T)5 l&U'K CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 93 r/3 ENGLISH COLLECTION l17J^a^ \^ THE GIFT OF JAMES MORGAN HART PROFESSOR OK ENGLISH ^.X'^MX^^T Cornell University Library PR 93.T13 1872a History of English literature, abridged f 3 1924 013 357 169 ;;M €"M^i^^mii^Bu:^tM&!MMis SmMM, '• All books are subject to recall after two weeks Olin/Kroch Library DATE DUE nrr^ ^ IntftlTih -ary Loa 1 1 PRINTED IN U^.A. The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/cletails/cu31 92401 33571 69 UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME. 7. A BAND-BOOK OF ANGLO-SAXON AND EARL Y ENGLISH. With Notes, Glossary, and Grammatical Syn- opses, By Hiram Coeson, M.A,, Professor in Cornell University. Post 8vo. $3.00. IN PREPARATION. II. RECENT LITERATURE OF ENG- LAND AND AMERICA. Selections of Illustrative Extracts, with bio- graphical notes. Tkis work is designed to ac- g-uaint the student with, such writers of English as are not yet fairly subjects of His- tory, and arc, therefore, not included in the work of Mr, Taine. THE CLASS-ROOM TAINE HISTORY OF Knglish Literature BY H. A. TAINE ABRffiGED FROM THE TRANSLATION OF H. VAN LAUN, AND EDITED WITH CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE, NOTES, AND INDEX JOHN FISKE Assistant Librarian and late Lecturer on Philosophy in Harvard University NEW YORK HOLT & WILLIAMS 1872 3 Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1872, oy HOLT & WILLIAMS, In the Oface of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. ^ (iaht^ji^otL W. MoOEEA & CO., Stereotypers, Wtnkoop & Hallensbck, Pbimtbbs, Newhurgh, N. T liaFultonstreet, New York. EDITOR'S PREFACE. In preparing this abridged edition of Taine's " History of English Literature," especial attention has been given to the needs of young students who, in the course of their English studies, are likely to derive profit as well as pleas- ure from the use of a work which admirably combines criticism with narration, and is thus something more and better than a dry manual. The facts given by M. Taine are not only in the main those which it is most important for the student to learn early and thor- oughly, but they are arranged with a sense of proportion which even the most unfriendly criticism must admit to be immeasurably superior to that of the compilers to whom the work of making text-books has been, until lately, with few exceptions, intrusted. The book is, indeed, an admi- rable one for the student, inasmuch as its brilliant specu- lations and lively criticisms tend to stimulate intellectual curiosity — that most wholesome of incentives to labor, and to invest the whole subject with a charm of which the secret is not possessed by the mere collator of facts and quoter of passages. The plan of abridgment which I have followed has been a simple one. I have in nearly all cases retained the very words of the author, only striking out here a iv EDITOR'S PREFACE. word and there a sentence, here a paragraph or two and there a half-dozen pages, which were not essential to the continuity of the exposition or to its completeness for my purpose. M. Taine's style is one which lends itself very readily to such treatment. For, while exceedingly power- ful and lucid, often rising to extraordinary splendor from sheer intensity of clearness, it is by no means a concise or condensed style. M. Taine's tendency is to err, not by undue economy, but by unnecessary lavishness in the use of words and in the citation of illustrative facts. I have, therefore, seldom found any difficulty in removing considerable portions of a page without serious detriment to the integrity of the thought. In most instances the omissions have left no trace, and can be detected only by a reference to the larger work. Quite a considerable part of the curtailment has been effected by the omission of all indecent passages and cita- tions. In a history of literature which aims at faithfully reproducing the manners and morals of past times, there must necessarily be contained a great deal which cannot be profitably read aloud in a school of young ladies.. The fastidiousness which would be unpardonable in an original treatise is imperatively required in a text-book for the class-room ; and in preparing the abridgment, great care has been taken to obliterate every passage which might have given offence. The omission of the more elaborate philosophizing which fills several sections and one whole chapter of M. Taine's work will justify itself, since such speculation, however good in itself, cannot be allowed to encroach upon the room which in a class-book is needed for other things. The chapters on contemporary authors were omitted because it is far less im- portant, in a text-book, to call the student's attention to Dickens and Tennyson, whom he will be sure to read for EDITOR'S PREFACE. V limself, than to give him the best insight that circumstances Dermit into Chaucer or Surrey, Spenser or Ben Jonson, irhom he will very likely never read unless his curiosity is now :6enly aroused. The Chronological Table has been made with the help, ;hiefly, of the excellent work of Mr. Henry Morley. J. F. Berkeley Street, Cambridge. Oct. xph, 1872. CONTENTS. -♦- CHAPTER I, PASS TTie Saxons, 9 CHAPTER II. The Normans, 30 CHAPTER III. \TTie New Tongue, ....... 47 CHAPTER ly. The Pagan Renaissance, . ' 66 CHAPTER V. 7^ TTieatre, 107 CHAPTER VI. Ben jfonson, 122 CHAPTER VII. Shakspeare, 134 CHAPTER VIII. The Christian Renaissance, 174 VIU Milton, The Restoration, Dryden, Addison, Swift, CONTENTS. CHAPTER IX. CHAPTER X. CHAPTER -XI. CHAPTER XIL CHAPTER XIII. PAOS 20I 232 264 292 317 CHAPTER XIV. TTie Novelists, 33^ CHAPTER XV. JTie Classic Poets, CHAPTER XVI. TTie Romantic Poets, 372 399 Chronological Table 471 Index, 499 HISTORY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. CHAPTER I. THE SAXONS. § I. — As you coast the North Sea from the Scheldt to Jut- land, you will observe that, the characteristic feature is the want of slope ; the rivers hardly drag themselves along ; the flooding stream oozes over the banks, and appears beyond them in stag- nant pools. In Holland the soil is but a sediment of mud, above which hover thick mists, fed by ceaseless exhalations. They lazily turn their violet flanks, grow black, suddenly descend in heavy, showers ; the vapor, like a furnace-smoke, crawls for ever on the horizon. The continued rain, wind, and surge leave room for naught but gloomy and melancholy thoughts. The very joy of the billows has in it an inexplicable restlessness and harsh- ness. From Holland to Jutland, a string of small, deluged islands bears witness to their ravages ; the shifting sands which the tide floats up obstruct with rocks the banks and entrance of the rivers. The first Roman fleet, a thousand vessels, perished there ; to this day ships wait a month or more in sight of port, tossed upon the great white waves, not daring to risk themselves in the shifting, winding channel, notorious for its wrecks. In winter a breastplate of ice covers the two streams ; the sea drives back the frozen masses as they descend ; they pile themselves with a crash upon the sandbanks, and sway to and fro ; now and then you may see a vessel, seized as in a vice, split in two be- neath their violence. Picture, in this foggy clime, amid hoar- frost and storm, in these marshes"and forests, half-naked savages, a kind of wild beasts, fishers and hunters, evenTiunfefS of men f these are they, Saxons, Angles, Jutes, Frisians, and later on. lO f^E FAXONS. Danes, who during the fifth and the ninth centuries, with their swords and battle-axes, tool<: and kept the island of Britain. A rude and foggy land, like their own, except in the depth of its sea and the safety of its coasts, which one day will call up real fleets and mighty vessels ; gi'een England — the word rises to the lips and expresses all. Here also moisture pervades everything ; even in summer the mist rises ; even on clear days you perceive it fresh from the great sea-girdle, or rising from vast but ever slushy moorlands, undulating with hill and dale, intersected with hedges to the limit of the horizon. Joyless scene, poverty-stricken soil ! What a labor it has been to hu- manize it ! What impression it must have made on the men of the South, the Romans of Csesar ! I thought, when I saw it, of the ancient Saxons, wanderers from West and North, who came to settle in this land of marsh and fogs, on the border of these primeval forests, on the banks of these great muddy streams, which roll down their slime to meet the waves. They must have lived as hunters and swineherds ; grow, as before, brawny, fierce, gloomy. Ta,ke civilization from this soil, and there will remain to the inhabitants only war, the chase, gluttony, '" drunkeriness. Smiling love, sweet poetic dreams, art, refined and nimble thought, are for the happy shores of the Mediterra- nean. Here the barbarian, ill housed in his mud-hovel, who hears the rain rustling whole days in the oak leaves — what dreams can he have, gazing upon his mud-pools and his sombre sky ? Huge white bodies, cool-blooded, with fierce blue eyes, red- dish flaxen hair ; ravenous stomachs, filled with meat and cheese, heated by strong drinks ; of a cold temperament, home- stayers, prone to brutal drunkenness : these are to this day the features which descent and climate preserve in the race, and these are what the Roman historians discovered in their former country. Pirates at first : of all kinds of hunting the man-hunt is most profitable and most noble ; they left the care of the land and flocks to the women and slaves; they dashed to sea in their two-sailed barks, landed anywhere, killed everything^ and having sacrificed in honor of their gods the tithe of their prison- ers, and leaving behind them the red light of their burnings, went farther on to begin again. " Lord," says a certain litany, " deliver us from the fury of the Jutes." About the eighth cen- tury, the final decay of the great Roman corpse which Charlo THE SAXONS. 1 1 magne had tried to revive, and which was settling down into corruption, called them like vultures to the prey. Those who had remained in Denmark, with their brothers of Norway, fanat- ical pagans, incensed against the Christians, made a descent on all the surrounding coasts. Their sea-kings, " who had never slept under the smoky rafters of a roof, who had never drained the ale-horn by an inhabited hearth," laughed at wind and storms, and sang : " The blast of the tempest aids our oars ; the bellowing of heaven, the howling of the thunder, hurt us not ; the hurricane is our servant, and drives us whither we wish to go." Torture and carnage, greed of danger, fury of destruction, such traits meet us at every step in the old Sagas. The daugh- ter o£ the Danish Jarl, seeing Egil taking his seat near her, repels him with scorn, reproaching him with " seldom having provided the wolves with hot meat, with never having seen for the whole autumn a raven croaking over the carnage." But Egil seized her and pacified her by singing : " I have marched with my bloody sword, and the raven has followed me. Furiously we fought, the fire passed over the dwellitigs of men j we slept in the blood of those who kept the gates." From such table- talk, and such maid's fancies, one may judge of the rest.* § 2. — Behold them now in England, more settled and wealth- ier : do you look to find them much changed ? Changedjt rnay_ be, but for the worse^. .like„.the_ Franks, like_ all barbarians^who_ jpassfrom acHon to enjoyments. The ancient histories tell us that theyTia'd'a ^eat and a coarse appetite. Even at the time of the Conquest the custom of drinking to excess was a common vice with men of the highest rank, and they passed in this way whole days and nights without intermission. When the guests were satisfied, the harp passed from hand to hand, and the rude harmony of their deep voices swelled under the vaulted roof. The monasteries themselves in Edgar's time kept up games, songs, and dances till midnight. To shout, to drink, to caper * Franks, Frisians, Saxons, Danes, Norwegians, Icelanders, are one and the same people. Their language, laws, religion, poetry, differ but little. The more northern continue longest in their primitive manners. Germany in the fourth and fifth centuries, Denmark and Norway in the seventh and eighth, Iceland in the tenth and eleventh centuries, present the same con- dition ; and the documents of each country will fill up the gaps that exist in the history of the others. 12 THE SAXONS. about, to feel their veins heated and swollen with wine, to hear and see around them the riot of the orgy, this was the firSt need of the Barbarians. The heavy human brute gluts himselt with sensations and with noise. For this appetite there was a stronger grazing-ground,— 1 mean, blows and battle. Every man was obliged to appear ^ armed, and to be ready, with his burgh or his township, to repel marauders, who went about in bands; one such consisted of -. thirty-five and more. The animal was yet too powerful, too im- , petuous, too untamed. Anger and covetousness in the first place brought him upon his prey. Their history, such as that of the Heptarchy, is like a history of " kites and crows." They j slew the Britons or reduced them to slavery, fought the remnant of the Welsh, Irish, and Picts, massacred one another, were hewn down and cut to pieces by the Danes. In a hundred years, out of fourteen kings of Northumbria, seven were slain and six deposed. At Bristol, at the time of the Conquest, as we are told by an historian of the time, it was the custom to buy men and women in all parts of England, and to carry them to Ireland for sale. " You might have seen with sorrow long files of young people of both sexes and of the greatest beauty, bound with ropes, and daily exposed for sale. . . . They sold in this man- ner as slaves their nearest relatives, and even theur own children." When we regard their deeds of violence, their ferocity, their cannibal jests, we see that they were not far removed from the sea-kings, or from the followers of Odin, who ate raw flesh, hung men as victims on the sacred trees of Upsal, and killed one another to make sure of dying, as they had lived, in blood. § 3. — Under this native barbarism there were noble disposi- tions, unknown to the Roman world, which were destined to pro- duce a better people out of the ruins of these. In the first place, " a certain earnestness, which leads them out of idle sentiments to noble ones."* From their origin in Germany this is what we find them, severe in manner, with grave inclinations and a manly dignity. They live solitary, each one near the spring or the wood which has taken his fancy.f Even in villages the cot- * Grimm, Mythology, 53, Preface. \ Tacitus, XX., xxiii., xi., xii., xiii., et passim. We may still see the traces of this taste in English dwel ings. THE SAXONS. 1 3 tages were detached ; they must have independence and free air. Violent intoxication and jDerilous wagers were their weak- est points j they sought in preference not mlH^pTeisureSj^but— ][sffOTg~excitement. In everj^thing, in jiide and niasculine jn- stinctSjTFey'weTeTSen.' "Each in his own home, on his own land, aind^in his own hut, was master of himself, firm and self- contained, in no wise restrained or shackled. If the common- weal received anything from him, it was because he gave it. In all great conferences he gave his vote in arms, passed judgment in the assembly, made alliances and wars on his own account, moved from place to place, showed activity and daring.* The modern Englishman existed entire in this Saxon. If he bends, it is because he is quite willing to bend ; he is no less capable of self-denial than of independence ; sacrifice is not uncommon, a man cares not for his life and his blood. In Homer the war- rior often gives way, and is not blamed if he flees. In the Sagas, in the Edda, he must be over-brave ; in Germany the coward is drowned in the mud, under a hurdle. Through all outbreaks of primitive brutality gleams obscurely the grand idea of duty, which is, the self-constraint exercised in view of some noble end. Having chosen his chief, he forgets himself in him, assigns to him his own glory, serves him to the death. It was on this voluntary subordination that feudal society was based. Man, in this race, can accept a superior, can be capable of devotion and respect. This kind of naked brute, who lies all day by hij fireside, sluggi sh and dirty, always ^eaBng~"and:~drinEingr^ whose^nwty faculties cannot follow ~fEe ~clSran3^ne"outlines of poetic forms, catches a. glimpse of thil sublime in his troubled' dreams. He does not see it, but^imply. . feeis it j his religion is already within, as it will be in the, six- teenth century, when he will cast off the sensuous worship of Rome, and confirm the faith of the heart. His gods are not enclosed in walls ; he has no idols. What he designates by divine names is something invisible and grand, which floats through nature, and is conceived beyond nature,t a mysterious * Tacitus, xiii. f " Deorum nominibus appellant secretum illud, quod sola reverentia vident." Later on, at Upsal for instance, they had images (Adam of Bremen, Hisioria Eccledasticd). Wuotan (Odin) signifies etyraologically the All-Pow- erful, him who penetrates and circulates through everything (Grimm, y!/)///5(;/.) 14 THE SAXONS. infinity which the sense cannot touch, but which "reverence alone can appreciate j " and when, later on, the legends define and alter this vague divination of natural powers, an idea re- mains at the bottom of this chaos of giant-dreams that the world is a warfare, and heroism the greatest excellence. There is no fear of grief, no care for life ; they count it as dross when the idea has seized upon them. The^ trembling of^ the nerves, the repugnance of animal instinct which starts bacJsL before wounds and death, are all lost in an irresistible determi^ nation. There were men amongst them, Berserkirs,* who in battle, seized with a sort of madness, showed a sudden and superhuman strength, and ceased to feel their wounds. This is the conception of a hero as engendered by this race in its in- fancy. Energy, tenacious and mournful energy, an ecstasy of energy — such was their chosen condition. Carlyle said well, that in the sombre obstinacy of an English laborer still survives the tacit rage of the Scandinavian warrior. Strife for strife's sake — such is their pleasure. With what sadness, madness, waste, such a disposition breaks its bonds, we shall see in Shaks- peare and Byron ; with what completeness, in what duties it can entrench and employ itself under moral ideas, we shall see in the case of the Puritans. § 4- — They have established themselves in England ; and however disordered the society which binds them together, it is founded, as in Germany, on generous sentiment. War is at every door, I am aware, but warlike virtues are behind every door ; courage chiefly, then fidelity. Under the brute there is a free man, and a man with a heart. There is no man among them who, at his own risk, will not make alliance, go forth to fight, undertake adventures. There is no group of men among them, who, in their Witenagemot,t is not for ever concluding alli- ances one with another. Every clan, in its own district, forms a league of which all the members, " brothers of the sword," defend * This word signifies men who fought without a breastplate, perhaps in shirts only ; ScottUe, " Baresarks." — Tr. •)■ [ Witena gemot, " the assembly of the wise," the supreme council of the nation, summoned by the King, and consisting of Earls, Thanes, and the higher clergy, both regular and secular. Here laws were passed or repealed, and the King's grants were ratified. See Bosworth's Anglo. Saxon Dictionary, s. v. — ^J. F.] THE SAXONS. 