Dr Bradley puts this third position forward in a tentative form; he says that the ulterior _tends_ to lower poetic value, an important reservation, but it would be better to distinguish two kinds of poetry, one to which his doctrine applies and one to which it does not. As illustrations of the cases in which his doctrine does apply, _The Ancient Mariner_ and _Hartleap Well_ may be mentioned. Here in both cases the experiences are of a kind into which no ulterior ends enter in any important degree. Thus when Coleridge and Wordsworth introduce moral considerations, the effect is undeniably one of intrusion. As Mrs Meynell comically remarks, “_The Ancient Mariner_ offends upon a deliberate plan. It denies the natural function of observation when it invents sanctions for the protection of a wild bird’s life, and for the punishment of its slaughter. Coleridge intends to enforce a lesson by telling us that 200 mariners died of thirst because they had—with the superstition pardonable in their state of education—supposed an albatross to be the bringer of foggy weather, and had approved its slaughter, as almost all men implicitly approve the daily slaughter of innocent beast and bird.” But this charge against Coleridge is only reasonable if we make of this ulterior end, this ‘lesson’ against cruelty to animals, a vital part of the poem. Mrs Meynell, we may think, takes Coleridge’s moral too seriously. It may be this possibility which Coleridge had in mind when he said, long afterwards, that _The Ancient Mariner_ did not contain enough of the moral. As the poem stands, it is of a kind into which ulterior ends do not enter. If we are to take this alien element, this lesson, into account in our judgment, we shall have deliberately to misread the poem, with Mrs Meynell. The same considerations apply to _Hartleap Well_; and so far as Dr Bradley is merely enforcing this point, we may agree; but he fails to notice—it is only fair to say that few critics seem ever to notice it—that poetry is of more than one kind, and that the different kinds are to be judged by different principles. There is a kind of poetry into the judgment of which ulterior ends directly and essentially enter; a kind part of whose value is directly derivable from the value of the ends with which it is associated. There are other kinds, into which ulterior ends do not enter in any degree, and there are yet other kinds whose value may be lowered by the intrusion of ends relatively trivial in value. Dr Bradley is misled by the usual delusion that there is in this respect only one kind of poetry, into saying far more than the facts of poetic experience will justify.