move, as if rendered inactive and paralyzed by the crime for is it not typical of the closing of the fountains of human love and sympathy? is not the extinction of all that makes life what it is, shadowed in the seemingly trivial circ mstances of the murder of this poor bird? The same skill that drew the terror of the storm draws the still more terrible picture of the endless calm.

"Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion,
As idle as a painted ship,
Upon a painted ocean."

What a wonderful idea of hopelessness these simple lines give us, the very flow of the rhythm, so regular, so almost monotonous, helps us to imagine the scene; what pages of description are contained in the simple simile that closes the stanza. Soon a sail appears, but thirst had so parched the throats of the wretched crew that they could utter no sound to make known their distress, till the old Mariner, struck with remorse at his crime, longing to prevent others from suffering for it, with his own blood frees his tongue. But it is too late, the cup of punishment must be drunk to the dregs; the doom is set, and even repentance cannot stay it. The Spectre ship draws near; that terrible game between Death and Life-in-Death is soon played out; every man on board that fated ship drops down dead except the ill-starred causer of all the evil. And what is his fate? There was no need for his hearer to shrink from his touch as from a dead man his was a doom far more terrible than that—

"The many men, so beautiful!

And they all dead did lie:

And a thousand, thousand slimy things
Lived on: and so did I."

Seven days and nights of agony, beneath "the curse of the dead men's eyes," must he pass, e'er the spell begins to break, e'er his hard heart can be touched, the long-closed fountains of love opened, and the prayer, so long denied him, burst from his lips. And not in vain is it: quiet sleep is sent him, the ship is carried by invisible powers into the far north, and the mariner is allowed to see that though his crime destroyed the bodies of his comrades, their souls are living, blest and at rest: at length he is borne once more to his native land, once more the bay, the kirk on the hill above it, the old familiar scene comes before his eyes. He feels his crime forgiven, though the guilt is not yet (can it ever be ?) expiated. A long, long life of ceaseless trouble is before him, in this world an endless sorrow; and yet one

consolation he has, by his sad tale and heartfelt confession he may touch many a hard heart, and win it to love and pity; and his good work, who can doubt, will have its reward. We who have listened to that tale assuredly cannot fail to read its lesson, and many a man has risen from its perusal, as did the Wedding Guest

"A sadder and a wiser man."

It was the original purpose of this article to attempt to point out the beauties of all of Coleridge's poems : but the discussion of these his two master-pieces has already made it longer than it should have been. And perhaps after all it is better to leave it as it is, and to take our farewell of Coleridge, with these two poems only on our mind. In the others he has many equals, no few superiors, but in these two, as the great poet of the supernatural, he stands alone, a grand solitary figure, rising far above all others in the literature, not only of our own country, but of the whole world.

TRANSLATION FROM HEINE.

META.

My heart, my heart it is dreary,
Tho' the May shines merry and bright,
So I lean on the lime-tree, weary,
Which stands on the terraced height.
Below at my feet is flowing

The silent castle moat,
And a boy is lazily throwing

His line, as he sings from his boat.
Beyond there are villas sprightly,

And meadows with pasturing kine,
And gardens and woods all brightly
Gleam in the warm sunshine.
Maidens their clothes are drying,
Tripping beside the stream,
There where the mill wheel's flying
A myriad diamonds gleam.
A sentry box stands facing
The ivy mantled tower,

I have watched the sentinel pacing
His rounds for the last full hour.
He plays with his gun half dreaming,
His coat in the sun shines red,
He aims-the barrel is gleaming,
I wish he would shoot me dead.

THE NIEBELUNGEN LIED.

Continued from page 142.

WHEN the fatal confiict was begun, the first victim was the son of Chrunhild by the hospitable Etyel, who was slain by Oankwort, one of the Niebelungs. Before, however, the fray becomes general, and the war-fury uncontrollable, Dietrich, of Bern, the brave and prudent, raises his lion-like voice and bids the

combatants pause, conveys away in safety Queen Chrunhild, the fatal cause of all the blood-shed, and the hospitable Etyel, who seems to have been hitherto unconscious of the terrible blood-feud that was to be vented under his palace roof. Then the Berserk fury of the Germans and the savage thirst for blood of the Huns can be contained no longer, and the hall streams with blood. At one end of the hall are ranged the Northern warriors, headed by Hagen, Ghunter, and the no less terrible Volker, while band after band of the Huns sweep into the hall to fall by the Gothic

steel.