1 5 each other, and demand each other's blood at the price of their own. Every chief in his hall reckons that he has friends, not mercenaries, in the faithful ones who drink his beer, and who, having received as marks of his confidence, bracelets, swords, and suits of armor, will cast themselves between him and danger on the day of battle. Independence and bravery smoulder among this young nation with violence and excess ; but these are of themselves noble things; and no less noble are the senti- ments which serve them for discipline,— to wit, an affeGtioBate "Hevotion, and respect for plighted faith. These appear in their laws, and break forth in their poetry. Among them greatness of heart gives matter for imagination. Their characters are not selfish and shifty, like those of Homer. The^^re bravejiearts,. ^ jinrgle..aiid.&trang,-faithfiiLto, their relatives, tp„ their, niaster-iii- - arms, firm and steadfast to. .eneMe.s,^ and _ iriends, abounding- -in courage, and ready for sacrifice. " Old as I am," says one, " I will not budge hence. I mean to die by my lord's side, near this man I have loved so much. He kept his word, the word he had given to his chief, to the distributor of gifts, promising him that they should return to the town, safe and sound to their homes, or that they would fall both together, in the thick of the carnage, covered with wounds. He lay by his master's side, like a faithful servant." Though awkward in speech, their old poets find touching words when they have to paint these manly friendships. We cannot without emotion hear them relate how the old " king embraced the best of his thanes,* and put his arms about his neck, how the tears flowed down the cheeks of the gray-haired chief. . . . The valiant man was so dear to him. He could not stop the flood which mounted from his breast. In his heart, deep in the cords of his soul, he sighed in secret after the beloved man." Few as are the songs which remain to us, they return to this subject again and again. Amid their per- ilous mode of life, and the perpetual appeal to arms, there exists no sentiment more warm than friendship, nor any virtue stronger than loyalty. Thus supported by powerful aifection and firm fidelity, * [Thane, a nobleman empowered by the king to hold a court ; rank- ing lower than an earl or ealdorman, and corresponding nearly to a baron or lord of a manor. — J. F.] l6 THE SAXONS. society is kept wholesome. As in Germany, amid the sadness of a melancholic temperament and the savagery of a barbarous life, the most tragic human faculties, the deep power of love and the grand power of will, are the only ones that sway and act. This is why the hero, as' in Germany, is truly heroic. Let us speak of him at length; we retain one of their poems, that of Eeowulf, almost entire. Here are the stories; which the thanes, seated on their stools, by the light of their torches, listened to as they drank the ale of their king: we can glean thence their manners and sentiments, as in the Iliad and the Odyssey those of the Greeks. Beowulf is a hero, a knight-errant before the days of chivalry, as the leaders of the German bands were feudal chiefs before_ the institution of feudalism.* He has " rowed upon the sea, his naked sword hard in his hand, amid the fierce waves and coldest of storms, and the rage of winter hurtled over the waves of the deep." The sea-monsters, " the many-colored foes, drew him to the bottom of the sea, and held him fast in their gripe." But he reached " the wretches with his point and with his war-bill." " The mighty sea-beast received the war-rush through his hands," and he slew nine nickors (sea- monsters). And now behold him, as he comes across the waves to succor the old King Hrothgar, who with his vassals sits afflicted in his great mead-hall, high and curved with pinnacles. For " a grim stranger, Grendel, a mighty haunter of the marshes," had entered his hall during the night, seized thirty of the thanes who were asleep, and returned in his war-craft with their car- casses ; for twelve years the dreadful ogre, the beastly and greedy creature, father of Orks and Jotuns, devoured men and emptied the best of houses. Beowulf, the great warrior, offers to grapple with the fiend, and foe to foe contend for life, with- out the bearing of either sword or ample shield, for he has " learned also that the wretch for his cursed hide recketh not of weapons," asking only that if death takes him, they will bear forth Ms bloody corpse and bury it ; mark his fen-dwelling ; send to Hygelac, his chief, the best of war-shrouds that guards his breast. * Kemble thinks that the origin of this poem is very ancient, perhaps contemporary with the invasion of the Angles and Saxons, but that the ver- sion we possess is later than the seventh century. — Kemble's Beoxmtlf, text and translation, 1833. The characters are Danish. 7^HE SAXONS. 1 7 He is lying in the hall, " trusting in his proud strength; and when the mists of night arose, lo, Grendel comes, tears open the door," seized a sleeping warrior : " he tore him unawares, he bit his body, he drank the blood from the veins, he swallowed him with continual tearings." But Beowulf seized him in turn, and " raised himself upon his elbow." "The lordly hall thundered, the ale was spilled. . . . both were enraged ; savage and strong warders ; the house resounded ; then was it a great won- der that the wineTiall withstood the beasts of war, that it fell not upon the earth, the fair palace ; but it was thus fast. . , . The noise arose, new enough ; a fearful terror fell on the North Danes, on each of those who from the wall heard the outciy, God's denier sing his dreadful lay, his song of de- feat, lament his wound.* . . . The foul wretch awaited the mortal wound ; a mighty gash was evident upon his shoulder ; the sinews sprung asunder, the junctures of the bones burst ; success in war was given to Beowulf. Thence must Grendel fly sick unto death, among the refuges of the fens, to seek his joyless dwelling. He all the better knew that the end of his life, the number of his days, was gone by."-|- For he had left on the land, " hand, arm, and shoulder;" and " in the lake of Nicors, where he was driven, the rough wave was boiling with blood, the foul spring of waves all mingled, hot with poison ; the dye, discolored with death, bubbled with warlike gore." There remained a female monster, his mother, who, like him, " was doomed to inhabit the terror of waters, the cold streams," who came by night, and amidst drawn swords tore and devoured another man, ^schere, the king's best friend. A lamentation arose in the palace, and Beowulf offered himself again. They went to the den, a hidden land, the refuge of the wolf, near the windy promontories, where a mountain-stream rusheth downwards under the darkness of the hills, a flood be- neath the earth ; the wood fast by its roots overshadoweth the water ; there may one by night behold a marvel, fire upon the flood : the stepper over the heath, when wearied out by the hounds, sooner will give up his soul, his life upon the brink, than plunge therein to hide his head. Strange dragons and serpents swam there; "from time to time the horn sang a dirge, a terrible song." Beowulf plunged into the wave, descended, passed monsters who tore his coat of mail, to the ogress, the hateful manslayer, who, seizing him in her grasp, bore him oif i ..... , , ; * Kemble's Beowulf, xi. p. 32. | Ibid. xii. p. 34. 1 8 TTTE 'SAXONS. to her dwelling. A pale gleam shone brightly, and there, face to face, the good champion perceived " the she-wolf of the abyss, the mighty sea-woman ; he gave the war-onset with his battle-bill ; he held not back the swing of the sword, so that on her head the ring-mail sang aloud a greedy war-song. . . . The beam of war would not bite. Then he caught the Grendel's mother by the shoulder; twisted the homicide, that she bent upon the floor. ... She drew her knife, broad, brown-edged, (and tried to pierce) the twisted breast-net which protected his life. . . . Then saw he among the weapons a bill fortunate with victory, an old gigantic sword, doughty of edge, ready for use, a. work of giants. He seized the belted hilt ; the warrior of the Scyldings, fierce and savage whirled the ring-mail ; despairing of life, he struck furiously, so that it grappled hard with her about her neck ; it broke the bone-rings, the bill passed through all the doomed body ; she sank upon the floor ; the sword was bloody, the man rejoiced in his deed ; the beam shone, light stood within, even as from heaven mildly shines the lamp of the firmament." * Then he saw Grendel dead in a corner of the hall ; and four of his companions, having with difficulty raised the monstrous head, bore it by the hair to the palace of the king. That was his first labor; and the rest of his life was similar. When he had reigned fifty years on earth, a dragon, who had been robbed of his treasure, came from the hill and burned men and houses '' with waves of fire." " Then did the refiige of earls command to make for him a variegated shield, all of iron ; heknew that a shield of wood could not help him, linden- wood opposed to fire. . . . The prince of rings was then too proud to seek the wide flier with a troop, with a large company ; he feared not for himself that battle, nor did he make any accoimt of the dragon's war, his laborious- ness and valor." And yet he was sad, and went unwillingly, for he was "fated to abide the end." Then "he was ware of a cavern, a mound under the earth, nigh to the sea-wave the dashing of waters, which was full within of embossed ornaments and wires Then the king, hard in war, sat upon the promontory, and bade farewell to his household comrades. ... I, the old guardian of my people, seek a feud." He let words proceed from his heart, the dragon came, vomiting fire; the blade bit not his body, and the king suflfered painfully, * Beowulf, xxii., xxiii., p. Wi ei fassun. THE SAXONS. I9 involved in fire. His comrades had turned into the woods, all save Wiglaf, who went through the fatal smoke, knowing well " that it was not the old custom " to abandon relation and prince, " that he alone shall suffer distress, shall sink in battle." " The worm became fiirious, tlie foul insidious stranger, variegated with waves of fire, hot and vvarUke fierce, he clutched the whole neck with bitter banes ; he was bloodied with life-gore, the blood boiled in waves."* ' They with their swords carved the worm in the midst. Yet the wound of the king became burning and swelled; he soon discovered that the poison boiled in his breast within, and sat by the wall upon a stone; "he looked upon the work of giants, how the eternal cavern held within stone arches fast upon pil- lars." Then he said, " I have held this people fifty years ; there was not any king of my neighbors who dared to greet me with warriors, to oppress me with terror. ... I held mine own well, I sought not treacherous malice, nor swore unjustly many oaths ; on account of all this, I, sick with mortal wounds, may have joy. . . . Now do thou go immediately to behold the hoard under the hoary stone, my dear Wiglaf. . . . Now, I have purchased with my death a hoard of treasures ; it will be yet of advantage at the need of my people. ... I give thanks . . . that I might, before my dying day, obtain such for my people . . . longer may I not here be."f This is thorough and real generosity, not exaggerated and pretended, as it will be later on in the romantic imaginations of babbling clerics, mere composers of adventure. Fiction, as yet, is not far removed from fact : the man breathes manifest under the hero. Rude as the poetry is, its hero is grand ; he is so, simply by his deeds. Faithful, first to his prince, then to his people, he went alone in a strange land, to venture himself for the delivery of his fellow-men ; hefoigetsjijmself in death, while thinking only that it profits others. "Each one of us,""he"says ' in one piace,""'imust ^ abide-'the" 'end" of his present life." Let, therefore, each do justice, if he can, before his death. Com- pare with him the monsters whom he destroys, the last traditions of the ancient wars against inferior races, and of the primitive ,1 '^— * Beowulf, xxxiii.-xxxvi., p. 94 et passim. t Ibid, xxxvii., xxxviii., p. iio et passim. I have throughout always used the very words of Kemble's translation. — Tr. 20 THE SAXONS. religion ; think of his life of danger, nights upon the waves, man's efforts against the brute creation, the indomitable breast crushing the breasts of beasts, powerful muscles which, when exerted, tear the flesh of the monsters : you will see through the mist of legends, and under the light of poetry, the valiant men who, amid the furies of war and the raging of their own mood, began to settle a people and to found a state. § 5. — One poem nearly whole, and two or three fragments are all that remain of this lay-poetry of England. The rest oi the pagan current, German and barbarian, was arrested or over- whelmed, first by the influx of the Christian religion, then by the conquest of the Norman- French. But the remnant^jnore^ than sufBces to. show the. strange ,_and^ powerful poetic genius^ of the race, and -±o exhibit beforehand 4he flower in the bud. " A race so constituted was predisposed to Christianity, by its gloom, its aversion to sensual and reckless living, its inclination for the serious and sublime. When their sedentary habits had reconciled their souls to a long period of ease, and weakened the fury which fed their sanguinary religion, they readily in- clined to a new faith. Society, on its formation, irjtroducedjhe^ jdea of peace and the need for justice, anci the war-gods faded from the^ minds pi'ia&w, with the passions which had created^ theni. A century and a half after the invasion by the Saxons,* Roman missionaries, bearing a silver cross with a picture of Christ, came in procession chanting a litany. Presently the high priests of the Northumbrians declared in presence of the nobles that the old gods were powerless, and confessed that formerly "he knew nothing of that which he adored j " and he among the first, lance in hand, assisted to demolish their tem- ple. At his side a chief rose in the assembly, and said : " You remember, it may be, O king, that which sometimes happens in winter when you are seated at table with your earls and thanes. Your fire is lighted, and your hall warmed, and without is rain and snow and storm. Then comes a swallow flying across the hall ; he enters by one door and leaves by another. The brief moment while he is within is pleasant to him ; he feels not rain nor cheerless winter weather ; but the moment is brief— the bird flies away in the twinkling of an eye, and he passes from winter to winter. Such, methinks, is the life of man on earth, compared * 596-625. Aug. Thierry, i. 81 ; Bede, xii. 2. THE SAXONS. 21 with the uncertain time beyond. It appears for awhile ; but what is the time which comes after — tlie time whicli was before ? We know not. If, then, this new doctrine may teach us somewhat of greater certainty, it were well that we should regard it." This restlessness, this feeling of the infinite and dark be- yond, this sober, melancholy eloquence, were the harbingers of spiritual life. We find nothing like it among the nations of the south, naturally pagan, and preoccupied with the present life. These utter barbarians embrace Christianity straightway, through sheer force of mood and clime. To no purpose are they^ brutal^ heayyj_^slMckled_by_infaniine superititions," capableTTHce King Knut, of buying for a hundred golden talents the arm of Augus- tine. They possess the idea of God. This grand God of the Bible, omnipotent and unique, who disappears almost entirely in the middle ages,* obscured by His court and His family, en- dures among them in spite of absurd and grotesque legends. They do not blot Him out under pious romances, by the eleva- tion of the saints, or under feminine caresses, to benefit the in- iknt Jesus and the Virgin. More than any race in Europe, they approach, by the simplicity and energy of their conceptions, the old Hebraic spirit. Casdmon, their old poet,T says Bede, was a more ignorant man than the others, who knew no poetry ; so that in the hall, when they handed him the harp, he was obliged to withdraw, being unable to sing like his companions. Once, keeping night-watch over the stable, he fell asleep. A stranger appeared to him, and asked him to sing something, and these words came into his head : " Now we ought to praise the Lord of heaven, the power of the Creator, and His skill, the deeds of the Father of glory ; how He, being eternal God, is the author of all marvels ; who, almighty guardian of the human race, created first for the sons of men the heavens as the roof of their dwelling, and then the earth."t Remembering this when he woke, he came to the town, and they brought him before the learned men, before the abbess Hilda, who, when they had heard him, thought that he had received a gift , from heaven, and made him a monk in the abbey. There he spent * Michelet, preface to La Renaissance; JSi&xo'o., Histoire de Dieu. f About 630. See Codex Exoniensis, Thorpe. % Bede, iv. 24. 22 THE SAXUNS. his life listening to portions of Holy Writ, which were explained to him in Saxon, "ruminating over them like a pure animal, turned them into most sweet verse." Thus is true poetry born. These men pray with all the emotion of a new soul ; they kneel ; they adore ; the less they know, the more they think. Some one has said that the first and most sincere hymn is this one word O ! Theirs were hardly longer; they only repeated time after time some deep passionate word, with monotonous vehemence. " In heaven art Thou, our aid and succor, resplen- dent with happiness! All things bow before Thee, before the glory of Thy Spirit. With one voice they call upon Christ ; they all cry : Holy, holy art Thou, King of the angels of heaven, our Lord! and Thy judgments are just and great: they reign for ever and in all places, in the multitude of Thy works." We are reminded of the songs of the servants of Odin, tonsured now, and clad in the garments of monks. Their poetry is the same ; they think of God, as of Odin, in a string of short, accu- mulated, passionate images, like a succession of lightning- flashes ; the Christian hymns embody the pagan. One of them, Adhelm, stood on a bridge leading to the town where he lived, and repeated warlike and profane odes alternately with religious poetry, in order to attract and instruct the men of his time. He could do it without changing his key. By this natural con- formity they were able to make their religious poems indeed poems. If they can describe religious tragedies, it is because their soul was tragic, and in a degree biblical. They introduce their fierce vehemence into their verses, like the old prophets of Israel, their murderous hatreds, their fanaticism, all the shud- derings of their flesh and blood. One of them, whose poem is mutilated, has related the history of Judith — with what in- spiration we shall see. It needed a barbarian to display in such strong light excesses, tumult, murder, vengeance, and combat. "Then was Holofcrner exhilarated with wine; in the halls of his guests he laughed and shouted, he roared and dinned. Then might the children of men afar off hear how the stem one stormed and clamored, animated and elated with wine. He admonished amply that they should bear it well to those sitting on the bench. So was the wicked one over all the day, the lord and his men, drunk with wine, the stern dispenser of wealth ; till that they swimming lay over drunk, all his nobility, as they were death-slain."* * Turner, Hist, of An«lo-Saxons, iii. book g, ch. 3, p. 271. THE SAXONS. 23 The night having arrived, he commands them to bring into his tent " the illustrious virgin ;'' then, going in to visit her, he falls drunk on his bed. The moment was come for " the maid of the Creator, the holy woman." " She took the heathen man fast by his hair ; she drew him by his limbs towards her disgracefully ; and the mischief-ful odious man at her pleasure laid ; so as the wretch she might the easiest well command. She with the twisted locks struck the hateful enemy, meditating hate, with the red sword, till she had half cut off his neck ; so that he lay in a swoon, drunk and mortally wounded. He was not then dead, not entirely lifeless. She struck then earnest, the woman illustrious in strength, another time the heathen hound, till that his head rolled forth upon the floor. The foul one lay with- out a coflfer ; backward his spirit turned under the abyss, and there was plunged below, with sulphur fastened ; for ever afterwards wounded by worms. Bound in torments, hard imprisoned, in hell he burns. After his course he need not hope, with darkness overwhelmed, that he may escape from that mansion of worms ; but there he shall remain, ever and ever, without end, henceforth in that cavern-house, void of the joys of hope."