Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Life and Times of Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Complete Autobiographical Works


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a child’s hand, could more buoyantly enjoy its element, than I this

      clean and peaceful house, with this lovely view of the town, groves,

      and lake of Ratzeburg, from the window at which I am writing. My spirits

      certainly, and my health I fancied, were beginning to sink under the

      noise, dirt, and unwholesome air of our Hamburg hotel. I left it

      on Sunday, Sept. 23rd, with a letter of introduction from the poet

      Klopstock, to the Amtmann of Ratzeburg. The Amtmann received me with

      kindness, and introduced me to the worthy pastor, who agreed to board

      and lodge me for any length of time not less than a month. The vehicle,

      in which I took my place, was considerably larger than an English

      stage-coach, to which it bore much the same proportion and rude

      resemblance, that an elephant’s ear does to the human. Its top was

      composed of naked boards of different colours, and seeming to have been

      parts of different wainscots. Instead of windows there were leathern

      curtains with a little eye of glass in each: they perfectly answered

      the purpose of keeping out the prospect and letting in the cold. I

      could observe little therefore, but the inns and farmhouses at which

      we stopped. They were all alike, except in size: one great room, like

      a barn, with a hay-loft over it, the straw and hay dangling in tufts

      through the boards which formed the ceiling of the room, and the floor

      of the loft. From this room, which is paved like a street, sometimes

      one, sometimes two smaller ones, are enclosed at one end. These are

      commonly floored. In the large room the cattle, pigs, poultry, men,

      women, and children, live in amicable community; yet there was an

      appearance of cleanliness and rustic comfort. One of these houses I

      measured. It was an hundred feet in length. The apartments were taken

      off from one corner. Between these and the stalls there was a small

      interspace, and here the breadth was forty-eight feet, but thirty-two

      where the stalls were; of course, the stalls were on each side eight

      feet in depth. The faces of the cows, etc. were turned towards the room;

      indeed they were in it, so that they had at least the comfort of seeing

      each other’s faces. Stall-feeding is universal in this part of Germany,

      a practice concerning which the agriculturist and the poet are likely

      to entertain opposite opinions — or at least, to have very different

      feelings. The woodwork of these buildings on the outside is left

      unplastered, as in old houses among us, and, being painted red and

      green, it cuts and tesselates the buildings very gaily. From within

      three miles of Hamburg almost to Molln, which is thirty miles from it,

      the country, as far as I could see it, was a dead flat, only varied by

      woods. At Molln it became more beautiful. I observed a small lake nearly

      surrounded with groves, and a palace in view belonging to the King of

      Great Britain, and inhabited by the Inspector of the Forests. We were

      nearly the same time in travelling the thirty-five miles from Hamburg to

      Ratzeburg, as we had been in going from London to Yarmouth, one hundred

      and twenty-six miles.

      The lake of Ratzeburg runs from south to north, about nine miles in length, and varying in breadth from three miles to half a mile. About a mile from the southernmost point it is divided into two, of course very unequal, parts by an island, which, being connected by a bridge and a narrow slip of land with the one shore, and by another bridge of immense length with the other shore, forms a complete isthmus. On this island the town of Ratzeburg is built. The pastor’s house or vicarage, together with the Amtmann’s Amtsschreiber’s, and the church, stands near the summit of a hill, which slopes down to the slip of land and the little bridge, from which, through a superb military gate, you step into the island-town of Ratzeburg. This again is itself a little hill, by ascending and descending which, you arrive at the long bridge, and so to the other shore. The water to the south of the town is called the Little Lake, which however almost engrosses the beauties of the whole the shores being just often enough green and bare to give the proper effect to the magnificent groves which occupy the greater part of their circumference. From the turnings, windings, and indentations of the shore, the views vary almost every ten steps, and the whole has a sort of majestic beauty, a feminine grandeur. At the north of the Great Lake, and peeping over it, I see the seven church towers of Luebec, at the distance of twelve or thirteen miles, yet as distinctly as if they were not three. The only defect in the view is, that Ratzeburg is built entirely of red bricks, and all the houses roofed with red tiles. To the eye, therefore, it presents a clump of brick-dust red. Yet this evening, Oct. 10th, twenty minutes past five, I saw the town perfectly beautiful, and the whole softened down into complete keeping, if I may borrow a term from the painters. The sky over Ratzeburg and all the east was a pure evening blue, while over the west it was covered with light sandy clouds. Hence a deep red light spread over the whole prospect, in undisturbed harmony with the red town, the brown-red woods, and the yellow-red reeds on the skirts of the lake. Two or three boats, with single persons paddling them, floated up and down in the rich light, which not only was itself in harmony with all, but brought all into harmony.

      I should have told you that I went back to Hamburg on Thursday (Sept. 27th) to take leave of my friend, who travels southward, and returned hither on the Monday following. From Empfelde, a village half way from Ratzeburg, I walked to Hamburg through deep sandy roads and a dreary flat: the soil everywhere white, hungry, and excessively pulverised; but the approach to the city is pleasing. Light cool country houses, which you can look through and see the gardens behind them, with arbours and trellis work, and thick vegetable walls, and trees in cloisters and piazzas, each house with neat rails before it, and green seats within the rails. Every object, whether the growth of nature or the work of man, was neat and artificial. It pleased me far better, than if the houses and gardens, and pleasure fields, had been in a nobler taste: for this nobler taste would have been mere apery. The busy, anxious, money-loving merchant of Hamburg could only have adopted, he could not have enjoyed the simplicity of nature. The mind begins to love nature by imitating human conveniences in nature; but this is a step in intellect, though a low one — and were it not so, yet all around me spoke of innocent enjoyment and sensitive comforts, and I entered with unscrupulous sympathy into the enjoyments and comforts even of the busy, anxious, money-loving merchants of Hamburg. In this charitable and catholic mood I reached the vast ramparts of the city. These are huge green cushions, one rising above the other, with trees growing in the interspaces, pledges and symbols of a long peace. Of my return I have nothing worth communicating, except that I took extra post, which answers to posting in England. These north German post chaises are uncovered wicker carts. An English dust-cart is a piece of finery, a chef d’auvre of mechanism, compared with them and the horses! — a savage might use their ribs instead of his fingers for a numeration table. Wherever we stopped, the postilion fed his cattle with the brown rye bread of which he eat himself, all breakfasting together; only the horses had no gin to their water, and the postilion no water to his gin. Now and henceforward for subjects of more interest to you, and to the objects in search of which I left you: namely, the literati and literature