in

Meanwhile the chivalry of King Etyel's court seeks the dangerous honour of personal conflict with the chiefs of their enemies, for King Etyel seems, beside his own people, to have had in his service warriors of greater personal prowess than the Huns, who fought in flocks of horsemen, and were little noted for individual valour. Doubtless these were the Gepids, and the Ostrogoths, that noble race which found its grave as well as its laurels in after years Italy; for these we hear fought with Etyel at Châlons. It is pleasant amidst this scene of horror and bloodshed to note the chivalric courtesy--almost an anachronism in those times-shown by the rival warriors. For now Rudiger, one of Chrunhild's champion knights, steps into the hall and challenges Hagen as the noblest antagonist he could find there; but Hagen's shield is shivered, and can do duty no more, and so Rudiger gives him his own before engaging in combat with him. Even the fierce Hagen is moved by this, but the fate of war is inexorable, and the brave and chivalrous Rudiger lies among the corpses on the pavement of the hall. Then Hildebrand's son Wolfhart, upbraids Hagen with Rudiger's death, and challenges him; but an old bond of hospitality forbids Hagen from fighting with him, and Ghernot, King Ghunter's brother, fights and slays him. At last the Niebelungs are fallen one by one, and Volker's red steel fiddlestick drops from his dead hand, until only Ghunter and Hagen are left alive among the slain. Then at last the mighty Dietrich arms himself, and goes to battle with the two survivors, and brings them bound before the king and queen, and goes away from the court with sorrow and forebodings. Queen Chrunhild sternly asks Hagen where the Niebelungen treasure is hidden, and on his refusing to tell her, orders the heads of the two heroes to be struck off.

Then Sir Hildebrand was wrath, and drives his keen sword into Queen Chrunhild's side, upbraiding her with treachery, while King Etyel stands by and says nothing. Wearied no doubt he was of the queen who had brought as her dower a curse and a feud, and who had deluged his halls with the blood of his guests and his own best knights. Thus like Helen died the woman who had caused the blood-shed. Meanwhile the fatal Niebelungen treasure lies at the bottom of the Rhine, and, its work of evil ended, will breed strife no more, safer than was the golden collar of Harmonia-which brought ill to the houses of Cadmus and the son of Amphiaraus-when it rested at last in the temple of Delphi. There are many tales in medieval legendary lore of treasures of old, discovered by men, as King Arthur's treasures, and those of the more modern Barbarossa were in after times. But when found they only worked mischief to the finders, while we hear no more of the countless wealth of the Niebelungen hoard.

Thus ends the old romance, the meaning of which none can fully tell; we meet old friends under a new guise, and the heroes of authentic history as heroes of romance. What likeness is there between Etyel, the "scourge of God," and Etyel, the hospitable, easy king, who seems a mere puppet in the hands of his revengeful queen? except, perhaps, the same reverence for his hospitality which bade the Etyel of history spare the Roman ambassadors who plotted against his life. Little likeness, too, is there between the wooden house and barbarous court of the Hunnish king, so ably described in Gibbon, and the palace of Etyel, the centre of chivalry, with its crowd of knights. As much perhaps is there between the Arthur, the struggling British chief, who yielded to the Saxon invader after much rude warfare, and the Arthur, king of England and of half France, the chief of the round table and flower of chivalry. And what of Dietrich of Bern? He was, we find, born after Etyel's death. But we know the tendency of romancers to group men around one central figure,-to which tendency we owe the story of the meeting of Solon and Croesus and other similar legends-and can only conclude that Dietrich the Great was substituted accidentally by later bards for some stout champion of the Goths under Etyel's empire.

In examining the whole legend we are in similar difficulties. What is the meaning of the whole ?

Does it allude in poetical guise to the struggles of the Teuton and Mongol races in Atilla's (Etyel's) time, when in those changeable times Teuton often fought against Teuton, and Châlons and Netad at last drove the Asiatics from Europe, or is it a record of the destruction of the noble Ostrogothic race when ennervated by the fatal acquisition of the wealth of Rome.

We cannot say what this means, but we may be sure that it is a dirge of the death and ruin of some German race when the wealth of the south bred strife and doom, and men's blood poured like water in the dark and terrible times that followed, when an irresistible impulse drove the races of the north southwards to the destruction of Rome. But he who wishes to see this subject more fully considered must look in the Miscellanies of Carlyle. Our task it is merely to point out that though our own race in its early days produced no Homer, yet it has produced a poem which however dark and mysterious, has a true human sympathy, feeling, and interest.

SELENE.

(Translated from Crinagoras.)

It was evening: the moon scarcely risen,

Veiled her grief in the dark mists of night,

For she saw into Hades' sad prison

LEOLIN.

The sweet soul of her namesake take flight; To the maid of her brightness a share had she given, And she shared in her death 'mid the dim clouds of heaven.

"WHAT IS CONCEIT ?"

"Confound you, Jones, I wish you wouldn't always be dragging that fellow about with you wherever you go."

So spake Smith to his friend, as they perambulated the court one evening between tea and prep. The friend makes answer,

"Why, have you any particular objection to him,

man ?"

