yes — I am of that outcast few, To IRAN and to vengeance true, Who curse the hour your Arabs came To desolate our shrines of flame, And swear, before God's burning eye, To break our country's chains, or die! Thy bigot sire, — nay, tremble not, — He, who gave birth to those dear eyes, With me is sacred as the spot From which our fires of worship rise! But know — 'twas he I sought that night, When, from my watch-boat on the sea, I caught this turret's glimmering light, And up the rude rocks desperately Rush'd to my prey — thou know'st the rest — I climb'd the gory vulture's nest, And found a trembling dove within; — Thine, thine the victory — thine the sin — If Love hath made one thought his own, That Vengeance claims first — last — alone! Oh! had we never, never met, Or could this heart e'en now forget How link'd, how bless'd we might have been, Had fate not frown'd so dark between! Hadst thou been born a Persian maid, In neighboring valleys had we dwelt, Through the same fields in childhood play'd, At the same kindling altar knelt, — Then, then, while all those nameless ties, In which the charm of Country lies, Had round our hearts been hourly spun, Till IRAN'S cause and thine were one; While in thy lute's awakening sigh I heard the voice of days gone by, And saw, in every smile of thine, Returning hours of glory shine; — While the wrong'd Spirit of our Land Liv'd, look'd, and spoke her wrongs through thee, — God! who could then this sword withstand? Its very flash were victory! But now — estrang'd, divorc'd forever, Far as the grasp of Fate can sever; Our only ties what love has wove, — In faith, friends, country, sunder'd wide; And then, then only, true to love,

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When false to all that's dear beside! Thy father, IRAN'S deadliest foe — Thyself perhaps, even now — but no — Hate never look'd so lovely yet! No — sacred to thy soul will be The land of him who could forget All but that bleeding land for thee. When other eyes shall see, unmov'd, Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, Thou'lt think how well one Gheber lov'd, And for his sake thou'lt weep for all! But look —" With sudden start he turn'd And pointed to the distant wave, Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave; And fiery darts, at intervals, Flew up all sparkling from the main, As if each star that nightly falls Were shooting back to heaven again. "My signal lights! — I must away — Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay. Farewell — sweet life! thou cling'st in vain — Now, Vengeance, I am thine again!" Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd, Nor look'd — but from the lattice dropp'd Down 'mid the pointed crags beneath, As if he fled from love to death. While pale and mute young HINDA stood; Nor mov'd, till in the silent flood A momentary plunge below Startled her from her trance of woe; — Shrieking she to the lattice flew, "I come — I come — if in that tide Thou sleep'st to-night, I'll sleep there too, In death's cold wedlock, by thy side. Oh! I would ask no happier bed Than the chill wave my love lies under: — Sweeter to rest together dead, Far sweeter, than to live asunder!" But no — their hour is not yet come — Again she sees his pinnace fly, Wafting him fleetly to his home, Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie; And calm and smooth it seem'd to win Its moonlit way before the wind, As if it bore all peace within, Nor left one breaking heart behind! ***

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Literary analysis today favors a multiplicity of interpretations — more and more "new" readings of wellknown poems like Blake's Book of Thel, Wordsworth's Intimations Ode, Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner"and "Kubla Khan," Percy Shelley's Alastor, and Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn." As they bring new biographical, historical, and literary materials into relation with these texts, critics are coming to accept that there are many meanings in these works, even when some of the interpretations directly oppose some of the others. Romantic Orientalism represents one important body of new literary materials. Choose one or more works from the master list below and consider how knowledge of the Oriental elements in them enriches the reading experience. A more specific topic is the political interest of Romantic Orientalism, as described in the last three paragraphs of the Overview, in "questions of national identity, cultural difference, the morality of imperialist dominion, and consequent anxiety and guilt concerning such issues." Again, choose one or more works from the master list and read them with attention to these sociopolitical elements. One way Romantic Orientalist texts are thought to justify British imperialistic domination of non-Western countries is by describing these countries as "backward" or tyrannical in their political and social organization. Consider whether this strategy is at work in the texts selected for this Web site and, if so, how. In what respects might the civilizations featured in these Orientalist texts be seen as superior to the British? The selections in the Romantic Orientalism Web site tend not to be ambiguous, open-ended, capable of endless interpretation. Almost all of them are relatively simple moral tales, in which, for example, bad characters and actions are clearly bad, whether or not they are punished in the end. In contrast, canonical Romantic poems and fictions are typically thought of as being ambiguous and inconclusive, and thus capable of creating complicated responses in reading. Choose one or more works from the master list and consider how their connections with the relatively simple, straightforward Oriental genre change their interpretive possibilities. The following list of the principal Romantic works showing elements of Romantic Orientalism includes all the titles mentioned in the Overview for this Web site and in the headnotes to the individual selections, plus a handful of others.