* Has any one ever heard a sterner accent of satisfied hate ? When Clovis had listened to the Passion play, he cried, " Why was I not there with my Franks ! " So here the old warrior instinct swelled into flame over the Hebrew wars. As soon as Judith returned, " Men under helms (went out) from the holy city at the dawn itself. They dinned shields ; men roared loudly. At this rejoiced the lank wolf in the wood, and the wan raven, the fowl greedy of slaughter, botli from the west, that the sons of men for them should have thought to prepare their fill on corpses. And to them flew in their paths the active devourer, the eagle, hoary in his feathers. The willowed kite, with his horned beak, sang the song of Hilda. The noble warriors proceeded, they in mail, to the battle, furnished with shields, with swelling banners. . . . They then speedily let fly forth showers of arrows, the serpents of Hilda, from their horn bows ; the spears on the ground hard stormed. Loud raged the plunderers of bat- tle ; they sent their darts into the throng of the chiefs. . . . They that awhile before the reproach of the foreigners,' the taunts of the heathen end;ired."f Among all these unknown poetst there is one whose name we know, Caedmon, perhaps the old Csedmon who wrote the first hj'mn ; like him, at all events, who, paraphrasing the Bible with a barbarian's vigor and sublimity, has shown the grandeur * Turner, Hist, of Anglo-Saxons, iii. book 9, ch. 3, p. 272. f Ibid, p. 274. \ Grein, Bibliothek der Angelsachsischen poesie. 24 THE SAXONS. and fury of the sentiment with which the men of these times entered into their new religion. Like the others, he wrestles with God in his heart; triumphs like a warrior in destruction and victory ; and in relating the death of Pharaoh, can hardly speak from anger, or see, because the blood mounts to his eyes : " The folk was affrighted, the flood-dread seized on their sad souls ; ocean wailed with death, the mountain heights were with blood besteamed, the sea foamed gore, crying was in the waves, the water full of weapons, a death-mist rose: the Egyptians were turned back ; trembling they fled, they felt fear; would that host gladly find their homes ; their vaunt grew sadder: against them, as a cloud, rose the fell rolling of the waves ; there came not any of that host to home, but from behind inclosed them fate with the wave. Where ways ere lay sea raged. Their might was merged, the streams stood, tl}e storm rose high to heaven ; the loudest army-cry the hostile uttered ; the air above was thickened with dying voices. . . . Ocean raged, drew itself up on high, the storms rose, the corpses rolled." * Is the song of the Exodus more abrupt, more vehement, or more savage ? These men can speak of the creation like the Bible, because they speak of destruction like the Bible. They have only to look into their own minds in order to discover an emotion sufficiently strong to raise their souls to the height of their Creator. This emotion existed already in their pagan legends ; and Casdmon, in order to recount the origin of things, has only to turn to the ancient dreams, such as have been pre- served in the prophecies of the Edda. " There had not here as yet, save cavern-shade, aught been ; but' this wide abyss stood deep and dim, strange to its Lord, idle and useless ; on which looked with his eyes the King firm of mind, and beheld those places void of joys ; saw the dark cloud lower in eternal night, swart under neaven, dark and waste, until this worldly creation through tlie word existed of the Glory-King. . . . The earth as yet was not green with grass ; ocean covered, swart in eternal night, far and wide the dusky ways."f In this manner will Milton hereafter speak, the descendant of the Hebrew seers, last of the Scandinavian seers, but assisted in the development of his thought by all the resources of Latin culture and civilization. And yet he will add nothing to the primitive sentiment. Milton's Satan exists already in Caedmon's, * Thorpe, Ccedmon, 1S32, xlvii. p. 206. f Ibid, ii. p. 7. A likeness exists between this song and corresponding portions of the Edda. THE SAXONS. 25 as the picture exists in the sketch ; because both have their model in the race ; and Casdmon found his originals in the northern warriors, as Milton did in the Puritans : " Why shall I for his favor serve, bend to him in such vassalage ? I may be a god as he. Stand by me, strong associates, who vcill not fail me in the strife. Heroes stern of mood, they have chosen me for chief, renowned warriors ! with such may one devise counsel, with such capture his adher- ents ; they are my zealous friends, faithful in their thoughts ; I may be their chieftain, sway in this realm ; thus to me it seemeth not right that I in aught need cringe to God for any good ; I will no longer be his vassal."* He is overcome ; shall he be subdued ? He is cast into the place "where torment they suffer, burning heat intense, in midst of hell, fire and broad flames : so also the bitter seeks smoke and darkness ; " will he repent ? At first he is astonished, he despairs ; but it is a hero's despair. " This narrow place is most unlike that other that we ere knew,f high in heaven's kingdom, which my master bestow'd on me. . . . Oh, had I power of my hands, and might one season be without, be one winter's space, then with this host I — But around me lie iron bonds, presseth this cord of chain : I am powerless ! me have so hard the clasps of hell, so firmly grasped ! Here is a vast fire above and underneath, never did I see a loathlier land- skip ; the flame abateth not, hot over hell. Me hath the clasping of these rings, this hard-polish'd band, impeded in my course, debarr'd me from my way ; my feet are bound, my hands manacled, ... so that with aught I cannot from these limb-bonds escape." % As there is nothing to be done against God, it is with His new creature, man, that he must busy himself. To hira who has lost everything, vengeance is left; and if the conquered can enjoy this, he will find himself happy ; " he will sleep softly, even under his chains." § 6.- — Here the foreign culture ceased. Beyond Christianity it could not graft upon this barbarous stock any fruitfiil or living branch. All the circumstances which elsewhere softened the wild sap, failed here. The Saxons found Britain abandoned by the Romans; they had not yielded, like their brothers on the ' * Thorpe, Cadmon, iv. p. 18. f This is Milton's opening also. (See Paradise Lost, Book i. verse 242, etc.) One would think that he must have had some knowledge of Ca;dmon from the translation of Junius. + Thorpe, Ccedmon, iv. p. 23. 26 THE SAXONS. continent, to the ascendency of a superior civilization ; they had not become mingled with the inhabitants of the land ; they had always treated them like enemies or slaves, pursuing like wolves those who escaped to the mountains of the west, oppressing like beasts of burden those whom they had conquered with the land. Whilethe Germans of Gaul,. Italy, and Spain became.Rama^^ the Saxons retained their language, their genius and mannerSj_ and created in Britain a Germany outside of Germany, A hun- dred and fifty years after the Saxon invasion, the introduction of Christianity and the dawn of security attained by a societ}' in- \ dining to peace, gave.birth to a kind of literature ; and we meet with the venerable Bede,Jand later on, Aicuin,_John Scotus Erigena, and some others, commentators, translators, teachers of barbarians, who tried not to originate but to compile, to pick out and explain from the great Greek and Latin encyclopedia some- thing which might suit the men of their time. But the wars with the Danes came and crushed this humble plant, which, if left to itself, would have come to nothing. When Alfred* the Deliv- erer became king, " there were very few ecclesiastics," he says, " on this side of the Humber, who could understand in English their own Latin prayers, or translate any Latin writing into Eng- lish. On the other side of the Humber I think there were scarce any ; there were so few that, in truth, I cannot remember a single man south of the Thames, when I took the kingdom, who was capable of it." He tried, like Charlemagne, to instruct his people, and turned into Saxon for their use several works, above all some moral books, as the de Consolatione of Boethius ; but this very translation bears witness to the barbarism of his audience. He adapts the text in order to bring it down to their intelligence ; the pretty verses of Boethius, somewhat preten- tious, labored, elegant, crowded with classical allusions of a re- fined and polished style worthy of Seneca, become an artless, long drawn out and yet abrupt prose, like a nurse's fairy tale, explaining everything, recommencing and breaking off its phrases, making ten turns about a single detail; so low was it necessary to stoop to the level of this new intelligence, which had never thought or known anything. * Died in 901 ; Adhelm died .709, Bede died 735, Alcuin lived under Cliarlemagne, Erigena under Charles the Bald (843-877). THE SAXONS. 27 Boethius had for his audience senators, men of culture, who understood as well as we the slightest mythological allusion. Alfred is obliged to take them up and develop them, like a father or a master, who draws his little boy between his knees, and relates to him names, qualities, crimes and their punish- ments, which the Latin only hints at. But the ignorance is such that the teacher himself needs correction. He takes the Parcae for the Erinyes, and gives Charon three heads like Cer- berus. There is no adornment in his version ; no finesse as in the original. Alfred himself has hard work to be understood. He has to call everything by its name, and turn the eyes of his people to tangible and visible things ; the Danes whom he had converted by the sword needed a clear moral. If he had trans- lated for them exactly the fine words of Boethius, they would have opened wide their big stupid eyes and fallen asleep. Alfred himself was almost the last man of culture ; he, like Charlemagne, became so only by dint of determination and patience. In vain the great spirits of this^age endeaypr jtp.link themselves to the relics" of the old civilization^ and to raise themselves above the chaotic and^rnuddy ignorance in which the others wallow. They rise almost alone, -and on their death the restjire again enveloped in the mire. It is the human beast that remains master ; genius cannot" find a place amid revolt and bloodthirstiness, gluttony and brute force. Even in the little circle where he moves, his labor comes to nought. The model which he proposed to himself oppresses and enchains him in a cramping imitation ; he aspires but to be a good copyist : he produces a gathering of centos which he calls Latin verses ; he applies himself to the discovery of expressions, sanctioned by good models ; he succeeds only in elaborating an emphatic, spoiled Latin, bristling with incongruities. A few, like Adhelm, wrote square acrostics, in which th.e first line, repeated at the end, was found also to the left and right of the piece. Thus made up of the first and last letters of each verse, it forms a border to the whole piece, and the morsel of verse is like a mor- sel of tapestry. Strange literary tricks, which changed the poet • into an artisan ! They bear witness to the contrariety which then impeded culture and nature, and spoiled at once the Latin form and the Saxon genius. , This very Adhelm, a relative of King Ina, who sang on the 28 THE SAXONS. town-bridge profane and sacred hymns alternately, too much imbued with Saxon poesy simply to imitate the antique models, adorned his Latin prose and verse with all the " English magnif- icence."* You might compare him to a barbarian who seizes a flute from the skilled hands of a player of Augustus' court, in order to blow on it with inflated lungs, as if it were the bellow- ing horn of an aurochs. The sober speech of the Roman ora- tors and senators becomes in his hands full of exaggerated and incoherent images ; he heaps up his colors, and gives vent to the extraordinary and unintelligible nonsense of the later' Skalds. § 7. — Such was this race, the last born of the sister races, Saxon, Latin, and Greek, which, in the decay of the other two. brings to the world a new civilization, with a new character and genius. Inferior to these in many respects, it surpasses them in not a few. Amid the woods and fens and snows, under a'; sad, inclement sky, gross instincts have gained the day. Th&_ German has jiat acquired gay humor, unreserved facility, the idea of harmonious beauty j his great phlegmatic^body cpn^in::, ues fierce and^coarse,' greedy and brutal j his rude and unplia- ble mind is still.inclined to savagery, and restive under culture. Hitherto at least the race is intact — intact in its primitive rude- ness ; the Roman cultivation could neither develop nor deform it. If Christianity took root, it was owing to natural affinities, but it produced no change in the native genius. Now approaches a new conquest, which is to bring this time men, as ■well as ideas. The Saxons, meanwhile, after the wont of Ger- man races, vigorous and fertile, have within the past six centu- ries multiplied enormously. They were now about two millions, and the Norman army numbered sixty thousand.f In vain these Normans become transformed, gallicised ; by their origin, and * William of Malmesbui^'s expression. \ [The tradition that WilUam's army numbered sixty thousand rests upon two uncritical statements of William of Poitiers and Ordericus Vitalis, and is, in all probability, erroneous. It is not likely that the Norman army numbered moro than twenty-five thousand, a large proportion of whom were Bretons and Frenchmen. See Sismondi, Hist, des FranQais, tom iv. PP- 351-353, and a paper of mine in Appleton's Journal, Oct. 16, i86g, The effect of William's conquest upon English history was incalculably great : its effect upon English race-constitution was incalculably small — J.F.] THE SAXONS. 29 substantially in themselves they are still the relatives of those whom they conquered. In vain they imported their manners and their poesy, and introduced into the language a third part of its words ; this language continues altogether German in ele- ment and in substance.* Though the grammar changed, it changed integrally, by an internal action, in the same sense as its continental cognates. At the end of three hundred years^ the conquerors themselves were cotigueied j- their ^speech.- becam e EnglishL; and owing to^jfrequent^intermarxiage,- -the_- English blood ended by gaining thejjredominance over the- Nor- man~blood in thgii:::SEins.--^ie race finally remains Saxon. If the old poetic genius disappears after the Conquest, it is as a river disappears, and flows for a while under ground. In five centuries it will emerge once more. * Warton, History of English Poetry, 1840, 3 vols., preface. CHAPTER II. THE NORMANS. § 8. — Let us now consider the Frenchman or Norman, tha man from Anjou or Maine, who in his well-closed coat of mailj with sword and lance, came to seek his fortune in England. H^ took the manor of some slain Saxon, and settled himself in it with his soldiers and comrades, gave them land, houses, thJ right of levying taxes, on condition of their fighting under him| and for him, as men-at-arms, marshals, standard-bearers ; it w^s a league in case of danger. Each one hastened to build for| himself a place of refuge, castle or fortress, well fortified, of^ solid stone, with narrow windows, strengthened with battle- ments, garrisoned by soldiers, pierced with loopholes. They^ are an armed colony, and encamped in their dwellings, like thd Spartans among the Helots ; and they make laws accordingly. When a Frenchman is found dead in any district, the inhabi- tants are to give up the murderer, unless they pay forty-seven| marks as compensation ; if the dead man is English, it rests! with the people of the place to prove it by the oath of foiu" neari relatives of the deceased. They are to beware of killing a stagJ boar, or fawn ; for an offence against the forest-laws they will! lose their eyes. They have nothing of all their property assured; to them except as alms, or on condition of tribute, or by taking] the oath of homage. Here a free Saxon proprietor is made body-slave on his own estate. Here a noble and rich Saxon] lady feels on her shoulder the weight of the hand of a Norma; valet, who is become by force her husband or her lover. Then were Saxons of one sou, or of two sous, according to the su: wTuclf they Tirought to their" masters ; they sold them, hirec them, worked them on joint account, like an ox or an~ass The Normans would not and could not borrow any idea or cus THE NORMANS. 31 torn from such boors ;* they despised them as coarse and stu]3idj_ They stood among them, superior in force and culture, " more versed in letters, more expert in the arts of luxury. They preserved their own manners and their speech. The statutes of the universities obliged the students to con- verse either in French or Latin. " Gentilmen children beeth taught to speke Frensche from the tyme that they bith rokked in hire cradell ; and uplondissche men will likne himself to gentylmen, and fondeth with greet besynesse for to speke Frensche." Of course the poetry is French. The Norman, who ridiculed the Saxon kings, who dug up the Saxon saints, and cast them without the walls of the church, loved none but French ideas and verses. It was into French verse that Robert Wace rendered the legendary history of the England which was conquered, and the actual history of the Normandy in which he continued to live. Enter one of the abbeys where the minstrels come to sing, " where the clerks, after dinner and supper, read poems, the chronicles of kingdoms, the wonders of the world," you will only find Latin or French verses, Latin or French prose. What becomes of English ? Obscure, despised, we hear it no more, except in the mouths of degraded franklins, outlaws of the forest, swineherds, peasants, the lowest orders. It is no longer, or scarcely written ; gradually we find in the Saxon chronicle that the idiom alters, is extinguished j the chronicle itself ceases within a century after the Conquestt The people whpjiave.leisure or securitj^enough to read or write are French. ^ fbi^Jhem authors devise and compose ; literature always adapts itself to the taste of those who can appreciate and pay for it. Even the English % endeavor to write in French : thus Robert ^ Gro^|te, !in his allegorical poem on Christ ; Peter Langtoft, in his Chronicle of England, and'in his Life of Thomas d JBecket; Hugh de Rotheland,,in his poem of Hippomedon ; John Hove- den, and many others. Gower, one of their best poets, at the end of his French works, excuses himself humbly for not having * " In the year 652," says Warton, i. 3, " it was the common practice of the Anglo-Saxons to send their youth to the monasteries of France for education ; and not only the language but the manners of the French were esteemed the most polite accomplishments." ) fin 1154. I Warton, i. 72-78. 