"No, only he is so confoundedly conceited."

"Well I don't see it exactly," quoth Jones, trying hard to discover this little flaw in his friend.

"How do you mean ?"

"Oh any one can see he's awfully conceited. Why you know, let me see-yes, why of course you must see it."

But the less penetrating Jones doesn't. This leads to an interesting discussion between Jones and Smith

upon the virtues and vices of the unfortunate third party; to which we will leave them.

Happy Jones and Smith they were indeed unconscious of the fact that each had been himself also pronounced to be "confoundedly conceited" by other persons perambulating the court at the same time, and had been stigmatized in language the most unpleasant, had they heard it, for eternally keeping to themselves.

According to all accounts, the amount of conceit. in the School is something prodigious. And yet few, who are in the habit of calling their neighbours conceited, can bring forward any more decisive evidence of the fact than Jones did. What an extraordinary thing, then, is this conceit. It exists and yet does not exist, or rather, if we allow that it exists, we cannot well discover exactly what it is and how it comes. Some people might be disposed to believe that it does not exist at all, if it were not that every now and then it shows itself in a more palpable form than usual.

Suppose then, we lop off these forward blossoms, and investigate a little the actual character of this mysterious conceit.

?

First of all, by these "forward blossoms" we mean all kinds of real and undoubted conceit. They are fortunately very rare, and may be easily divided into three species. First, there is personal vanity. Does one ever see a fellow at all proud of his person Good-looking faces are exceedingly rare at Marlborough, as has not unfrequently been remarked by visitors at the concert or on prize-day. But it will be said that it is possible to be conceited of one's person without having anything to be proud of. This is quite true but no one will assert that fellows of this kind are common at Marlborough College: far from it. This is by far the worst species of conceit and is rife more among snobs than gentlemen. A fellow may have a hobby, to be sure, for wearing tasty neck-ties or cultivating an incipient beard ; but this, unless accompanied by something much more marked, is certainly not genuine conceit.

Another shape of conceit may be seen in braggers and boasters. But are these kind of people often to be found among us; we hardly ever hear any one talking loudly of his achievements, either in the field or in school, or in any other line of advancement. Some fellows may be fond, like the Yankees, of

describing the wonderful achievements they have performed in the holidays, but neither is this conceit, for it only arises from a quaint gratification at exciting the surprise of other people, and was shared, we must remember, by many of the most respected heroes of olden time.

Last and most despicable, comes the fisher for compliments, he who depreciates himself in expectation of eliciting a gratifying "no, no," and who has divers other methods of obtaining his desired end. To such we might say,—

"Weaving spiders, come not here

Hence you longed-legged spinners, hence."

And surely there are not any found to weave their webs at Marlborough College.

Well, then, these three kinds of conceited people considered, and being found not to exist, or hardly to exist in this place, we are almost reduced to believe that we have no conceited people at all, and that the whole idea of such a thing is a myth, and the dream of a crooked imagination. But in that case there must be a great number of crooked imaginations among us, for there can be no doubt that we are both thinking and calling each other conceited continually.

Here at last we get hold of something tangible. It generally happens that in investigating the deficiencies of others we discover that half the fault lies in ourselves. When we are just upon the point of catching our enemy in the pit-fall, we find ourselves most hopelessly imprisoned therein. The maid servant who used the Times of last Monday to light the fire with was stupid enough, to be sure; but if you hadn't been so stupid as to leave it about, it would have been safe and sound now. So, when you have a grudge against any one, it is easy enough to find plenty of failings in him, and few come so readily to hand as conceit. But then you are are looking at him through your evil eye, which enlarges all his faults and diminishes all his virtues, and therefore you certainly cannot have a fair view of him. The fault lies with you therefore for using this evil eye; nay, you are probably unconsciously comparing him with yourself, and therefore you cannot come quite clear of the charge of conceit:

We have reduced this supposed abundance of conceit to various ebullitions of ill-temper from our own

minds. If this is true, it is rather fortunate than otherwise, for we can reduce and chastise our own minds, while we can only reduce and chastise the bodies of other people: which generally has but little effect, even if we are so pugnacions as to attempt it.

But that there is something, which, though perhaps it is not conceit, is at least of the same kith and kin, is sufficiently attested by the rarity of truly genuine characters. It is not very often that we come across people whom we can fairly say have no humbug at all in them. It is quite refreshing to find some one who is quite unconscious of his looks, or his pleasant manner, or who never seems to find half as much pleasure in his own achievements as in those of others. And we must look upon these people as 66 raræ aves" highly favoured by nature, because, try as hard as we may, we can never become like them. We must take with a sigh the consciousness which nature gives us, we must consider that it should find much to weigh it down and counter-balance it in the consciousness of our defects which is ours at the same time, and also in the constant pecking and pulling which we fall in with, as we tumble about daily in this rough world. This is the way in which the balance should be kept straight; what we have to do to prevent ourselves getting conceited is to examine ourselves if possible by a telescope that diminishes our virtues and enlarges our defects, the telescope in fact with which we commonly inspect other people; then, if we take care that other people's peculiarities do not clash with our own over-sensitiveness, we shall find that the amount of conceit around us will rapidly become smaller.

