No More Learning

During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a month in
the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then preparing for
sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the war, I left the place
with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in
memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which many thought would
be brought to a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain
being added to those of the allies, I was assured in my own mind would
be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond
all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon me by
having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary
France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving
the Isle of Wight, I spent two [A] days in wandering on foot over
Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread
through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive
appearance than it now retains.

The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over
that region, led me unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of
those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with
calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than
other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those reflections,
joined with some particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the
following stanzas originated.

In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds of those who
are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say,
that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are
taken from other desolate parts of England.


* * * * *

[Unwilling to be unnecessarily particular, I have assigned this poem
to the dates 1793 and '94; but, in fact, much of the Female Vagrant's
story was composed at least two years before. All that relates to her
sufferings as a sailor's wife in America, and her condition of mind
during her voyage home, were faithfully taken from the report made to
me of her own case by a friend who had been subjected to the same
trials, and affected in the same way. Mr. Coleridge, when I first
became acquainted with him, was so much impressed with this poem, that
it would have encouraged me to publish the whole as it then stood; but
the mariner's fate appeared to me so tragical, as to require a
treatment more subdued, and yet more strictly applicable in
expression, than I had at first given to it. This fault was corrected
nearly sixty years afterwards, when I determined to publish the whole.
It may be worth while to remark, that, though the incidents of this
attempt do only in a small degree produce each other, and it deviates
accordingly from the general rule by which narrative pieces ought to
be governed, it is not, therefore, wanting in continuous hold upon the
mind, or in unity, which is effected by the identity of moral interest
that places the two personages upon the same footing in the reader's
sympathies. My ramble over many parts of Salisbury Plain put me, as
mentioned in the preface, upon writing this poem, and left upon my
mind imaginative impressions, the force of which I have felt to this
day.
From that district I proceeded to Bath, Bristol, and so on to the
banks of the Wye; where I took again to travelling on foot. In
remembrance of that part of my journey, which was in '93, I began the
verses,--'Five years have passed,' etc. --I. F. ]


* * * * *

The foregoing is the Fenwick note to 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The note to
'The Female Vagrant',--which was the title under which one-third of the
longer poem appeared in all the complete editions prior to 1845--is as
follows. --Ed.


* * * * *


[I find the date of this is placed in 1792, in contradiction, by
mistake, to what I have asserted in 'Guilt and Sorrow'. The correct
date is 1793-4. The chief incidents of it, more particularly her
description of her feelings on the Atlantic, are taken from life. --I.
F. ]


* * * * *


In 1798 there were thirty stanzas in this poem; in 1802, twenty-six; in
1815, fourteen; in 1820, twenty-five. Stanzas I. to XXII. , XXXV.