32 THE NORMANS. " de Franjais la faconde. Pardonnez moi," lie says, " que de ce je forsvoie ; je suis Anglais." * i And yet, after all, neither the race nor the tongue has per-^ ished. It is necessary that the Norman should learn English,| in order to command his serfs ; his Saxon wife speaks it to him. and his sons receive it from the lips of their nurse. Scholarly speech, the language of law, abstract and philosophical expres- sions, — in short, all words depending on reflection and culture may be French, since there is nothing to prevent it. On the other hand, as regards the speech employed about common actions and sensible objects, it is the people, the Saxons, who fix it ; these living words are too firmly rooted in their expe^n ence to allow of their removing them, and thus the whole sub- stance of the language comes from them. Here, then, we have the Norman, who, slowly and constrainedly, speaks and under- stands English, a deformed, gallicised English, yet English, vig- orous and original ; but he has taken his time about it, for it has required two centuries. It was only under Henry iii. that the new tongue is complete, with the new constitution, and that, after the like fashion, by alliance and intermixture j the burgesses come to take their seats in Parliament with the nobles, at the same time that Saxon words settle down in the language sidfi by side with French words. § 9. — So was modern English formed, by compromise, and the necessity of being understood. But one can well imagine that these nobles, even while speaking the growing dialect, have their hearts full of French tastes and ideas ; France remains the land of their genius, and the literature which now begins is but translation. Translators, copyists, imitators — there is not! ing else. England is a distant province, which is to Frand what the United States were, thirty years ago, to Europe : sll exports her wool, and imports her ideas. Open the Voyage a\ Travaik of Sir yohn Maundeville,-\ the oldest prose- writer, tlf Villehardouin of the country ; his book is but the translation a translation. He writes first in Latin, the language of schcl ars ; then in French, the language of society ; finally he reflecfl and discovers that the bar ons, his compatriots, by governing tB * Gower died in 1408; his French ballads belong to tlie end of fourteenth century. f He wrote in 1356, and died in 1372. THE NORMANS. 33 rustic Saxons, have ceased to speak their own Norman, and that the rest of the nation never knew it ; he translates his book into English, and, in addition, takes care to make it plain, feeling that he speaks to less expanded understandings. He says in French : " II advint une fois que Mahomet allait dans une chapelle oil il y avait un saint ermite. II entra en la chapelle ou il y avait une petite huisserie et basse, et etait bien petite la chapelle ; et alors devint la porte si grande qu'il semblait que ce fut la porte d'un palais." He Stops, recollects himself, wishes to explain himself better for his readers across the Channel, and says in English : " And at the desertes of Arabye, he wente in to a Chapelle where o, Eremyte duelte. And whan he entred in to the Chapelle that was but a lytille and a low thing, and had but a lytill Dore and a low, than the Entree began to wexe so gret and so large, and so highe, as though it had ben of a gret Mynstre, or the Zate of a Paleys." Let us see, then, what our Norman baron gets translated for him : first, the chronicles of Geoffrey Gaimar and Robert Wace, which consist of the fabulous history of England continued up to their day, a dull-rhymed rhapsody, turned into English in a rhap- sody no less dull. The first Englishman who attempts it is Laya- mon, a monk of Ernely, still fettered in the old idiom, who some- times happens to rhyme, sometimes fails, altogether barbarous and childish, unable to develop a continuous idea, babbling in little confused and incomplete phrases, after the fashion of the ancient Saxon ; after him a monk,( Robert of Gloucester, and a canon, Roberif^f Brunnei, both as insipid and clear as their French models, having become gallicised, and adopted the significant characteristic ofThe race, namely, the faculty and habit of easy narration, and seeing moving spectacles without deep emotion, of writing prosaic poetry, of discoursing and developing, of be- lieving that phrases ending in the same sounds form real poetry. Our honest English versifiers, like their preceptors in Norman- dy and Ile-de-France, garnished with rhymes their dissertations and histories, and called them poems. At this epoch, in fact, on the Continent, the whole learning of the schools descends into the street ; and Jean de Meung, in his poem of la Rose, is the most tedious of doctors. So in England, Robert of Brunne transposes into verse the Manuel des P'ech'es of Bishop Grost^te; Adam Davie,* certain Scripture histories; Hampolef composes * About 1312. t About 1349. 3 34 THE NORMANS. the Pricke of Consdetue. The titles alone make one yawn j what of the text ? " Mankynde mad ys to do Goddus wylle, j And alle Hys byddyngus to fulfille ; | For of al His makyng more and les, '• Man most principal creature es. Al that He made for man hit was done, \ As ye schal here after sone." * ; There is a poem ! You did not think so ; call it a sermon if I you will give it its proper name. It goes on, well divided, well J prolonged, flowing and hollow ; the literature which contains^ and resembles it bears witness of its origin by its loquacity and | its clearness. v It bears witness to it by other and more agreeable features. | Here and there we find divergences more or less awkward into i the domain of genius ; for instance, a ballad fiill of quips against Richard, King of the Romans, who was taken at the battle of i Lewes. Moreover, charm is not lacking, nor sweetness either. ' No one has ever spoken so lively and so well to the ladies as the French of the Continent, and they have not quite forgotten this talent while settling in England. You perceive it readily in the manner in which they celebrate the Virgin. Nothing could be more different from the Saxon sentiment, which is altogether biblical, than the chivalric adoration of the sovereign Lady, the fascinating Virgin and Saint, who was the real deity of the mid- , die ages. It breathes in this pleasing hymn : \ " Blessed beo thu, lavedi, Ful of hovene blisse ; ; Swete flvir of parais, , Moder of milternisse. ... I-blessed beo tliu, Lavedi, So fair and so briht ; Al min hope is uppon the, Bi day and bi nicht. . . . Bricht and scene quen of storre. So me liht and lere. In this false flkele world, So me led and steore." f * Warton, ii. 36. f Time of Henry III., Reliquia; Antigua, edited by Messrs. Wright ani Halliwell, i. 102. i THE NORMANS. 3S There is but a short and easy step between this tender worship of the Virgin and the sentiments of the court of love. The English rhymesters take it ; and when they wish to praise their earthly mistresses, they borrow, here as elsewhere, our ideas and very form of verse. One compares his lady to all kinds of precious stones and flowers ; others sing truly amorous songs, at times sensual. They speak of spring-time and of love, " the fine and lovely weather," like trouvhres, even like troubadours. The dirty, smoke-grimed cottage, the black feudal castle, where all but the master lie higgledy-piggledy on the straw in the great stone hall, the cold rain, the muddy earth, make the return of the sun and the warm air delicious. " Sumer is i-cumen in, Lhude sing cuccu : Groweth sed, and bloweth med. And springeth the wde nu. Sing cuccu, cuccu. Awe bleteth after lomb, Llouth after calue cu, Bulluc stertetli, buclte verteth : Murie sing cuccu, Cuccu, cuccu. Wei singes thu cuccu ; Ne swili thu nauer nu. Sing cuccu, nu, Sing, cuccu."* Here are glowing pictures, such as Guillaume de Lorris was writing at the same time, even richer and more lively, perhaps, because the poet found here for inspiration that love of country- life which in England is deep and national. But it was the poems of chivalry, which represented joJiim^_ in fair langilage^ his own mode of life, that the baron preferred to~have3ianslated. Heliesired" that his irouvhre should set before his eyes the magnificence which he has spread around him, and the luxury and enjoyments which he has introduced from France. Life, at that time, without and even during war, was a great pageant, a brilliant and tumultuous kind of f^te. Out of the very exuberancy of genius they practised the art of poetry ; out of the buoyancy of their imagination they made a * Warton, i. 30. 36 THE NORMANS. sport of life. Edward iii. built at Windsor a round hall and a round table ; and in one of his tourneys in London, sixty ladies, seated on palfreys, led, as in a fairy tale, each her knight by a golden chain. His wife Philippa sat as a model to the artistS: for their Madonnas. She appeared on the field of battle ; list-f ened to Froissart, who provided her with moral-plays, love- stories, and "things fair to listen to." At once goddess, heroine, and scholar, and all' this so agreeably, was she not a true queen of polite chivalry .? Now, as in France under Louis of Orleans and the Dukes of Burgundy, the most elegant flower of this romanesque civilization appeared, void of common sense, given up to passion, bent on pleasure, immoral and brilliant, but, like its neighbors of Italy and Provence, for lack of serious intend tion, it could not last. ^ Amid such fancies and splendors the poets delight and los4| themselves ; and the result, like the embroideries of their can-" vas, bears the mark of this love of decoration. They weave it out of adventures, of extraordinary and surprising events. No\^ it is the life of King Horn, who, thrown into a vessel whenj quite young, is driven upon the coast of England, and, becom-l ing a knight, reconquers the kingdom of his father. Now it isi the history of Sir Guy, who rescues enchanted knights, cutaj down the giant Cblbrand, challenges and kills the Sultan in his tent. It is not for me to recount these poems, which are noi English, but only translations : still, here as in France, they an multiplied, they fill the imaginations of the young society, and they grow by exaggeration, until, falling to the lowest depth of j insipidity and improbability, they are buried forever by Cer- vantes. What would you say of a society wliich had no literal ture but the opera with its unrealities ? Yet it was a literaturJ of this kind which nourished the genius of the middle age J They did not ask for truth, but entertainment,, and that vehe- ment and hollow, full of glare and startling evegts. They aske for impossible voyages, extravagant challenges, a racket of co tests, a confusion of magnificence and entanglement of chances For introspective history they had no liking, cared nothing fc the adventures of the heart, devoted their attention to the ou side. They lived like children, with eyes glued to a series exaggerated and colored images, and, for lack of thinking, dil not perceive that they had learnt nothing. THE NORMANS 37 What was there beneath this fanciful dream ? Bmtal and evil human passions ; even in chivalrous accounts break out t^ lierceMidlinbnHreS' Instincts of Fhe bloodthirsty iarute. The authentic "narratives ""ghdw it "equaTly. Henry ^i., irritated against a page, attempted to tear out his eyes.* John Lack- land let twenty-three hostages die in prison of hunger. Edward II. caused at one time twenty-eight nobles to be hanged and disembowelled, and was himself put to death by the insertion of a red-hot iron into his bowels. Look in Froissart for the debaucheries and murders, in France as well as in England, of the Hundred Years' War, and then for the slaughters of the Wars of the Roses. In both countries feudal independence ended in civil war, and the middle age founders under its vices. Chivalrous courtesy, which cloaked the native ferocityj^ disap- pears1ike^~^ifmeint suddenly'consumed by the breaking put, 'of aBre^ atTEat~^Time"in ■Eng^anff^hey"ki^Ied nobles in prefer- ence, and prisoners too, even children, with insults, in cold blood. What, then, did man learn in this civilization and by this literature ? He dreamed, he imagined a sort of elegant cere- monial in order to address better lords and ladies ; he discov- ered the gallant code of little Jehan de Saintre. But where is the true education ? Wherein has Froissart profited by all his vast experience ? He was a fine specimen of a babbling child ; what they called his poesy, the po'esie neuve, is only a refined ^bble,--a senile puerility. Sir John Maundeville, who travelled all over the world a hundred and fifty years after Villehardouin, is as contracted in his ideas as Villehardouin himself. Extraordinary legends and fables, every sort of credulity and ignorance, abound in his book. He has seen at Jerusa- lem, on the steps of the temple, the footmarks of the ass which our Lord rode on Palm Sunday. He describes the Ethiopians as a people who have only one foot, but so large that they can make use of it as a parasol. He instances one island " where be people as big as gyants, of 28 feet long, and have no cloath- ing but beasts' skins ; " then another island, " where there are many evil and foul women, but have precious stones in their eyes, and have such force that if they behold any man with wrath, they sky him with beholding, as the basilisk doth." The * See Lingard's History, ii. 55, note 4. — ^Tr. 38 THE NORMANS. good man relates; that is all: hesitation and good sense scarcely exist in the world he lives in. He has neither judg- ment nor personal reflection ; he piles facts one on top of another, with no further connection ; his book is simply a mirror j which reproduces recollections of his eyes and ears. "And all| those who will say a Peter and an Ave Maria in my behalf, I give them an interest and a share in all the holy pilgrimages la ever made in my life." That is his farewell, and accords with;_^ all the rest. Neither public morality nor public knowledge has | gained anything from these three centuries of culture. This French culture, copied in vain throughout Europe, has but superficially adorned mankind, and the varnish with which it decked them, already fades away or scales off. It was worse in England, where the thing was more superficial and the appli- cation worse than in France, where strange hands daubed it on, and where it only half-covered the Saxon crust, which remained coarse and rough. That is the reason why, during three^cen- turies, throughout the first feudal age7the' literature of the Nor- mans in England^ made up of imitations, franslatiohs^ and" clumsy copies, ends in nothing. § 10. — Meantime, what has become of the conquered people? Has the old stock continued barren during this time under the Norman axe, which stripped it of all its shoots ? It grew very feebly, but it grew nevertheless. The subjugated race is not a dismembered nation, dislocated, uprooted, sluggish, like the r populations of the Continent, which, after the long Roman op- pression, were delivered over to the disorderly invasion of bar- barians ; it remained united, fixed in its own soil, full of sap : i its members were not displaced ; it was simply lopped in order i to receive on its crown a cluster of foreign branches. True, it had suffered, but at last the wound closed, the saps mingled. Even the hard, stiff ligatures, with which the Conqueror bound it, henceforth contributed to its fixity and vigor. Gradually and slowly, through the gloomy complainings of the chroniclers, we find the new man fashioned by action, likef a child who cries because a steel instrument, though it improves his figure, gives him pain. However reduced and down-trodden the Saxons were, they did not all sink into the populace. These men, even though fallen to the condition of socagers, even sunk into villeins, had a stifFer neck than the wretched colonists of THE NORM A MS. 39 the Continent, trodden down and moulded by four centuries of Roman taxation. If they have acquired liberties, it is because they have conquered them ; circu rn stances— have-assist-ed, but character has done more. The protection of tlre"greiat barons and the alliance of the plain knights have strengthened them ; but it was by their native roughness and energy that they main- tained their independence. For, look at the contrast they offer at this moment to their neighbors. What occupies the mind of the French people ? The fabliaux, the naughty tricks of Renard, the art of deceiving Master Ysengrin, of stealing his wife, of cheating, him out of his dinner, of getting him beaten by a third party without danger to one's self; in short, the triumph of poverty and cleverness over power united to folly. The^opular herojs already the artful plebeianj^chaffing, light-hearted, who, later on, will ripen into I*anurge_- and Figaro, not apt to with- stand you to your face, too sharp to care for great victories and habits of strife, inclined by the nimbleness of his wit to dodge round an obstacle ; if he but touch a man with the tip of his finger, that man tumbles into the trap. But here we have other customs: it is Robin Jlood, a TOHant_j)uJla^Jiving_,free and bold in the green forest,"waging frank and open war against sheriff and law. If ever a man was popular in his country, it was he. In fact, he is the national hero. Saxon in the first place, and waging war against the men of law, against bishops and archbishops, r whose sway was so heavy; generous, more- over, giving to a poor ruined knight clothes, horse, and money to buy back the land he had pledged to a rapacious abbot; compassionate too, and kind to the poor, enjoining his men not to injure yeomen and laborers ; but before all, rash, bold, proud, who would go and draw his bow under the sheriffs eyes and to his face ; ready with blows, whether to receive or to return them. He slew fourteen out of fifteen foresters who came to arrest him ; he slays the sheriff, the judge, the town gate-keeper; he is ready to slay plenty more ; and all this joyously, jovially, like an hon- est fellow who eats well, has a hard skin, lives in the open air, and revels in animal life. " In somer when the shawes be sheyne, ^ And leves be large and long, Hit is fuUe mery in feyre foreste To here the foulys song." That is how many ballads begin ; and the fine weatber, which 40 THE NORMANS. makes the stags and oxen rush headlong with extended horns, inspires them with the thought of exchanging blows with sword or stick. Robin dreamed that two yeomen were thrashing him, and he wants to go and find them, angrily repulsing Little John, who offers to go in advance : " ' Ah John, by me thou settest noe store, And that I farley finde : How offt send I my men before, And tarry myselfe behinde ? " ' It is no cunning a knave to ken, An a man but heare him speake ; An it were not for jjursting of my bowe, John, I thy head wold breake.' " * He goes alone, and meets the robust yeoman, Guy of Gisbome: " He that had neyther beene kythe nor kin, Might have seen a full feyre fight. To see how together these yeomen went With blades both browne and bright, " To see how these yeomen together they fought Two howres of a summer's day ; Yett neither Robin Hood nor sir Guy Them fettled to flye away." \ You see Guy the yeoman is as brave -as Robin Hood ; he came to seek him in the wood, and drew the bow almost as well as he. This old popular poetry is not the praise of a single bandit, but of an entire class — the yeomanry. " God haffe mer- sey on Robin Hodys soUe, and saffe all god yemanry." That is how many ballads end. The strong yeoman, inured to blows, a good archer, clever at sword and stick, is the favorite. There was also redoubtable, armed townsfolk, accustomed to make use of their arms. Here they are at work : " ' O that were a shame,' said jolly Robin, ' We being three, and thou but one.' The pinder \ leapt back then thirty good foot, 'Twas thirty good foot and one. " He leaned his back fast unto a thorn, And his foot against a stone. And there he fought a long summer's day, A summer's day so long, " Till that their swords on their broad bucklers Were broke fast into their hands." § . , . * Ritson, Robin Hood Ballads, i. iv. v. 41-48. \ Ibid. v. 145-152. % A pinder's task was to pin the sheep in the fold, cattle in the penfold or pound (Richardson). — Tr. § Ritson, ii. 3, v. 17-26. THE NORMANS. 