Readers and Editors of the Marlburian, this is moralizing, and alas what more conceited thing can a man do! We are no better than any one else: and so judge of us. I.

A LEGEND OF IRELAND.

If it is right for any but an Irish pen to introduce so sacred a subject as Ireland to the Marlburian-reading public,-if any but an Irish voice may be allowed to recall some of the past glories of the country which modern statesmen and political economists have almost given up in despair, let due attention be bestowed on the following legend of the wild far

west.

On the neck of land by which the waters of Lough Mask are separated from those of Lough Corrib, still stand the beautiful town and abbey of Cong. Here we have veritably "the city of the waters," for the Upper Lake, actually several yards higher above the sea level than the Lower, forces its way through innumerable channels beside it, through it, and beneath it. This perpetual rush of water has swept away a great part of the dirt, which characterises all Irish towns, and with it, happily, has gone the national pig, with its inseparable companions the hen, the goat, and the duck. There are trees too about it. In fact, the view of it from Lough Corrib presents such a picture of cleanliness and refined loveliness, that you are inclined to forget that you are in such a wild and uncivilized country. But the Abbey at once recalls you, and you are reminded by its beautiful and venerable ruins that you are in a land which was great and prosperous, when England was scarcely considered amongst the nations.

There are many such abbeys in Ireland, many even finer; but few have so memorable a history. The celebrated Irishqueen, Grace O'Malley, dined once, it is said, with its monks, and was so envious of the luxuries and igenious contrivances which they possessed, that she pursuaded her husband, an English knight, to turn them out, and convert their home into a castle for herself. This tryannical princess, to whom legend assigns all the ruins for sixty miles round, forms the centre of a great number of stories. In one we are told of the strange terms on which she married De Burgh, her husband. Originally her rule had been confined to the islands which are scattered broadcast along the coast of Connemara. She looked from her little kingdom with envious eyes on the wide territory of her English neighbour. Proposals were sent to him and a match was without difficulty concluded, with the reservation, however, that either might at the end of one year dissolve the connection. De Burgh was summoned during that time to other scenes, perhaps to fight the Spaniards who had landed on the western coasts of Ireland. On his return at the end of the year, he was met by a courier who informed him that the Queen had resolved no longer to be his wife, and, what was, perhaps, even more annoying, that she had occupied all his strongholds with her own retainers.

This wild western queen paid, we are told, a visit to the court of Queen Elizabeth. An account has

come down to us of the impression which her tall figure, veiled, unlike the majority of her countrywomen, in long thick masses of golden hair, her rude ornaments, and her bare feet, made amongst the stiff lords and ladies who waited on the stiffest and most decorous of mistresses. Very curious it must have been to have watched the behaviour of two viragoes of such different types towards each other.

But we must not lose ourselves amongst the thousand stories which hang about this strange town. Let us come to the legend with which the Abbey's history is most closely connected.

Some years after the Abbey was occupied by Grace O'Malley, we find it in ruins, or at least partly so, for a large portion of it was the head-quarters of the great robber Macnamara. Then, the story tells us, the men of that country were three times the size of degenerate moderns, the summers were three times as hot-the world, in fact, was three times as noble and happy. But still, notwithstanding all these advantages, the greatest of all grievances existed in full force. The robber lived in his ruin, like an old baron, rich in horses and wines, and all the country round had to minister to his luxuries and his needs. All paid him an annual tax, a tithe of their flocks and herds, and once a year he rode on his coal-black mare Venus, his favourite, to the appointed place, where he met his tributaries and received their offerings. For many years this went on; but at last, it seems, some thoughts of liberty spread, as they will sometimes, amongst them. The boldest of them began to murmur. The spirit of rebellion took possession of them all, till they said, "Why should this man rule us? Let us slay him."

So when Macnamara rode to the trysting-place at the next appointed time, he was surrounded. The path ran along the hedge of a precipice. Far beneath rushed a mountain torrent, over which could scarcely be seen for the thick mist concealing almost everything, another precipice. There was no bridge across the chasm within a mile on either side, and the distance from precipice to precipice was greater than horse had ever cleared in its bound within the memory of man, and beyond was nothing but the dark clouded mountain, covered with deep black peat. But the assassins, though awed for a moment by the presence of their terrible master, were closing round him in a thick bristling mass. There was no alternative, so calling to his single attendant to leap up behind his