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BLAKE — The Little Black Boy (NAEL 8, 2.84), The Tyger (NAEL 8, 2.92), The Book of Thel (NAEL 8, 2.98)

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WORDSWORTH — The Prelude (specifically the dream of the Arab in book 5, lines 71–141 — NAEL 8, 2.358–59)

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COLERIDGE — The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (NAEL 8, 2.430),Kubla Khan (NAEL 8, 2.446)

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PERCY SHELLEY — Queen Mab, Alastor (NAEL 8, 2.745), Mont Blanc(NAEL 8, 2.762), Hymn to Intellectual Beauty (NAEL 8, 2.766),Ozymandias (NAEL 8, 2.768), The Indian Girl's Song, Prometheus Unbound (NAEL 8, 2.775)

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KEATS — Endymion (in part a remaking of P. B. Shelley's Alastor —Greek myth in an Asia Minor setting, with the hero falling in love with an Indian maiden), Isabella (specifically stanza 15 describing the brothers' far-flung business interests), The Eve of St. Agnes(specifically the feast that Porphyro sets out in stanza 30 — NAEL 8, 2.895), Lamia (NAEL 8, 2.909)

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MARY SHELLEY — Frankenstein

BYRON — Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Spain, Portugal, Albania, and Greece in cantos 1 and 2), four "Oriental tales" of 1813–14 (The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair, Lara, and The Giaour), Manfred (NAEL 8, 2.635), Don Juan (the Greek island episode with Haidee in cantos 2–4 [NAEL 8, 2.697–734] and subsequent adventures in Turkey and Russia, among other places)

The satanic and Byronic Hero: Overview

Not until the age of the American and French Revolutions, more than a century after Milton wroteParadise Lost, did readers begin to sympathize withSatan in the war between Heaven and Hell, admiring him as the archrebel who had taken on no less an antagonist than Omnipotence itself, and even declaring him the true hero of the poem. In his ironic Marriage of Heaven and Hell (NAEL 8, 2.111–20), Blake claimed that Milton had unconsciously, but justly, sided with the Devil (representing rebellious energy) against Jehovah (representing oppressive limitation). Lecturing in 1818 on the history of English poetry, Hazlitt named Satan as “the most heroic subject that ever was chosen for a poem” and implied that the rebel angel’s Heaven-defying resistance was the mirror image of Milton’s own rebellion against political tyranny. A year later, Percy Shelley maintained that Satan is the moral superior to Milton’s tyrannical God, but he admitted that Satan’s greatness of character is flawed by vengefulness and pride. It was precisely this aspect of flawed grandeur, however, that made Satan so attractive a model for Shelley’s friend Byron in his projects of personal myth-making. The more immediate precedents of the Byronic hero—a figure that Byron uses for purposes both of self-revelation and of self-concealment—were the protagonists of some of the Gothic novels of the later eighteenth century. Examples are Manfred, the ominous hero-villain of Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto (1764) (NAEL 8, 2.579–82) and the brooding, guilt-haunted monk Schedoni of Ann Radcliffe’s The Italian(1797), who each embody traits of Milton’s Satan. Byron identified another alter ego in the towering historical figure of Napoleon Bonaparte, who to the contemporary imagination combined, in Satan’s manner, moral culpability with awe-inspiring power and grandeur. Between 1795, when Napoleon took command of the armies of France, and 1815, when defeat at Waterloo banished him from Europe to his final exile, patriotic supporters of Britain’s war effort represented Napoleon as an infernal, blood-thirsty monster. These demonizing representations frequently alluded to the example of Milton’s “enemy of mankind,” as William Wordsworth did in an 1809 sonnet, “Look now on that Adventurer,” and George Cruikshank did in an 1815 cartoon depicting the colossus in exile on the tiny island of St. Helena. Satanizing Napoleon made for effective wartime propaganda because it invoked an already established plot, a narrative of inevitable downfall. Yet Byron’s complex response to the man, worked out over the entire body of his work, yields a contrasting account of history—and also, and in particular in the “Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte” he wrote following Napoleon’s abdication, a contrasting account of Milton’s fallen angel. To Byron, Napoleon represents both a figure of heroic aspiration and someone who has been shamefully mastered by his own passions—both a conqueror and, after Waterloo, a captive: Napoleon thus becomes as much the occasion for psychological analysis as for moral condemnation. There was more than a touch of self-projection in this account. (At a tongue-in-cheek moment in canto 11 of Don Juan, Byron dubs himself “the grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme.”) The characteristic doubleness of the Byronic hero is dramatized in the story of Napoleon’s venturesome rise and inglorious fall. Byron first sketched out this hero with his Satanic-Gothic-Napoleonic lineage in 1812, in the opening stanzas of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, canto 1 (NAEL 8, 2.617–19). At this stage, he is rather crudely depicted as a young man, prematurely sated by sin, who wanders about in an attempt to escape society and his own memories. Conrad, the hero of The Corsair (1814), has become more isolated, darker, more complex in his history and inner conflict, and therefore more frightening and more compelling to the reader. The hero of Lara(also 1814) is a finished product; he reappears two years later, with variations in canto 3 of Childe Harold (see NAEL 8, 2.619–22, stanzas 2–16, and 2.627–28, stanzas 52–55 ) and again the following year as the hero of Byron’s poetic drama Manfred (NAEL 8, 2.636–69). Early on, Coleridge recognized the disquieting elements in the appeal of this hero of dark mystery, and in the Statesman's Manual (1816) warned against it, but in vain. Immediately affecting the