4 1 Often even Robin does not get the advantage : " ' I pass not for length,' bold Arthur reply'd, ' My staff is of oke so free ; Eight foot and a half, it will knock down a calf. And I hope it will knock down thee.' " Then Robin could no longer forbear. He gave him such a knock, Quickly and soon the blood came down Before it was ten a clock. " Then Arthur he soon recovered himself. And gave him such a knock on the crown. That from ever)' side of bold Robin Hood's head The blood came trickling down. " Then Robin raged like a wild boar. As soon as he saw his own blood : Then Bland was in hast, he laid on so fast, As though he had been cleaving of wood. '• And about and about and about they went. Like two wild bores in a chase, Striving to aim each other to maim. Leg, arm, or any other place. " And linock for knock they lustily dealt, Which held for two hours and more, Till all the wood rang at every bang, They pl/d their work so sore. " ' Hold thy hand, hold thy hand,' said Robin Hood, ' And let thy quarrel fall ; For here we may thrash our bones all to mesh, And get no coyn at all. " ' And in the forrest of merry Sherwood, Hereafter thou shalt be free.' ' God a mercy for nought, my freedom I bought, I may thank my staff, and not thee.' " * . . . " Who are you, then .' " says Robin : " ' I am a tanner,' bold Arthur reply'd, ' In Nottingham long I have wrought ; And if thou'It come there, I vow and swear, I will tan thy hide for nought.' " ' God a mercy, good fellow,' said jolly Robin, ' Since thou art so kind and free ; And if thou wilt tan my hide for nought, I I will do as much for thee.' " f * Ritson, ii. 6, v. 58-89. f Hid. v. 94-101. 42 THE NORMANS. With these generous offers, they embrace ; a free exchange of honest blows always prepares the way for friendship. It was so Robin Hood tried Little John, whom he loved all his hie alter ! Little John was seven feet high, and being on a bridge, would not give way. Honest Robin would not use his bow against him, but went and cut a stick seven feet long ; and they agreed amicably to fight on the bridge until one should fall into the water. They hit and smite to such a tune that " their bones did sound." In the end Robin falls, and he feels nothmg but re- spect for Little John. Another time, having a sword with him, he was thrashed by a tinker who had only a stick. Full of admiration, he gives him a hundred pounds. One time it was by a potter, who refused him toll; another by a shepherd. They fight for pastime. Even nowadays boxers give each other a friendly grip before meeting ; they knock one another about in this country honorably, without malice, fury or shame. Broken teeth,,black eyes, smashed ribs, do not c^JgtJnurdeii ous vengeance ; it wouid'seemthat 'the bones arejmore_sojii anrif~the~'nefves less sensitive in England tharu^^elsfiwliere. Blows once exchanged, they take each other by the hand, and dance together on the green grass : " Then Robin took them both by the hands, And danc'd round about the oka tree. ' For three merry men, and three merry men. And three merry men we be.' " Observe, moreover, that these people, in each parish, practised the bow every Sunday, and were the best archers in the world, — that from the close of the fourteenth century the general emancipation of the villeins multiplied their number enor- mously, and you may understand how, amidst all the operations and changes of the great central powers, the liberty of the suh^ ject endured. After all, the only permanent and unalterable guarantee, in every country and under every constitution, is this, unspoken declaration in the heart of the mass of the peopl^i which is well understood on all sides : " If any one touches m property, enters my house, obstructs or molests mej let him be ware. I have patience, but I have also strong arms, good con rades, a good blade, and, on occasion, u firm resolve, happe: what may, to plunge my blade up to its hilt in his throat." § II. — Thus thought Sir John Fortescue, Chancellor of Enj land under Henry vi., exiled in France during the Wars of th THE NORMANS. 43 Roses, one of the oldest prose-writers, and the first who weighed and explained the constitution of his country.* He says : " It is cowardise and lack of hartes and corage that kepeth the French- men from rysyng, and not povertye ; which corage no Frenche man hath like to the Enghsh man. It hath ben often seen in Englond that iij or iv thefes, for povertie, hath sett upon vij or viij true men, and robbyd them al. But it hath not ben seen in Fraunce, that vij or viij thefes have ben hardy to robbe iij or iv true men. Wherefor it is right seld that Frenchmen be hangyd for robberye, for that they liave no hertys to do so terryble an acte. There be therfor mo men hangyd in Englond, in a yere, for robberye, and manslaughter, than ther be hangid in Fraunce for such cause of crime in vij yers." f This throws a sudden and terrible light on the violent condition of this armed community, where blows are an every-day matter, and where every one, rich and poor, lives with his hand on his sword. Read the letters of the Paston family, under Henry vi. and Edward iv., and you will see how private war was at every door, how it was necessary to defend oneself with men and arms, to be alert for the defence of one's property, to be self- reliant, to depend on one's own strength and courage. It is this excess of vigor and readiness to fight which, after their vic- tories in France, set them against one another in England, in the butcheries of the Wars of the Roses. The strangers who saw them were astonished at their bodily strength and courage of heart, at the great pieces of beef " which feed their muscles, at their military habits, their fierce obstinacy, as of savage beasts." X They are like their bull-dogs, an untameable race, who in their mad courage "cast themselves with shut eyes into the den of a Russian bear, and get their head broken like a rotten apple." This strange condition of a military community, so full of danger, and requiring so much effort, does not make them afraid. King Edward having given orders to send dis- * The Difference between an Absohite and Limited Monarchy — A learned Commendation' of the Politic Laws of England (hs&a). I frequently quote from the second work, which is complete. •J- The Difference, etc., 3d ed. 1724, ch. xiii. p. g8. There are nowadays in France 42 highway robberies as against 738 in England. In 1843, there were in England four times as many accusations of crimes and offences as in France, having regard to the number of inhabitants (Moreau de yonnesj. \ Benvenuto Cellini, quoted by Froude, i. 20, IJ'st. of England. Shakspeare, Henry V. ; conversation of French lords before the battle of Agincourt. 44 THE NORMANS. '\ turbers of the peace to prison without legal proceedings, and not to liberate them, on bail or otherwise, the Commons de- clared the order " horribly vexatious ; " resist it, refuse to be too much protected. Less peace, but more independence. They maintain the guarantees of the subject at the expense of public security, and prefer turbulent liberty to arbitrary order. Better suffer marauders whom one can fight, than provosts under whom they would have to bend. When, as here, men are endowed with a serious character, strengthened by a resolute spirit, and entrenched in independ- ent habits, they meddle with their conscience as with their daily business, and end by laying hands on church as well as state. It is now a long time since the exactions of the Roman See provoked, the" resistance of the people,* and a presuming priesthood became unpopular. Men complained that the best livings were given by the Pope to non-resident strangers ; that some Italian, unknown in England, possessed fifty or sixty ben- efices in England ; that English money poured into Rome ; and that the clergy, being judged only by clergy, gave themselves up to their vices, and abused their state of impunity. In the first years of Henry iii. there were reckoned nearly a hundred mur- ders committed by priests still alive. At the beginning of the fourteenth century the ecclesiastical revenue was twelve times greater than the civil ; about half the soil was in the hands of the clergy. At the end of the century the commons declared that the taxes paid to the church were five times greater than the taxes paid to the crown ; and some years afterwards,t con- ; sidering that the wealth of the clergy only served to keep them in idleness and luxury, they proposed to confiscate it for the public benefit. Already the idea of the Reformation had forced itself upon them. They remembered how in the ballads Robing Hood ordered his folk to " spare the yeomen, laborers, even | knights, if they are good fellows," but never to pardon abbots or bishops. The prelates grievously oppressed the people wit^ M * Pict. Hist. i. 802. In 1246, 1376. Thieny, iii. 79. \ 1+04 — 1409. The commons declared that with these revenues thf king would be able to maintain IJ earls, 15CO knight*, 6200 squires, and 100 hospitals ; each earl receiving annually 300 marks ; each knight ioo> marks, and the produce of four ploughed lands ; each squire 40 marks, anfa the ])roduce of two ploughed lands. Pict. Hist. ii. 142. THE NORMANS. 45 their laws, tribunals, and tithes ; and suddenly, amid the pleas- ant banter and the monotonous babble of the Norman versifiers, we hear resound the indignant voice of a Saxon, a man of the people and a victim. It is the vision of Piers Ploughman, a carter, written, it is supposed, by a secular priest of Oxford.* Doubtless the traces of French taste are perceptible. It could not be otherwise : the people from below can never quite prevent themselves from imitating the people above ; and the most unshackled popular poets. Burns and Beranger, too often preserve an academic style. So here a fashionable machinery, the allegory of the Roman de la Rose, is pressed into service. We have Do-well, Covetousness, Avarice, Simony, Conscience, and a whole world of talking abstractions. But in spite of these vain foreign phantoms, the body of the poem is national, and true to life. The old language reappears in part ; the old metre altogether ; no more rhymes, but barbarous alliterations ; no more jesting, but a harsh gravity, a sustained invective, a grand and sombre imagination, heavy Latin texts, hammered down as by a Pro- testant hand. Piers Ploughman went to sleep on the Malvern hills, and there had a wonderful dream : " Thanne gan I meten — a merveillous swevene. That I was in a wildemesse — ^wiste I nevere where ; And as I biheeld into the eest, — an heigh to the sonne, I seigh a tour on a toft, — trieliche y-maked, A deep dale bynethe — a dongeon thereinne With depe diches and derke — and dredfulle of sighte. A fair feeld ful of folk— ^fond I ther bitwene, Of alle manere of men, — the meene and the riche, Werchynge and wandrynge — as the world asketh. Some putten hem to the plough, — pleiden ful selde. In settynge and sowynge — swonken ful harde. And wonnen that wastours — with glotonye dystruyeth."f A gloomy picture of the world, like the frightful dreams which occur so often in Albert Durer and Luther. The first reform- ers were persuaded that the earth was given over to evil ; that the devil had in it his empire and his officers ; that Antichrist, seated on the throne of Rome, spread out ecclesiastical pomps * About 1362. f Piers Ploughman' s Vision and Creed, ed. T. Wright, 1856, i. p. 2, v. 21-44. 46 THE NORMANS. to seduce souls, and cast them into the fire of hell. So here Antichrist, with raised banner, enters a convent; bells are rung ; monks in solemn procession go to meet him, and receive with congratulations their lord and father * With seven great giants, the seven deadly sins, he besieges Conscience ; and the assault is led by Idleness, who brings with her an army of more than a thousand prelates: for vices reign, more hateful from being in holy places, and employed in the church of God in the devil's service : " Ac now is Religion a rydere— a romere aboute, A ledere of love-dayes— and a lond-buggere, A priljere on a palfrey — fro manere to manere. . . . And but if his knave knele— that shal his coppe brynge. He loureth on hyra, and asketh hym— who taughte hym curteisie. f But this sacrilegious show has its day, and God puts His hand on men in order to warn them. By order of Conscience, Na- ture sends up a host of plagues and diseases : " Kynde Conscience tho herde, — and cam out of the planetes, And sente forth his forreyours — feveres and fluxes, Coughes and cardiacles, — crampes and tooth-aches, Reumes and radegundes, — and roynous scabbes, Biles and bocches,— and brennynge agues, Frenesies and foule yveles, — forageres of kynde. . . . There was ' Harrow ! and Help !— Here cometh Kynde ! With Deeth that is dredful— to undo us alle ! ' The lord that lyved after lust— tho aloud cryde. . . . Deeth cam dryvynge after, — and al to duste passhed Kynges and knyghtes, — kaysers and popes, . . . Manye a lovely lady — and lemmans of knyghtes, Swowned and swelted for sorwe of hise dyntes." % Here is a crowd of miseries, like those which Milton has described in his vision of human life ; tragic pictures and emo- tions, such as the reformers delight to dwell upon. There is %^ like speech delivered by John Knox, before the fair ladies op Mary Stuait, which tears the veil from the human corpse ju^^ as brutall}', in order to exhibit its shame. The conception o^ the world, proper to the people of the north, all sad and moral, shows itself already. * The Archdeacon of Richmond, on his tour in 1 2 1 6, came to the priory cm Bridlington with ninety-seven horses, twenty-one dogs, and three falcons. \ Piers Ploughman' s Vision, i. p. 191, u. 6217-6228. X Ibid. ii. Last book, p. 430, v. 14084-14135. CHAPTER III. THE NEW TONGUE. § 12. — Amid so many barren endeavors, throughout the long impotence of Norman literature, which was content to copy, and of Saxon literature, which bore no fruit, a definite language was nevertheless attained, and there was room for a great writer. 'tTeofFrey Chauce} appeared, a man of mark, inventive though a disciple, originaT though a translator, who, by his genius, educa- tion, and life, was enabled to know and to depict a whole world, but above all to satisfy the chivalric world and the splendid courts which shone upon the heights.* He belonged to it, though learned and versed in all branches of scholastic knowl- edge ; and he took such part in it that his life, from beginning to end, was that of a man of the world, and a man of action. We find him alternately in King Edward's army, in the king's train, husband of a queen's maid of honor, a pensioner, a place- holder, a deputy in parliament, a knight, a founder of a family which was hereafter to become allied to royalty. Moreover, he was in the king's counsel, brother-in-law of the Duke of Lancas- ter, employed more than once in open embassies or secret mis- sions at Florence, Genoa, Milan, Flanders; commissioner in France for the marriage of the Prince of Wales ; high up and low down in the political ladder — disgraced, restored to place. This experience of business, travel, war, the court, was not like a book-education. He was at the court of Edward iii., the most splendid in Europe, amidst tournays, grand entrances, displays; he took part in the pomps of France and Milan ; con- versed with Petrarch, perhaps with Boccaccio and Froissart ; was actor in, and spectator of, the finest and most tragical of dramas. In these few words, what ceremonies and processions * Bom between 1328 and 13^5, died in 1400. _|.8 THE NEW TONGUE. are implied ! what pageantry of armor, caparisoned horses, be- decked ladies! what display of- gallant and lordly manners! what a varied and brilliant world, well suited to occupy the mind and eyes of a poet! Like Froissart, better than he, Chaucer could depict the character of the nobles, their mode of life, their amours, even other things, and please them by his por- traiture. Chaucer translated first that great storehouse of gallantry, ■lie Roman de la Rose. There is no pleasanter entertainment. It is about a rose which the lover wished to pluck : the pictures of the May months, the groves, the flowery earth, the green hedgerows, abound and isplay their bloom. Then come por- traits of the smiling ladies, Richesse, Fraunchise, Gaiety, and by way of contrast, two sad characters, Daunger and Travail, all crowding, and minutely described, with detail of features, clothing, attitude j they walk about, as in a piece of tapestry, amid landscapes, dances, castles, with allegorical groups, in lively sparkling colors, displayed, contrasted, ever renewed and varied so as to entertain the sight. For an evil has arisen, un known to serious ages — ennui : novelty and brilliancy followed by novelty and brilliancy are necessary to withstand it ; and Chaucer, like Boccaccio and Froissart, enters into the struggle with all his heart. He borrows from Boccaccio his history of Palamon and Arcite, from LoUius his history of Troilus and Cressida, and re-arranges them. How the two young Theban knights, Arcite and Palamon, both fall in love with the beautiful Emily ; and how Arcite, victorious in tourney, falls and dies, bequeathing Emily to his rival; how the fine Trojan knight Troilus wins the favors of Cressida, and how Cressida abandons him for Diomedes — these are still tales in verse, tales of love. A little long they may be ; all t{ie writings of this age, French, or imitated from French, are born of too prodigal minds ; but ho ar they glide along I A winding stream, which flows smoothly on level sand, and glitters now and again in the sun, is the only image we can find. The characters speak too much, but then they speak so well ! Even when they dispute, we like to listen, their anger and offences are so wholly based on a happy overfts flow of unbroken converse. Remember Froissart, how slaugh- ters, assassinations, plagues, the butcheries of the Jacquerie, the whole chaos of human misery, is forgotten in his fine unifoi|p THE NEW TONGUE. 49 humor, so that the furious and raving figures seem but orna- - ments and choice embroiderings to relieve the train of shaded and colored silk which forms the groundwork of his narrative ! But, in particular, a multitude of descriptions spread their gilding over all. Chaucer leads you among arms, palaces, tem- ples, and halts before each scene. Here : " The statue of Venus glorious for to see Was naked fleting in the large see, And fro the navel doun all covered was With wawes grene, and bright as any glas-. A citole in hire right hand hadde she. And on hire hed, ful semely for to see, A rose gerlond fressh, and wel smelling, Above hire hed hire doves fleckering."* Further on, the temple of Mars : " First on the wall was peinted a forest, In which ther wonneth neyther man ne best. With knotty knarry barrein trees old Of stubbes and sharp and hidoas to behold ; In which ther ran a romble and a swough. As though a storm should bresten every bough : And dounward from an hill under a bent, Ther stood the temple of Mars armipotent, Wrought all of burned stele, of which th' entree Was longe and streite, and gastly for to see. And therout came a rage and swiche a vise. That it made all the gates for to rise. The northern light in at the dore shone. For window on the wall ne was ther none, Thurgh which men mighten any light discerne. The dore was all of athamant eteme, Yclenched overthwart and endelong With yren tough, and for to make it strong. Every piler the temple to sustene Was tonne-gret, of yren bright and shene."f Everywhere on the wall were representations of slaughter ; and in the sanctuary " The statue of Mars upon a carte stood Armed, and loked grim as he were wood, . . . A wolf ther stood beforne him at his fete With eyen red, and of a man he ete."| * Knighls Tale, ii. p. 59, v. 1957-1964. f Ibid, v. 1977-1996. X Ibid, p. 61, V. 2043-2050. 4 50 THE NEW TONGUE. Are not these contrasts well designed to rouse the imagination ? You will meet in Chaucer a succession of similar pictures. Ob- serve the train of combatants who came to joust in the tilting-, field for Arcite and Palamon : " With him ther wenten knightes many on. Som wol ben ai-med in an habergeon And in a brestplate, and in a gipon ; And som wol have a pair of plates large ; And som wol have a Pruce sheld, or a targe, Som wol ben armed^on his legges wele, And have an axe, and som a mace of stele. . . . Ther maist thou se coming with Palamon Licurge himself, the grete king of Trace : Blake was his berd, arid manly was his face. The cercles of his eyen in his hed They gloweden betwixen yelwe and red, And like a griffon loked he about. With kemped heres on his browes stout ; His limmes gret, his braunes hard and stronge, His shouldres brode, his armes round and longc. And as the guise was in his contree, Ful highe upon a char of gold stood he. With foure white holies in the trais. Instede of cote-armure on his harnais, With nayles yelwe, and bright as any gold. He hadde a beres skin, cole-blake for old. His longe here was kempt behind his bak, As any ravenes fether it shone for blake. A wreth of gold arm-gret, of huge weight, Upon his hed sate ful of stones bright, Of fine rubins and of diamants. About his char ther wenten white alauns, ■;•; : Twenty and mo, as gret as any stere, ; f - To hunten at the leon or the dere. And folwed him, with mosel fast ybound, Colered with gold, and torettes filed round. An hundred lordes had he in his route, Armed fal wel, with hertes sterne and stoute. With Arcita, in stories as men find, The gret Emetrius the king of Inde, Upon a stede bay, trapped in stele. Covered with cloth of gold diapred wele. Came riding like the god of armes Mars. His cote-armure was of a cloth of Tare, Couched with perles, white, and round and grete. > His sadel was of brent gold new ybete ; THE NEW TONGUE. SI A mantelet upon his sliouldres hanging Bret-ful of rubies red, as fire sparkling. His crispe here like ringes was yronne, And that was yelwe, and glitered as the sonne. His nose was high, his eyen bright citrin. His lippes round, his colour was sanguin . . . And as a leon he his loking caste. Of five and twenty yere his age I caste. His berd was wel begonnen for to spring ; His vols was a trompe thondering. Upon his hed he wered of laurer grene A gerlond fresshe and lusty for to sene. Upon his hond he bear for his deduit An egle tame, as any lily whit. An hundred lordes had he with him there. All armed save hir hedes in all hir gere, Ful richlely in alle manere thinges. . . . About this king ther ran on every part Ful many a tame leon and leopart."* A herald would not describe them better or more fully. The lords and ladies of the time would recognize here their tourneys and masquerades. There is something more pleasant than a fine narrative, and that is a collection of fine narratives, especially when the narra- tives are all of different colorings. Froissart gives us such un- der the name of Chronicles ; Boccaccio, still better ; after him, the lords of the Cent Nouvelles nouvelles ; and, later still, Mar- guerite de Navarre. What more natural among people who meet, talk, and try to amuse themselves ? The manners of the time suggest them ; for the habits and tastes of society had be- gun, and fiction thus conceived only brings into books the con- versations which are heard in the hall and by the wayside. Chaucer describes a troop of pilgrims, people of every rank, who are going to Canterbury : a knight, a sargeant of law, an Oxford clerk, a doctor, a miller, a prioress, a monk, who agree to relate a story all round : " For trewely comfort ne mirthe is non, To riden by the way domb as the ston.'' They relate accordingly ; and on this slender and flexible thread all the jovialities of the feudal imagination, true and false, come and contribute their motley figures to the chain ; alternately * KnigMs Tale, ii. p. 63, v. 2120-2188. 52 TUB NEW TONGUE. noble, chivalrous stories : the miracle of the infant whose throat was cut by Jews, the trials of patient Griselda, Canace and the marvellous fictions of Oriental fancy, obscene stories of mar- riage and monks, allegorical or moral tales, the fable of the cock and hen, a list of great unfortunate persons : Lucifer, Adam, Samson, Nebuchadnezzar Zenobia, Croesus, Ugolin, Peter of Spain. I leave out some, for I must be brief. Chaucer is like a jeweller with his hands full : pearls and glass beads, sparkling diamonds and common agates, black jet and ruby roses, all that history and imagination had been able to gather and fashion during three centuries in the East, in France, in Wales, in Provence, in Italy, all that had rolled his way, clashed together, broken or polished by the stream of centuries, and by the great jumble of human memory ; he holds in his hand, arranges it, composes therefrom a long sparkling ornament, with twenty pendants, a thousand facets, which by its splendor, varie- ties, contrasts, may attract and satisfy the eyes of those most greedy for amusement and novelty. He does more. He observes characters, notes their differ- ences, studies the coherence of their parts, endeavors to bring forward living and distinct persons, — a thing unheard of in his time, but which the renovators in the sixteenth century, and first among them Shakspeare, will do afterwards. It is the English positive good sense, and aptitude for seeing the inside of things, beginning to appear. A new spirit, almost manly, pi through, in literature as in painting, with Chaucer as widi V oil Eyck, with both at the same time ; no longer the childish imita- tion of chivalrous life* or monastic de/otion, but the grave spirit of inquiry and craving for deep truths, whereby art becomes complete. jFor the first time, in Chaucer as in Van Eyck, char- acter stands out in reHef; its parts are Held togetHer ; it^slio" longer an unsubstantial phantom. You may comprehenfflts"' past and see its present action. Its externals manifest the per- sonal and incommunicable details of its inner nature, and the infinite complexity of its economy and motion. To this day, after four centuries, that character is individualised, and typical; it remains distinct in our memory, like the creations of Shaks- peare and Rubens. We observe this growth in the very act * See in The Canterbury Tales the Rhyme of Sir Topas, a parody on the chivalric histories. Each character there seems a precursor of Cervantes. THE NEW TONGUE. 53 Not only does Chaucer, like Boccaccio, bind his tales into a single history; but in addition — and this is wanting in Boccaccio — he begins with the portrait of all his narrators, knight, sum- moner, man of law, monk, bailiff or reeve, host, about thirty dis- tinct figures, of every sex, condition, age, each painted with his disposition, face, costume, turns of speech, little significant ac- tions, habits, antecedents, each maintained in his character by his talk and subsequent actions, so well, that we can discern here, before any other nation, the germ of the domestic novel as we write it to-day. Think of the portraits of the franklin, the miller, the mendicant friar, and merchant. There are plenty of_ Othe rs which_show the broad brutalities^ tHe coarse jricks,.j,nd the^pleasantries of vulgar lifej as well .as the„gross-aBd-_pleatifiiL. feastings of sensualjljfe^ Here and there honest old soldiers, who double their fists, and tuck up their sleeves ; or the con- tented beadles, who, when they have drunk, will speak nothing but Latin. But by the side of these there are select characters ; the knight, who went on a crusade to Granada and Prussia, brave and courteous : " And though that he was worthy he was wise, And of his port as meke as is a mayde. He never yet no vilanie ne sayde In alle his lif, unto no manere wight. He was a veray parfit gentil knight,"* " With him, ther was his son«, a yonge Squier, A lover, and a lusty bacheler. With lockes cruU as they were laide in presse. Of twenty yere of age he was I gesse. Of his stature he was of even lengthe. And wonderly deliver, and grete of strengthe. And he hadde be somtime in daevachie. In Flaundi ?s, in Artois, and in Picardie, And borne him wel, as of so litel space. In hope to stonden in his ladies grace. Embrouded was he, as it were a mede Alle ful of fresshe floures, white and rede. Singing he was, or floyting alle the day. He was as fresshe, as in the moneth of May. Short was his goune, with sieves long and wide. Wel coude he sitte oii hors, and fayre ride. * Prologue to Canterbury Tales, ii. p 3, v. 68-72. 54 THE NEW TONGUE. He coude songes make, and wel endite, Juste and eke dance, and wel pourtraie and write. So hote he loved, that by nightertale He slep no more than doth the nightingale. Curteis he was, lowly and sei-visable. And carf befor his fader at the table." * There is also a poor and learned clerk of Oxford; and finer still, and more worthy of a modern hand, the Prioress, " Madame Eglantine," who as a nun, a maiden, a great lady, is ceremoni- ous, and shows sign of exquisite taste. Would a better be found now-a-days in a German chapter, amid the most modest and lively bevy of sentimental and literary canonesses ? " Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hire smiling was lul simple and coy ; Hire gretest othe n'as but by Seint Eloy ; And she was cleped Madame Eglentine. Ful wel she sange the service devine, Entuned in hire nose fal swetely ; And Frenche she spake ful fayre and fetisly. After the scole of Stratford-atte-bowe, For Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowe. At mete was she wel ytaughte withalle : She lette no morsel from hire lippes falle, Ne wette hire fingres in hire sauce depe. Wel coude she carie a morsel, and wel kepe, Thatte no drope ne fell upon hire brest. In curtesie was sette ful moche hire lest. Hir over lippe wiped she so clene, _/ That in hire cuppe was no ferthing sene Of grese, whan she dronken hadde hire draught, Ful semely after hire mete she raught. And sikerly she was of grete disport, And ful plesant, and amiable of port, And peined hire to contrefeten chere. Of court, and ben estatelich of manere. And- to ben holden digne of reverence."! Are you offended by these provincial affectations ? On the con- trary, it is delightful to behold these nice and pretty ways, these little affectations, the waggery and prudery, the half-worldly, half- monastic smile. We inhale a delicate feminine perfume, pre- served and grown old under the stomacher : " But for to speken of hire conscience. She was so charitable and so pltous, * Prologue to Canterbury Tales ii. p. 3, v. 79-100. f Hid. p. 3, v. bS-^2. THE NEW TONGUE. 55 She wolde wepe if that she saw a mous Canghte in a trappe, if it were ded or bledde. Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde With rested flesh, and milk, and wastel brede, But sore wept she if on of hem were dede. Or if men smote it with a yerde smert : And all was conscience and tendre herte,"* Many elderly ladies throw themselves into such affections as these, for lack of others. Elderly ! what an objectionable word have I employed ! She was not elderly : " Ful semely hire wimple ypinched was. Hire nose tretis ; hire eyen grey as glas ; Hire mouth ftil smale, and therto soft and red ; But sikerly she hadde a f ayre forehed. It was almost a spanne brode I trowe ; For hardily she was not undergrowe. Ful fetise was hire cloke, as I was ware. Of small corall aboute hire arm she bare A pair of bedes gauded al with grene ; And thereon heng a broche of gold ful sheno, On whiche was first ywriten a crouned A, And after, Amor vincit omnia."\ A pretty ambiguous device for gallantry or devotion ; the lady was both of the world and the cloister : of the world, you may see it in her dress ; of the cloister, you gather it from "another Nonne also with hire hadde she, that was hire chapelleine, and Preestes thre ; " from the Ave Maria which she sings, the long edifying stories which she relates. She is like a fresh, sweet, and ruddy cherry, made to ripen in the sun, but which, preserved in an ecclesiastical jar, is candied and made insipid in the syrup. Such is the reflection which begins to dawn, such the high art. Chaucer studies here, rather than aims at amusement ; he ceases to gossip, and thinks; instead of surrendering himself to the facility of glowing improvisation, he plans. Each tale is suited to the teller: the young squire relates a fantastic and Oriental history ; the tipsy miller a loose and comical story ; the honest clerk the touching legend of Griselda. All the'se tales are bound together, and that much better than by Boccaccio, by little veritable incidents, which spring from the characters of the personages, and such as we light upon in our travels. The * Prologue to Canterbury Tales, p. 5, v. 142-150. \ Ibid, v, 151-162. ^6 THE NEW TONGUE. horsemen ride on in good humor in the sunshine, in the open country ; they converse. The miller has drunk too much ale, and will speak, "and for no man forbere. " The cook goes to sleep on his beast, and they play practical jokes on him. The monk and the summoner get up a dispute about their respective lines of business. The host restores peace, makes them speak or be silent, like a man who has long presided in the inn par- lor, and who has often had to check brawlers. They pass judg- ment on the stories they listen to : declaring that there are few Griseldas in the world ; laughing at the misadventures of the tricked carpenter ; drawing a lesson from the moral tale. The poem is no longer, as in contemporary literature, a mere proces- sion, but a painting in which the contrasts are arranged, the atti- tudes chosen, the general effect calculated, so that life is invigo- rated ; we forget ourselves at the sight, as in the case of every life-like work ; and we conceive the desire to get on horseback on a fine sunny morning, and canter along green meadows with the pilgrims to the shrine of the good saint of Canterbury. Weigh the value of this general effect. Is it a dream or not, in its maturity or infancy? The whole future is before us. Savages or half savages, warriors of the Heptarchy or knights of the middle-age ; up to this period, no one had reached to this point. They had strange emotions, tender at times, and they expressed them each according to the gift of his race, some by short cries, others by continuous babble. But they did not com- mand or guide their impressions ; they sang or conversed by impulse, at hazard, according to the bent of their disposition, leaving their ideas to present themselves, and to take the lead ; and when they hit upon order, it was ignorantly and involuntarily. Here for the first time appears a superiority of intellect, which at the instant of conception suddenly halts, rises above itself, passes judgment, and says to itself," This phrase tells the same thing as the last — remove it ; these two ideas are disjointed — ^bind them together ; this description is feeble — reconsider it. " When a man can speak thus he has an idea, not learned in the schools, but personal and practical, of the human mind, its process and needs, and of things also, their composition and combinations ; he has a style that is, he is capable of making everything under- stood and seen by the human mind. He can extract from every object, landscape, situation, character, the special and signifi- THE NEW TONGUE. 57 cant marks, so as to group and arrange them, to compose an artificial work which surpasses the natural work in its purity and completeness. He is capable, as Chaucer was, of seeking out in the old common forest of the middle-ages, stories and legends, to replant them in his own soil, and make them send out new shoots. He has the right and the power, as Chaucer had, of copying and translating, because by dint of retouching he impresses on his translations and copies his original mark ; he recreates what he imitates, because through or by the side of worn-out fancies and monotonous stories, he can display, as Chaucer did, the charming ideas of an amiable and elastic mind, the thirty master-forms of the fourteenth century, the splendid freshness of the moist landscape and spring-time of England. He is not far from conceiving an idea of truth and life. He is on the brink of independent tliought and fertile discovery. This was Chaucer's position. At the distance of a century and a half, he has affinity with the poets of Elizabeth * by his gallery of pictures, and with the reformers of the sixteenth century by his portrait of the good parson. Affinity merely. He advanced a few steps beyond the threshold of his art, but he paused in the vestibule. He half opens the great door of the temple, but does not take his seat there ; at most, he sat down at intervals. In Arcite and Pala- mon, in Trollus and Cressida, he sketches sentiments, but does not create characters ; he easily and ingeniously traces the wind- ing course of events and conversations, but does not mark the ' precise outline of a striking figure. If occasionally, as in the description of the temple of Mars, after the Thebaid of Statius, feeling at his back the glowing breeze of poetry, he draws out his feet, clogged with the mud of the middle-age, and at a bound stands upon the poetic plain on which Statius imitated Virgil and equalled Lucan, he, at other times, again falls back into the childish gossip of the trouvfires, or the stale pedantry of learned clerks — to " Dan Phebus or Apollo-Delphicus. " Elsewhere, a commonplace remark on art intrudes in the midst of an impas- sioned description. He uses three thousand verses to conduct * Tennyson, in his Dream of Pair Women, sings : "Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts, that till The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. "— Tr. 58 THE NEW TONGUE. Troilus to his first interview. He is like a precocious and poetical child, who mingles in his love-dreams quotations from his prayer-book and recollections of his alphabet.