life, art, and even philosophy of the nineteenth century, the Byronic hero took on a life of his own. He became the model for the behavior of avant-garde young men and gave focus to the yearnings of emancipated young women. And Byron was fated to discover that the literary alter egos he had created could in turn exert power over him: his social disgrace following the breakup of his marriage in 1816 was declared by Walter Scott to be a consequence of how the poet had “Childe Harolded himself, and outlawed himself, into too great a resemblance with the pictures of his imagination.” Literary history demonstrates, similarly, that Byron could at best participate in but not control the myth-making processes of Byronism. Upstaging him, many others were determined to have a hand in the mythmaking. Byron had borrowed from late-eighteenth-century Gothic novels to create his persona but, in the nineteenth century, the Byronic hero would be absorbed back into the Gothic tradition. The process began in 1816 with Glenarvon, a roman à clef whose author, Lady Caroline Lamb, mischievously recycled elements of Byron’s own poems—in particular The Giaour—to tell the story of her failed love affair with the poet and to portray him as a monstrous, supernaturally powerful seducer. It continued three years later with a novella published by the poet’s physician and traveling companion John Polidorithat would clinch the association of Byron and the evil undead. These works and the novels, plays, and even operas they spawned granted Byron an eerie afterlife, as the Gothic tradition’s vampire in chief.

John Milton , Satan Conforming to the conventions of epic poetry and rushing “into the midst of things,” Paradise Lost (1667) opens by evoking a spectacle of horror combined with grandeur: Milton’s reader watches as Satan and his legions of rebellious angels, vanquished in their battle with God and already cast from Heaven down to Hell, try to recover from their disastrous loss and begin to plot their revenge. For the eighteenth-century writer Edmund Burke, the portrait that Milton draws of Satan at this moment, one when the fallen angel as yet retains traces of his heavenly glory, was the most sublime descriptive passage in all of poetry. *** He above the rest In shape and gesture proudly eminent Stood like a tower. His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appeared Less than archangel ruined, and th' excess Of glory obscured: as when the sun new-risen Looks through the horizontal misty air Shorn of his beams, or from behind the moon In dim eclipse disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change Perplexes monarchs. Darkened so, yet shone Above them all th' archangel; but his face Deep scars of thunder had intrenched, and care Sat on his faded cheek, but under brows Of dauntless courage, and considerate pride Waiting revenge. Cruel his eye, but cast Signs of remorse and passion to behold The fellows of his crime , the followers rather (Far other once beheld in bliss), condemned Forever now to have their lot in pain. — From Paradise Lost 1.589–608 (1667)