* Even in the Canterbury Tales he repeats himself, unfolds artless develop- ments, forgets to concentrate his passion or his idea. He begins a jest, and scarcely ends it. He dilutes a bright coloring in a monotonous stanza. His voice is like that of a boy breaking into manhood. At first a manly and firm accent is maintained, then a shrill sweet sound shows that his growth is not finished, and that his strength is subject to weakness. Chaucer sets out as if to quit the middle-age ; but in the end he is there still. To-day he composes the Canterbury Tales; yesterday he was translating the Roman tie la Rose. To-day he is studying the complicated machinery of the heart, discovering the issues of primitive education or of the ruling disposition, and realising the comedy of manners ; to-morrow, he will have no pleasure but in curious events, smooth allegories, amorous discussions, imitated from the French, or learned moralities from the ancients. Alter- nately he is an observer and a trouvere ; instead of the step he ought to have advanced, he has but made a half step. Who has prevented him, and the others who surround him ? We meet with the 'obstacle in his tale of Melibeus, of the Parson, in his Testament of Love ; in short, so long as he writes verse, he is at his ease ; as soon as he takes to prose, a sort of chain winds around his feet and stops him. His imagination is free, and his reasoning a slave. The rigid scholastic divisions, the mechanical manner of arguing and replying, the ergo, the Latin quotations, the authority of Aristotle and the Fathers, come and weigh down his budding thought. His native invention disap- pears under the discipline imposed. The servitude is so heavy, that even in his Testament of Love, amid the most touching plaints and the most smarting pains, the beautiful ideal lady whom he has always served, the heavenly mediator who appears to hira in a vision. Love, sets her theses, establishes that the cause of a cause is the cause of the thing caused, and reasons as pedantic- * Speaking of Cressida, IV., book i. p. 236, he says : "Riglit as our first letter is now an a, , ' In beautie first so stood she malceles. Her goodly looking gladed all the prees, Nas never scene thing to be praised so derre. Nor under cloudeblacke so bright a sterre." THE NEW TONGUE. ■ 59 ally as they would at Oxford. In what can talent, even genius, end, when it loads itself with such shackles ? What succession of original truths and new doctrines could be found and proved, when in a moral tale, like that of Melibeus and his wife Prudence, it was thought necessary to establish a formal controversy, to quote Seneca and Job, to forbid tears, to bring forward the weep- ing Christ to authorise tears, to enumerate every proof, to call in Solomon, Cassiodorus, and Cato ; in short, to write a book for schools ? The public has only pleasant and lively thoughts ; not serious and general ideas ; they are retained in possession of others. As soon as Chaucer gets into a reflective mood, straight- way Saint Thomas, Peter Lombard, the manual of sins, the trea- tise on definition and syllogism, the army of the ancients and of the Fathers, descend from their glory, enter his brain, speak in his stead ; and the trouvfere's amiable voice becomes, though he has no suspicion of it, the dogmatic and sleep-inspiring voice of a doctor. In love and satire he has experience, and he invents ; in what regards morality and philosophy he has learning, and remembers. For an instant, by a solitary leap, he entered upon the close observation and the genuine study of man ; he could not keep his ground, he did not take his seat, he took a poetic excursion ; and no one followed him. The level of the century is lower ; he is on it himself for the most part. He is in the com- pany of narrators like Froissart, of elegant speakers like Charles of Orleans, of gossipy and barren verse-writers like Gower, Lyd- gate and Occleve. There is no fruit, but frail and fleeting blos- som, many useless branches, still more dying or dead branches ; such is this literature. And why .' Because he had no longer a root ; after three centuries of effort, a heavy instrument cut it underground. This instrument was the Scholastic Philosophy. § 13. — Beneath _eYay_Jierature^ thjere ^ is._a_philoso£hy. Benea^ierS^jBTOrk of art is an idea of nature and of lifej^Jhis ideaTeads the ^poet Whether The" authorHEi'ows^ it or not, he writes in order to exhibit it ; and the characters which he fash- ions, like the events which he arranges, only serve to bring to light the dim creative conception which raises and combines them. Underlying Homer appears the noble life of heroic paganism and of happy Greece. Underlying Dante, the sad and violent life of fanatical Catholicism and of the much-hating Italians. From either we might draw a theory of man and of 6o- THE NEW TONGUE. the beautiful. It is so with others ; and this is how, according to the variations, the birth, blossom, death, or sluggishness of the master-idea, literature varies, is born, flourishes, degenerates, comes to an end. Whoever plants the one, plants the other ; whoever undermines the one, undermines the other. Place in all the minds of any age a new grand idea of nature and life, so that they feel and produce it with their whole heart and strength, and you will see them, seized with the craving to express it, invent forms of art and groups of figures. Take away from these minds every grand new idea of nature and life, and you will see them, deprived of the craving to express all-important thoughts, copy, sink into silence, or rave. What has become of these all-important thoughts ? What labor worked them out ? What studies nourished them ? The laborers did not lack zeal. In the twelfth century the energy of their minds was admirable. At Oxford there were thirty thousand scholars. No building in Paris could contain the crowd of Abelard's disciples ; when he retired in solitude, they accompanied him in such a multitude that the desert became a town. No suffering repulsed them. There is a story of a young boy, who, though beaten by his master, was wholly bent on remaining with him, that he might still learn. When the terrible encyclopedia of Aristotle was introduced, all disfigured and unintelligible, it was devoured. The only question presented to them, that of universals, so abstract and dry, so embar- rassed by Arabic obscurities and Greek subtilties, during three centuries, was seized upon eagerly. Heavy and awkward as was the instrument supplied to them, I mean syllogism, they made themselves masters of it, rendered it still more heavy, used it upon every object, in every sense. They constnicted monstrous books, by multitudes, cathedrals of syllogism, of unheard of architecture, or prodigious exactness, heightened in effect by intensity of intellectual power, which the whole sum of human labor has only twice been able to match.* These young * Under Proclus and Hegel. Diins Scotus, at the age of thirty-one, died, leaving beside his sermons and commentaries, twelve folio volumes, in a small close handwriting, in a style like Hegel's, on the same subject as Proclus treats of. Similarly with Saint Thomas and the whole train of schoolmen. No idea can be formed of such a labor before handling the books themselves. THE NEW TONGUE. 6 1 and valiant minds thought they had found the temple of truth; they rushed at it headlong, in legions, breaking in the doors, clambering over the walls, leaping into the interior, and so found themselves at the bottom of a moat. Three centuries of labor at the bottom of this black moat added no single idea to the human mind. For consider the questions which they treat of. They seem to be marching, but are merely marking time. One would say, to see them moil and toil, that they will educe from heart and brain some great original creed ; all belief was imposed upon them from the outset. The system was made ; they could only arrange and comment upon it. Under this constraint men ceased to think ; for he who speaks of thought, speaks of an effort at invention, an individual creation, an energetic action.' They recite a lesson, or sing a catechism ; even in paradise, even in ecstacy and the divinest raptures of love, Dante thinks himself bound to show an exact memory and a scholastic ortho- doxy. How then with the rest ? Some, like Raymond Lully, set about inventing an instrument of reasoning to serve in place of the understanding. About the fourteenth century, under the blows of Occam, this verbal science began to totter ; they saw that it had no other substance but one of words ; it was discred- ited. In 1367, at Oxford, of thirty thousand students, there remained six thousand ; they still set their Barbara and Felap- ton, but only in the way of routine. Each one in turn mechan- ically traversed the petty region of threadbare cavils, scratched himself in the briars of quibbles, and burdened himself with his bundle of texts ; nothing more. The vast body of science which was to have formed and vivified the whole thought of man, was reduced to a text-book. So, little by little, the conception which fertilized and ruled all others, dried up ; the c^°ep spring, whence flowed all poetic streams, was found empty ; science furnished nothing more to the world. What further works could the world produce ? As Spain, later on, renewing the middle-age, after having shone splendidly and vainly by her chivalry and devotion, by Lope de Vega and Calderon, Loyola and St. Theresa, became enervated through the Inquisition and through casuistry, and ended by sinking into a brutish silence ; so the middle-age, outstripping Spain, after displaying the senseless heroism of the crusades, and 63 THE NEW TONGUE. the poetical ecstacy of the cloister, after producing chivalry and saintship, Francis of Assisi, St. Louis, and Dante, languished under the Inquisition and the scholastic learning, and became extinguished in idle raving and inanity. Must we quote all these good people who speak without hav- ing anything to say? You may find them in Warton;* dozens of translators, importing the poverties of French literature, and imitating imitations j rhyming chroniclers, most commonplace of men, whom we only read because we must accept history from every quarter, even from imbeciles ; spinners and spinsters of didactic stories, who pile up verses on the training of falcons, on armor, on chemistry ; editors of moralities, who invent the same dream over again for the hundredth time, and get them- selves taught universal history by the goddess Sapience. Like the writers of the Latin decadence, these folk only think of copying, compiling, abridging, constructing text-books, in rhymed memoranda, the encylopedia of their times. Will you hear the most illustrious, the grave Gower — " morall Gower," as he was called?! His great poem, Confessio Aman- tis, is a dialogue between a lover and his confessor, imitated chiefly from Jean de Meung, having for object, like the Roman de la Rose, to explain and classify the impediments of love. The superannuated theme is always reappearing, and beneath it an indigested erudition. You will find here an exposition of her- metic science, a treatise on the philosophy of Aristotle, a dis- course on politics, a litany of ancient and modern legends gleaned from the compilers, marred in the passage by the pedantry of the schools and the ignorance of the age. It is a cart-load of scholastic rubbish ; the sewer tumbles upon this feeble spirit, which of itself was flowing clearly, but now, obstructed by tiles, bricks, plaster, ruins from ail quarters of the globe, drags on darkened and slackened. Gower, one of the most learned of his time,t supposed that Latin was invented by the old proph- etess Carmens ; that the grammarians, Aristarchus, Donatus, and Didymus, regulated its syntax, pronunciation, and prosody ; that it was adorned by Cicero with the flowers of eloquence and rhetoric ; then enriched by translations from the Arabic, Chal- * Hist, of English Poetry, vol. ii. \ Contemporary with Chaucer. The Confessio Amantis dates froinl393. \ Warton, ii. 240. THE NEW TONGUE. 63 dsean, and Greek; and that at last, after much labor of celebra- ted writers, it attained its final perfection in Ovid, the poet of love. Elsewhere he discovers that Ulysses learned rhetoric from Cicero, magic from Zoroaster, astronomy from Ptolemy, and philosophy from Plato. And what a style ! so long, so dull,* so drawn out by repetitions, the most minute details, gar- nished with references to his text, like a man who, with his eyes glued to his Aristotle and his Ovid, a slave of his musty parch- ments, can do nothing but copy and string his rhymes together. Scholars even in old age, they seem to believe that every truth, all wit, is in their great wood-bound books j that they have no need to find out and invent for themselves ; that their whole business is to repeat ; that this is, in fact, man's business. The scholastic system had enthroned the dead letter, and peopled the world with dead understandings. After Gower come Occleve and Lydgate.f " My father Chaucer would willingly have taught me," says Occleve, " but I was dull, and learned little or nothing." He paraphrased in verse a treatise of Egidius, on government ; these are moralities. There are others, on compassion, after Augustine, and on the art of dying ; then love-tales ; a letter from Cupid, dated from his court in the month of May. Love and moralities,^ that is, abstractions and refinements, were the taste of the time ; and so, in the time of Lebrun, of Esmenard, at the close of contem- poraneous French literature,§ they produced collections of didac- tic poems, and odes to Chloris. As for the monk Lydgate, he had some talent, some imagination, especially in high-toned descrip- tions : it was the last flicker of a dying literature ; gold received a golden coating, precious stones were placed upon diamonds, ornaments multiplied and made fantastic ; as in their dress and buildings, so in their style.H Look at the costumes of Henry IV. and Henry v., monstrous heart-shaped or horn-shaped head- * See, for instance, his description of the sun's crown, the most poetical passage in book vii. \ 1420, 1430. % This is the title Froissart (1397) gave to his collection when present- ing it to Richard II. § Lebrun, 1729-1807 ; Esmenard, 1770-1812. If Lydgate, The Destruction of Troy — description of Hector's chapel Especially read the Pageants or Solemn Entries. 64 THE NEW TONGUE. dresses, long sleeves covered with ridiculcus designs, the plumes, and again the oratories, armorial tombs, little gaudy chapels, like conspicuous flowers under the naves of the Gothic perpendicular. When we can no more speak to the soul, we try to speak to the eyes. This is what Lydgate does, nothing more. Pageants or shows are required of him, " disguisings " for the Company of goldsmiths ; a mask before the king, a May-enter- tainment for the sheriffs of London, a drama of the creation for the festival of Corpus Christi, a masquerade, a Christmas show ; he gives the plan and furnishes the verses. In this matter he never runs dry ; two hundred and fifty-one poems are attributed to him. Poetry thus conceived, becomes a manufacture ; it is composed by the yard. Such was the judgment of the Abbot of St. Albans, who, having got him to translate a legend in verse, pays a hundred shillings for the whole, verse, writing, and illuminations, placing the three works on a level. In fact, no more thought was required for one than for the others. His three great v/orks, Tlie Fall of Princes, The Destruction of Troy, and The Siege of Thebes, are only translations or paraphrases, verbose, erudite, descriptive, a kind of chivalrous processions, colored for the twentieth time, in the same manner, on the same vellum. Poetry and religion are no longer capable of suggest- ing a genuine sentiment. Authors copy, and copy again. Hawes * copies the House of Fa?ne of Chaucer, and a sort of allegorical, amorous poem, after the Roman de la Rose. Barclay t translates the Mirror of Good Manners and the Ship of Fools. Continually we meet with dull abstractions, used up and barren ; it is the scholastic phase of poetry. If anywhere there is an accent of greater originality, it is in this Ship of Fools, and in Lydgate's Dance of Death, bitter buffooneries, sad gayeties, which, in the hands of artists and poets, were having their nm throughout Europe. They mock at each other, grotesquely and gloomily ; poor, dull, and vulgar figures, shut up in a ship, or made to dance on their tomb to the sound o'f a fiddle played by a grinning skeleton. At the end of all this mouldy talk, and amid the disgust which they have conceived for each other, a clown, a tavern Triboulet,t composer of little jeering and maca- * About 1506. The Temple of Glass. Passctyme of Pkastire. f About 1500. \ The court fool in Victor Hugo's drama of Le Roi s' amuse. — Tr. THE NEW TONGUE. 65 ronic verses, Skelton * makes his appearance, a virulent pam- phleteer, who, jumbling together French, English, Latin phrases, with slang, and fashionable words, invented words, intermingled with short rhymes, fabricates a sort of literary mud, with which he bespatters Wolsey and the bishops. Style, metre, rhyme, language, art of every kind, is at an end ; beneath the vain parade of official style, there is only a heap of rubbish. Yet, as he says, " Though my rhyme be ragged, Tattered and gagged, / Rudely rain-beaten. Rusty, moth-eaten, Yf ye take welle therewithe. It hath in it some pithe." It is full of political animus, sensual liveliness, English and pop- ular instincts ; it lives. It is a coarse life, still elementary, swarming with ignoble vermin, like that which appears in a great decomposing body. It is life, nevertheless, with its two great features which it is destined to display : the hatred of the eccle- siastical hierarchy, which is the Reformation ; the return to the senses and to natural life, which is the Renaissance. *Died 1529 ; Poet Laureate 1489. His Bouge of Court, his Crown of Laurel, his Elegy on the Death of the Earl of Northumberland, are well written, and belong to official poetry. s CHAPTER IV. THE PAGAN EENAISSANCE. § 14. Manners of the Time. — For seventeen centuries a deep and sad thought had weighed upon the spirit of man, first to overwhelm it, then to exalt and to weaken it, never losing its hold throughout this long space of time. It was the idea of the impotence and decadence of man. Greek corruption, Roman oppression, and the dissolution of the old world had given it birth; it, in its turn, had produced a stoical resignation, an epicurean indifference, Alexandrian mysticism, and the Christian hope in the kingdom of God. "The world is evil and lost; let us escape by insensibility, amazement, ecstasy." Thus spoke the philosophers; and re- ligion coming after, announced that the end was near : "Prepare, for the kingdom of God is at hand." For a thousand years, universal ruin incessantly drove still deeper into their hearts this gloomy thought ; and when man in the feudal state raised him- self, by sheer force of courage and arms, from the depths of final imbecility and general misery, he discovered his thought and his work fettered by the crushing idea, which, forbidding a life of nature and worldly hopes, erected into ideals the obedience of the monk and the dreams of fanatics. At last, however, invention makes another start; and it makes it by the efforts of the lay society, which rejected theoc- racy, kept the State free, and which presently discovered, or re- discovered, one after another, the industries, sciences, and arts. All was renewed ; America and the Indies were added to the map ; the shape of the earth was ascertained, the system of the universe propounded ; modern philology was inaugurated, the experimental sciences set on foot, art and literature sliot forth like a harvest, religion was transformed : there was no province THE PAGAN'RENAISSANCE. 67 of human intelligence and action which was not refreshed and fertilized by this universal effort. It was so great, that it passed from the innovators to the laggards, and reformed Catholicism in the face of Protestantism, which it formed. This was Europe's grand age, and the most notable epoch of human growth. ~ To ffiiTd^y wejive from its sap, we only carry, pji its pressure and efforts^ __- ""when human power is manifested so clearly and in such great works, it is no wonder if the ideal changes, and the old pagan idea recurs. It recurs, bringing with it the worship of beauty and vigor, first in Italy ; for this, of all countries in Europe, is the most pagan, the nearest to the ancient civiliza- tion; thence in France and Spain, in Flanders, even in Ger- many ; and finally in England. How is it propagated ? What revolution of manners reunited mankind at this time, in every country, under a sentiment which they had forgotten for fifteen hundred years ? Merelyjhat their condition had improved, and they felt it. The idea ever expresses the actual situatlo^ and" the creatures of the imagination, like the conceptions of the spirit, only manifest the state of society and the degree of its welfare ; there is a fixed connection between what man admires and what he is. While misery overwhelms him, while the deca- dence is visible, and hope shut out, he is inclined to curse his life on earth, and seek consolation in another sphere. As soon as his su fferings are alleviated, his gower_made, rnaniEst, Hs ^ perspective^enliTge37Ti6"^B6iins once more to love the present Tiie^rtaie-self-eo»fi3eiit,1:6 love and praise energy, geniiTs^ all the effective faculties which labor to procure KmTiappinessr Toward the close of the fifteenth century * the impetus was given ; commerce and the woollen-trade made a sudden advance, and such an enormous one that corn-fields were changed into pasture-lands. It was already the England which we see to-day, a land of meadows, green, intersected by hedge-rows, crowded with cattle, abounding in ships, a manufacturing, opulent land, with a people of beef-eating toilers, who enrich it while thay enrich themselves. At the base and on the summit of society, in all ranks of life, in all grades of human condition, this new welfare became visible. Now that the battle-axe and sword of the civil wars had * 1488, Act of Parliament on Enclosures. 