William Blake, Romantic Comments on Milton's Satan Blake’s The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, which he engraved in the early years of the French Revolution (circa 179093), repeatedly inverts the conventional hierarchies that place Heaven over Hell and angels above devils. It features a “devilishly” subversive reaction to Milton’s epic account of humankind’s temptation and fall in Paradise Lost. Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained; and the restrainer or reason usurps its place & governs the unwilling. And being restraind, it by degrees becomes passive, till it is only the shadow of desire. The history of this is written in Paradise Lost, & the Governor or Reason is call'd Messiah. And the original Archangel, or possessor of the command of the heavenly host, is calld the Devil or Satan, and his children are call'd Sin & Death . For in the Book of Job, Milton's Messiah is call'd Satan. >> note For this history has been adopted by both parties. It indeed appear'd to Reason as if Desire was cast out; but the Devil's account is, that the Messiah fell, & formed a heaven of what he stole from the Abyss.* * * Note. The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & God, and at liberty when of Devils & Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it. — From The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (ca. 1790–93)

William Hazlitt Satan’s ambition, unflinching pursuit of power, and equally unflinching endurance of pain made him for the critic William Hazlitt “the most heroic subject that ever was chosen for a poem.” Hazlitt discussed Paradise Lost at length in the second of the public lectures on the history of English poetry that he delivered in 1818. The Achilles of Homer is not more distinct; the Titans were not more vast; Prometheus chained to his rock was not a more terrific example of suffering and of crime >> note 1 . Wherever the figure of Satan is introduced, whether he walks or flies, 'rising aloft incumbent on the dusky air,' >> note 2 it is illustrated with the most striking and appropriate images: so that we see it always before us, gigantic, irregular, portentous, uneasy, and disturbed—but dazzling in its faded splendour, the clouded ruins of a god. The deformity of Satan is only in the depravity of his will; he has no bodily deformity to excite our loathing or disgust. The horns and tail are not there, poor emblems of the unbending, unconquered spirit, of the writhing agonies within. Milton was too magnanimous and open an antagonist to support his argument by the bye-tricks of a hump and cloven foot; to bring into the fair field of controversy the good old catholic prejudices of which Tasso and Dante>> note 3 have availed themselves, and which the mystic German critics would restore. >> note 4 He relied on the justice of his cause, and did not scruple to give the devil his due. Some persons may think that he has carried his liberality too far, and injured the cause he professed to espouse by making him the chief person in his poem. Considering the nature of his subject, he would be equally in danger of running into this fault, from his faith in religion and his love of rebellion; and perhaps each of these motives had its full share in determining the choice of his subject. —From Lectures on the English Poets (1818)

Percy Bysshe Shelley, from Prometheus Unbound Though he based Prometheus Unbound on what was known of a lost drama by Aeschylus, Shelley went beyond his classical model, in the belief, as his Preface explains, that Aeschylus’s account brought the struggle between Prometheus and Jupiter to a feeble conclusion. Aeschylus’s way of bringing about a reconciliation between Prometheus and Jupiter, Shelley asserted, failed to do justice to Prometheus's heroism. In this passage from the Preface, that heroism is contrasted with Satan’s. The only imaginary being resembling in any degree Prometheus is Satan; and Prometheus is, in my judgement, a more poetical character than Satan because, in addition to courage and majesty and firm and patient opposition to omnipotent force, he is susceptible of being described as exempt from the taints of ambition, envy, revenge, and a desire for personal aggrandisement, which in the Hero of Paradise Lost interfere with the interest. The character of Satan engenders in the mind a pernicious casuistry which leads us to weigh his faults with his wrongs and to excuse the former because the latter exceed all measure. In the minds of those who consider that magnificent fiction with a religious feeling, it engenders something worse. But Prometheus is, as it were, the type of the highest perfection of moral and intellectual nature, impelled by the purest and the truest motives to the best and noblest ends. — From Preface to Prometheus Unbound (1820)

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, From The Statesman's Manual Appendix C to The Statesman’s Manual, or The Bible the Best Guide to Political Skill and Foresight presents Coleridge’s views on the character of Milton’s Satan, a prototype, he will claim, for the immoral yet dangerously popular heroes of contemporary writing. But in its utmost abstraction and consequent state of reprobation, the Will becomes satanic pride and rebellious selfidolatry in the relations of the spirit to itself, and remorseless despotism relatively to others; the more hopeless as the more obdurate by its subjugation of sensual impulses, by its superiority to toil and pain and pleasure; in short, by the fearful resolve to find in itself alone the one absolute motive of action, under which all other motives from within and from without must be either subordinated or crushed. This is the character which Milton has so philosophically as well as sublimely embodied in the Satan of his Paradise Lost. Alas! too often has it been embodied in real life! Too often has it given a dark and savage grandeur to the historic page! And wherever it has appeared, under whatever circumstances of time and country, the same ingredients have gone to its composition; and it has been identified by the same attributes. Hope in which there is no cheerfulness; steadfastness within and immovable resolve, with outward restlessness and whirling activity; violence with guile; temerity with cunning; and, as the result of all, interminableness of object with perfect indifference of means; these are the qualities that have constituted the commanding genius! these are the marks that have characterized the masters of mischief, the liberticides, and mighty hunters of mankind, from Nimrod to Napoleon. And from inattention to the possibility of such a character as well as from ignorance of its elements, even men of honest intentions too frequently become fascinated. Nay, whole nations have been so far duped by this want of insight and reflection as to regard with palliative admiration, instead of wonder and abhorrence, the Molocks of human nature, who are indebted, for the far larger portion of their meteoric success, to their total want of principle, and who surpass the generality of their fellow creatures in one act of courage only, that of daring to say with their whole heart, "Evil, be thou my good!" >> note — From The Statesman's Manual (1816) Versions of the Byronic Hero

Ann Radcliffe, from The Italian Villain These passages from the second chapter of Radcliffe’s 1797 Gothic novel introduce the mysterious Father Schedoni, who, in his role as priest and secret adviser to the hero’s family, will set in the motion a plot against the book’s young lovers that will take three full volumes to unravel. Radcliffe’s portrait of this unfathomable villain—almost admirable in his ability to deflect others’ attempts to guess at his motives, his past, or his true nature—influenced Byron as he created the haughty, alienated heroes of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,Manfred, and his Orientalist romances.

There lived in the Dominican convent of the Spirito Santo, at Naples, a man called Father Schedoni; an Italian, as his name imported, but whose family was unknown, and from some circumstances, it appeared that he wished to throw an impenetrable veil over his origin. For whatever reason, he was never heard to mention a relative, or the place of his nativity, and he had artfully eluded every enquiry that approached the subject which the curiosity of his associates had occasionally prompted. There were circumstances, however, which appeared to indicate him to be a man of birth, and of fallen fortune; his spirit, as it had sometimes looked forth from under the disguise of his manners, seemed lofty; it shewed not, however, the aspirings of a generous mind, but rather the gloomy pride of a disappointed one. Some few persons in the convent, who had been interested by his appearance, believed that the peculiarities of his manners, his severe reserve and unconquerable silence, his solitary habits and frequent penances, were the effect of misfortunes preying upon a haughty and disordered spirit; while others conjectured them the consequence of some hideous crime gnawing upon an awakened conscience. He would sometimes abstract himself from the society for whole days together, or when with such a disposition he was compelled to mingle with it, he seemed unconscious where he was, and continued shrouded in meditation and

silence till he was again alone. There were times when it was unknown whither he had retired, notwithstanding that his steps had been watched, and his customary haunts examined. *** Among his associates no one loved him, many disliked him, and more feared him. His figure was striking, but not so from grace; it was tall, and, though extremely thin, his limbs were large and uncouth, and as he stalked along, wrapped in the black garments of his order, there was something terrible in its air; something almost super-human. His cowl, too, as it threw a shade over the livid paleness of his face, increased its severe character, and gave an effect to his large melancholy eye, which approached to horror. His was not the melancholy of a sensible and wounded heart, but apparently that of a gloomy and ferocious disposition. There was something in his physiognomy extremely singular, and that cannot easily be defined. It bore the traces of many passions, which seemed to have fixed the features they no longer animated. An habitual gloom and severity prevailed over the deep lines of his countenance; and his eyes were so piercing that they seemed to penetrate, at a single glance, into the hearts of men, and to read their most secret thoughts; few persons could support their scrutiny, or even endure to meet them twice. — From The Italian, or The Confessional of the Black Penitents(1797)

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In declaring Satan the hero of Paradise Lost and the prototype for their own dark heroes, Blake, Byron, and the other Romantics were not only espousing the cause of rebellion against patriarchal authority in society, but were themselves engaged in a kind of rebellion against their literary father: Milton. In a similar way, the second generation of major Romantic poets rebelled against the increasing political and aesthetic conservatism of the first. How do the Romantics balance their rebellion against Milton with the awareness of his influence and a desire to emulate him? What signs do you find in these texts of the “anxiety of influence”? And what parallels do you see between these Romantic reactions to Milton and the criticisms of Wordsworth by Shelley in “To Wordsworth” (NAEL 8, 2.744), Keats’s in hisletter from the Lake District, and Browning in “The Lost Leader” (NAEL 8, 1.1256)? As (in the words of the minor poet Thomas Campbell) the “sworn foe of our nation and, if you will, of the whole human race,” Napoleon was a figure of detestation for many British Romantic writers. But do these writers also betray signs of an awareness that, as with Milton’s Satan, another account of Napoleon might be possible? Are there moments in Romantic writings about the French Emperor in which moral condemnation gets mixed with something more personal, something more suggestive of identification, like disappointment? In Byron’s “Ode” of 1814 and in Canto 3 of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (NAEL 8, 2.617–19), are there suggestions that, under certain different conditions, Byron might find Napoleon a figure to admire or emulate? How do the scenes in which Byron, and Wordsworth too, position Napoleon resemble the scenes that these writers create when they portray themselves? In the course of her Vindication of the Rights of Woman, Wollstonecraft drops hints that she, as much as William Blake, is capable of giving a devilishly perverse reading of Milton’s Paradise Lost. In a footnote to chapter 2 (NAEL 8, 2.174), for instance, she describes her inability to experience any sort of elevated emotion when she contemplates Milton’s beautiful portrait of the domestic happiness of Adam and Eve: “instead of envying the lovely pair, I have, with conscious dignity, or Satanic pride, turned to hell for sublimer objects.” At such moments Wollstonecraft raises an interesting question: is it possible for a woman writer to play the Satanic or the Byronic role? What do you make, for instance, of the echoes of Milton’s account of Satan’s flight from Hell to Earth that can be heard in Anna Laetitia Barbauld’s “A Summer Evening’s Meditation”? How does the example of Byron’s persona shape the psychological explorations that Letitia Elizabeth Landon stages in her lyrics? Which elements of the Byronic hero’s characterization must be discarded as one moves from a hero to a heroine? Which elements can be preserved? Is Byron able to trade on the appeal of this protagonist for his entire career, or do you see his strategies of characterization changing as times goes by? How would you compare Don Juan to earlier heroes such as Childe Harold, Lara, or Manfred? Does Byron’s narrative voice alter over time as well? Is there any trait that all his personae share? Byron’s account of Lara, as well as his presentation of the Giaour, are in some ways as much about others’ reactions to these individuals, indeed, about others’ baffled attempts to read them and decipher their mysteries, as they are about these figures in and of themselves. Why might Byron have chosen this approach? Similarly, when Polidori and Lady Caroline Lamb introduce their Byronic heroes, each begins by

assessing the spellbinding effects that these individuals have on their beholders. Ruthven and Glenarvon are antisocial but have a huge social impact.

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If we consider such figures as not only Byronic but as versions of Byronhimself, what might this pattern suggest about the relationship between that author and the new vastly expanded reading public that consumed his work? (Somewhat unflattering portraits of that new kind of reading public are given in William Wordsworth’s Preface to Lyrical Ballads [NAEL 8, 2.263–74] and in the footnote that Coleridge appended to his Biographia Literaria and that is reproduced as the conclusion to the cluster on “The Gothic and the Development of a Mass Readership” [NAEL 8, 2.577–79].) What conclusions do you draw about the Byronic hero if you decide to see his creation as a commentary on modern author-reader relations and on modern literary fame? Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is a Satanic/Promethean hero who appropriates to himself the power of creation and then allows that creation to undo him. The author’s introduction to the third edition of Frankensteingives her account of the origins of the story, an account that allows for the influence of her parents, the weather, translated German ghost stories, Percy Shelley, Byron, and other literary companions, as well as contemporary scientific investigations. How does this diffuse web of sources make Mary Shelley’s identification with Satanic rebellion different from those of Shelley, Byron, and others?

The Romantic Period section of Norton Topics Online offers resources for the exploration of three of the most important influences on Romantic thought: the picturesque splendour of the British landscape, the sinister atmosphere of the Gothic, and the apocalyptic expectations aroused by the French Revolution. Suggested uses of Norton Topics Online: The Romantic Period with The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Eighth Edition (anthology page references for the new Seventh Edition are included below): Tintern Abbey, Tourism and Romantic Landscape • William Wordsworth, Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey

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• Samuel Taylor Coleridge, This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison

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Frost at Midnight • Percy Bysshe Shelley, Alastor Mont Blanc

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• George Gordon, Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

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• John Keats, To Autumn

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• Dorothy Wordsworth, The Alfoxden Journal

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The Grasmere Journals • John Ruskin, Of the Pathetic Fallacy

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Tintern Abbey, Tourism and Romantic Landscape illustrates the Romantics' developing interest in nature, as background not only to Tintern Abbey and other poems by William Wordsworth but to Coleridge's conversation poems, Dorothy Wordsworth's journals, Percy Shelley's Alastor and Mont Blanc, Byron's Childe Harold, and Keats's To Autumn, among others. This topic cluster features paintings and prose descriptions of Tintern Abbey and the Lake District which provide the basis for comparisons with poetic evocations of these landscapes. Looking forward in time, students may wish to evaluate the contents of this section in light of Ruskin's idea of the pathetic fallacy, or, looking backward to the seventeenth century, trace the development of nature poetry from Denham's Cooper's Hill. The Gothic • George Gordon, Lord Byron, Manfred Don Juan • Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Christabel

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• John Keats, The Eve of St. Agnes

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• Thomas De Quincey,Confessions of an English Opium Eater

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• John Milton, Paradise Lost

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The Gothic introduces a genre that both influenced Romantic poetry and, in its day, far outstripped it in popularity. This topic cluster explores signs of Gothic influence in some of the most frequently read works of Coleridge, Byron, and Keats. The fascination with the Orient that characterizes Gothic works such as Vathek can be traced in the later works of Byron and Fitzgerald. The French Revolution: Apocalyptic Expectations • William Wordsworth, The Prelude

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• William Blake, A Song of Liberty

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A Vision of the Last Judgment

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• Percy Bysshe Shelley, A Song: "Men of England"

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England in 1819

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To Sidmouth and Castlereagh

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• Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman

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• William Butler Yeats, The Second Coming

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• Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia

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The French Revolution: Apocalyptic Expectations provides an introduction to what Shelley called "the master theme of the epoch in which we live." A companion to the section on The French Revolution and the "Spirit Of The Age" in the Norton Anthology (Seventh Edition), this topic cluster emphasizes the apocalyptic expectations which led the first generation of Romantic poets (Wordsworth, Coleridge and Blake) to regard the French Revolution as a prelude to the end of history, heralding a new epoch or a return to paradise. The texts gathered here also shed light on Shelley's radical poetry, and will allow students to assess the influence of the Revolution on writers as diverse as Wollstonecraft, Hazlitt, and Carlyle. The apocalyptic expectations of the Romantic poets resonate with the earlier writings of Winstanley and Coppe, as well as with the twentieth-century poetry of Yeats; students wishing to discover more about the importance of millenarian ideas in English history may also explore the The Meaning of the Millennium: Apocalyptic Visions and Revisions in the Twentieth Century section of Norton Topics Online. Romantic Orientalism • William Blake, The Little Black Boy

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The Tyger

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The Book of Thel

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• Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Kubla Khan • George Gordon, Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

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Manfred

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Don Juan

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• Percy Bysshe Shelley, Queen Mab, Alastor

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Ozymandias

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Prometheus Unbound

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• John Keats, Endymion

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The Eve of St. Agnes

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Lamia

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• Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

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• Edward Fitzgerald, Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

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• Salman Rushdie, The Prophet’s Hair

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The Romantic Period in Britain is now recognized as a time of global travel and exploration, accession of colonies all over the world, and development of imperialist ideologies that rationalized the British takeover of distant territories. Romantic Orientalism provides additional background materials to enhance the reading of Romantic poems and fictions and suggest how those poems and fictions connect with the political and s ocial concerns of their real-life historical contexts.