6S THE PAGAN RENAISSANCE. beaten down the independent nobility, and the abolition of the law of maintenance had destroyed the petty royalty of each great feudal baron, the lords quitted their sombre castles, battle- mented fortresses, surrounded by stagnant water, pierced with narrow windows, a sort of stone breastplates of no use but to preserve the life of their masters. They flock into new palaces, with vaulted roofs and turrets, covered with fantastic and mani- fold ornaments, adorned with terraces and vast staircases, with gardens, fountains, statues, such as were the palaces of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth, half Gothic and half Italian,* whose conve- nience, grandeur, and beauty announced already habits of society and the taste for pleasure. They came to court and aban- doned their old manners ; the four meals which scarcely sufficed their former voracity were reduced to two ; gentlemen soon be- came refined, placing their glory in the elegance and singularity of their amusements and their clothes. They dressed mag- nificently in splendid materials, with the luxury of men who rustle silk and make gold sparkle for the first time : doublets of scarlet satin ; cloaks of sable costing a thousand ducats ; vel- vet shoes, embroidered with gold and silver, covered with rosettes and ribbons; boots with falling tops, from whence hung a cloud of lace, embroidered with figures of birds, animals, con- stellations, flowers in silver, gold, or precious stones j orna- mented shirts, costing ten pounds. "It is a common thing to put a thousand goats and a hundred oxen on a coat, and to carry a whole manor on one's back."t The costumes of the time were like shrines. When Elizabeth died, they found three thousand dresses in her wardrobe. Need we speak of the mon- strous ruffs of the ladies, their puffed-out dresses, their stom- achers stiff with diamonds ? There was something more than puppyism in this masquerade of splendid costume. It was an artistic spirit which induced it. There was an incredible outgrowth of living forms from their brains. They must enjoy the beautiful ; they would be happy through their eyes ; they perceive in consequence naturally the relief and energy of forms. From the accession of Henry viii. to the death of James I. we find nothing but tournaments, processions, public entries, mas- * This was called the Tudor style. Under James I., in the hands of Inigo Jones, it became entirely Italian, approaching the antique. f Burton, Anatomy of Mdancholy, 12th ed. 1821. Stubbes, Anatomie of Abuses, ed. TurnbuU, 1836. THE PAGAN RENAISSANCE. 69 querades. Count, if )-ou can,* the mythological entertain- ments, the theatrical receptions, the open-air operas played be- fore Elizabeth, James, and their great lords. At Kenilworth the pageants lasted ten days. There was everything ; learned recreations, novelties, popular plays, sanguinary spectacles, coarse farces, juggling and feats of skill, allegories, mythologies, chivalric exhibitions, rustic and national commemorations. Think of the feasts which the Earl of Carlisle introduced, where was served first of all a table loaded with sumptuous viands, as high as a man could reach, in order to remove it presently, and replace it by another similar table. This prodi- gality of magnificence, these costly follies, this unbridling of the imagination, this intoxication of eye and ear, this comedy played by the lords of the realm, showed, like the pictures of Rubens, Jordaens, and Iheir Flemish contemporaries, so open an appeal to the senses, so complete a return to nature, that our chilkd and gloomy age is scarcely able to imagine it. To vent the feelings, to satisfy the heart and eyes, to set free boldly on all the roads of existence the pack of appetites and instincts, this was the craving which the manners of the time betrayed. It was " merry England," as they called it then. It was not yet stern and constrained. It expanded widely, freely, and rejoiced to find itself so expanded. No longer at court only was the drama found, but in the village. Strolling companies betook themselves thither, and the country folk sup- plied any deficiences, when necessary. Shakspeare saw, before he depicted them, stupid fellows, carpenters, joiners, bellow- menders, play Pyramus and Thisbe,t represent the lion roaring • as gently as possible, and the wall, by stretching out their hands. Every holiday was a pageant, in which townspeople, workmen, and children bore their parts. On the Sunday after Twelfth- night the laborers parade the streets, with their shirts over their coats, decked with ribbons, dragging a plough to the sound of music, and dancing a sword-dance ; on another day they draw in a cart a figure made of ears of corn, with songs, flutes, and drums ; on another, Father Christmas and his company; or else * Holinshed, iii., Reign of Henry VIII. Elizabeth and James Pro- gresses, by Nichols. I Midsummer Nights Dream. yo THE PAGAN RENAISSANCE. they enact the history of Robin Hood, the bold poacher, around the May-pole, or the legend of Saint George and the Dragon. We might occupy half a volume in describing all these holidays, such as Harvest Home, All Saints, Martinmas, Sheepshearing, above all Christmas, which lasted twelve days, and sometimes six weeks. They eat and drink, junket, tumble about, kiss the girls, ring the bells, satiate themselves with noise: coarse drunken revels, in which man is an unbridled animal, and which are the incarnation of natural life. The Puritans made no mis- take about that. At this period, in the temporary decay of Christianity, and the sudden advance of corporal well-being, man adored himself, and there endured no life within him but that of paganism. Observe the process of ideas at this time. A few sectarians, chiefly in the towns and of the people, clung gloomily to the Bible. But the court and the men of the world sought their teachers and their heroes from pagan Greece and Rome. About 1490* they began to read the classics ; one after the other they translated them ; it was soon the fashion to read them in the original. Elizabeth, Jane Grey, the Duchess of Norfolk, the Countess of Arundel, many other ladies, were conversant with Plato, Xenophon, and Cicero in the original, and appreciated them. Gradually, by an insensible change, men were raised to the level of the great and healthy minds who had freely handled ideas of all kinds fifteen centuries ago. After the terrible night of the middle-age, and the dolorous legends of spirits and the damned, it was a delight to see again Olympus shining upon tis from Greece ; its heroic and beautiful deities once more rav- ishing the heart of men ; they raised and instructed this young world by speaking to it the language of passion and genius ; and the age of strong deeds, free sensuality, bold invention, had only to follow its own bent, in order to discover in them the eternal promoters of liberty and beauty. Nearer still was another paganism, that of Italy ; the more seductive because more modern, and because it circulates fresh sap in an ancient stock ; the more attractive, because more sensuous and present, with its worship of force and genius, of * Warton, vol. ii. sect. 35. Before 1600 all the great poets weretrans- , lated into English, and between 1550 and i6i6all the great historians of Greece and Rome. Lyly in 1500 first taught Greek in public. THE PA GA N REN A ISSA NCE. 7 1 pleasure and voluptuousness. The rigorists knew this well, and were shocked at it. Ascham writes : " These bee the inchantements of Circes, brought out of Italic to marre mens maners in England ; much, by example of ill life, but more by precep- tesof fondebookeSjOflate translated out of Italian into English, sold in every shop in London. . . . There bee moe of these ungratious bookes set out in Printe wythin these fewe monethes, than have bene sene in England many score yeares before. . . Than they have in more reverence the tri- uraphes of Petrarche : than the Genesis of Moses : They make move account of TuUies offices, than S. Paules epistles ; of a tale in Bocace than a storie of the Bible."* In fact, at that time Italy clearly led in everything, and civiliza- tion was to be drawn thence, as from its spring. What is this civilization which is thus imposed on the whole of Europe, whence every science and every elegance comes, whose laws are obeyed in every court, in which Surrey, Sidney, Spenser, Shakspeare sought their models and their materials ? It was pagan in its elements and in its birth ; in its language, which is but slightly different from Latin ; in its Latin traditions and recollections, which no gap has come to interrupt ; in its con- stitution, whose old municipal life first led and absorbed the feudal life ; in the genius of its race, in which energy and enjoy- ment always abounded. More than a century before other nations, from the time of Petrarch, Rienzi, Boccaccio, the Ital- ians began to recover the lost antiquity, to deliver the manu- scripts buried in the dungeons of France and Germany, to restore, interpret, comment upon, study the ancients, to make themselves Latin in heart and mind, to compose in prose and verse with the polish of Cicero and Virgil, to hold spirited con- verse and intellectual pleasures as the ornament and the fairest flower of life. They adopt not merely the externals of the old existence, but the elements, that is, preoccupation with the present life, forgetfulness of the future, the appeal to the senses, the renunciation of Christianity. The ideal to which all efforts were turning, on which all thoughts depended, and which com- pletely raised this civilization, was the strong and happy man fortified by all powers to accomplish his wishes, and disposed to use them in pursuit of his happiness. * Ascham, The Scholemaster (1570), ed. Arber, 1870, first book, 78 et passim. 72 THE PAGAN RENAISSANCE. § 15. ^<7rfo'-— Transplanted into different races and cli- mates, this paganism receives from each, distinct features and a distinct character. InEnglandjtbecomes English jJheEiiglish^ Renaissance is the Renaissance of the"Eax6n genius. Jnvention. recommences /'and to invent is to express one's gemus. A Latin race can only invent by expressing Latin ideas ; a Saxon race by expressing Saxon ideas ; and we shall find in the new civilization and poetry, descendants of Csdmon and Adhelm, of Piers Plowman, and Robin Hood. Old Puttenham says : " In tlie Jatter end of the same king (Henry the eight) reigne, sprong up a new company of courtly maimers, of whom Sir Thomas Wyat th' elder and Henry Barle of Surrey were the two chieftaines, who having travailed into Italie, and there tasted the sweete and stately measures and stile of the Ital- ian Poesie, as novices newly crept out of the schooles of Dante, Arioste, and Petrarch, they greatly pollished our rude and homely maner of vulgar Poesie, from that it had bene before, and for that cause may justly be sayd the first reformers of our English meetre and stile."* Not that their style was very original, or openly exhibits the new spirit : the middle-age is nearly ended, but it was not yet finished. By their side Andrew Borde, John Bale, John Hey- wood, Skelton himself, repeat the platitudesof the old poetry and the coarseness of the old style. Their manners, half refined, were still half feudal. Parades, combats, wounds, challenges, love, appeals to the judgment of God, penances, — all these were found in the life of Surrey as in a chivalric romance. A great lord, an earl, a relative of the king, who had figured in pro- cessions and ceremonies, had made war, commanded fortresses, ravaged countries, mounted to the assault, fallen in the breach, had been saved by his servant, magnificent, sumptuous, irri- table, ambitious, four times imprisoned, finally beheaded. At the coronation of Ann of Cleves he was one of the challengers of the tourney. Denounced and placed in durance, he offered to fight unarmed against an armed adversary. Another time he was put in prison for having eaten flesh in Lent. No wonder if this prolongation of chivalric manners brought with it a prolonga- tion of chivalric poetry ; if in an age which had known Petrarch, poets displayed the sentiments of Petrarch. Lord Berners, * Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie, eA. Arber, 1869, book i. ch. 31. ?• 74- THE PAGAN RENAISSANCE. 73 Lord Sheffield, Sir Thomas Wyatt, and Surrey in the first rank, were, like Petrarch, plaintive and platonic lovers. It was pure love to which Surrey gave expression ; for his lady, the beauti- ful Geraldine, like Beatrice and Laura, was an ideal personage, and a child of thirteen years. And yet, amid this languor of mystical tradition, a personal feeling had sway. In this spirit which imitated, and that badly at times, which still groped for an outlet, and now and then ad- mitted into its polished stanzas the old, simple expressions and stale metaphors of heralds of arms and trouveres, there was al- ready visible the Northern melancholy, the inner and gloomy emotion. This feature, which presently, at the finest moment of its richest blossom, in the plendid expansiveness of natural life, spreads a sombre tint over the poetry of Sidney, Spenser, Shakspeare, already in the first poet separates this pagan yet Teutonic world from the other, all in all voluptuous, which in Italy, with lively and refined irony, had no taste, except for art and pleasure. Surrey translated the Ecclesiastes into verse. Is it not singular, at this early hour, in this rising dawn, to find such a book in his hand ? A disenchantment, a sad or bitter dreaminess, an innate consciousness of the vanity of human things, are never lacking in this country and in this race. Sur- rey's finest verses bear witness thus soon to his serious bent, this instinctive and grave philosophy. He records his griefs, regret- ting his beloved Wyatt, his friend Clfire, his companion the young Duke of Richmond, all dead in their prime. Alone, a prisoner at Windsor, he recalls the happy days they have passed together : " So cruel prison how could betide, alas, As proud Windsor, where I in lust and joy. With a Kinges son, my childish years did pass, In greater feast than Priam's son of Troy. Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour, The large green courts, where we were wont to hove. With eyes cast up into the Maiden's tower. And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love. The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue. The dances short, long tales of great delight, With words and looks, that tigers could but rue ; Where' each of us did plead the other's right. The palme-play, where, despoiled for the game. With dazed eyes oft we by gleams of love 74 THE PAGAN RENAISSANCE. Have miss'd the ball, and got sight of our dame. To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above. . . The secret thoughts, imparled with such trust ; The wanton talk, the divers change of play ; The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just. Wherewith we past the winter night away. And with his thought the blood forsakes the face ; The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue : The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas ! Up-supped have, thus I my plaint renew : O place of bliss ! renewer of my woes .' Give me account, where is my noble fere ? Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose ; To other lief ; but unto me most dear. Echo, alas ! that doth my sorrow rue. Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint."* So in love, it is the sinking of a weary soul, to which he gives vent : " For all things having life, sometime hath quiet rest ; The bearing ass, the drawing ox, and every other beast ; The peasant, and the post, that serves at all assays ; The ship-boy, and the galley-slave, have time to take their ease ; Save I, alas ! whom care of force doth so constrain. To wail the day, and wake the night, continually in pain, From pensiveness to plaint, from plaint to bitter tears. From tears to painful plaint again ; and thus my life it wears."f That which brings joy to others brings him grief: " The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale. The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. Summer is come, for eveiy spray now springs ; The hart has hung his old head on the pale ; The buck in brake his winter coat he slings ; The fishes flete with new repaired scale ; The adder all her slough away she slings ; The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; The busy bee her honey now she mings ; Winter is .worn that was the flowers' bale. * Surrey'^ Poems, Pickering, 1831, p. 17. f Ibid. " The faithful lover declareth his pains and his uncertain joys, and with only hope recomforteth his woful heart," p. 53. THE PAGAN RENAISSANCE. 75 And thus I see among these pleasant things Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs ! "* For all that, he will love on to his last sigh. " Yea, rather die a thousand times, than once to false my faith ; And if my feeble corpse, through weight of woful smart Do fail, or faint, my will it is that still she keep my heart. And when this carcass here to earth shall be refar'd I do bequeath my wearied ghost to serve her afterward." \ An English Petrarch : no juster title could be given to Surrey, for it expresses his talent as well as his disposition. In fact, like Petrarch, the oldest of the humanists, and the earliest exact writer of the modern tongue, Surrey introduces a new style, a manly style, which marks a great transformation of the mind ; for this new form of writing is the result of a superior reflection, which, governing the primitive impulse, calculates and selects with an end in view. At last the intellect has- grown capable of self-criticism, and actually criticises itself. It cor- rects its unconsidered works, infantine and incoherent, at once incomplete and superabundant ; it strengthens and binds them together ; it prunes and perfects them ; it takes from them the master idea, to set it free and in the light of day. This is what Surrey does, and his education had prepared him for it ; for he had studied Virgil as well as Petrarch, and translated two books of the ^neid, almost verse for verse. In such company one cannot but select one's ideas and arrange one's phrases. We do not find in Surrey a bold genius, an impassioned writer capa- ble of wide expansion, but a courtier, a lover of elegance, who, penetrated by the beauties of two complete literatures, imitates Horace and the chosen masters of Italy, corrects and polishes little morsels, aims at speaking perfectly a fine language. Among semi-barbarians he wears a dress-coat becomingly. Yet he does not wear it completely at his ease : he keeps his eyes too exclusively on his models, and does not venture to permit himself frank and free gestures. He is still a scholar^ makes too great use of hot and cold, wounds and martyrdom. Although a lover, and a genuine one, he thinks too much that he must be so in Petrarch's manner, that his phrase must be balanced and * Surrey's Poems, Pickering, 183 1, p. 3. " Description of Spring, where- in everything renews, save only the lover." \ Ibid. p. 56. 76 THE PAGAN RENAISSANCE. his image kept up. I had almost said that, in his sonnets of disappointed love, he thinks less often of the strength of love than of the beauty of his writing. He has conceits, ill-chosen words ; he uses trite expressions ; he relates how Nature, hav- ing formed his lady, broke the mould; he assigns parts to Cupid and Venus ; he employs the old machinery of the trouba- dours and the ancients, like a clever man who wishes to pass for a gallant. Scarce any mind dares be at first quite itself: when a new art arises, the first artist listens not to his heart, but to his masters, and asks himself at every step whether he be setting foot on solid ground, or whether he is not stumbling. § i6. — In 1580 appeared Euphues, the Anatomy of Wit, by Lyly, which was the text-book, master-piece, and caricature of a new, strange, overloaded style, destined to remain in force until the Restoration. It was received with universal admira- tion. The ladies knew the phrases of Euphues by heart : strange, studied, and refined phrases, enigmatical ; whose author seems of set purpose to seek the least natural expressions and the most far-fetched, full of exaggeration and antithesis, in which mythological allusions, illustrations from alchemy, botan- ical and astronomical figures, all the rubbish and medley of learning, travels, mannerism, roll in a flood of conceits and comparisons. Do not judge it by the grotesque picture that Walter Scott drew of it. Sir Piercie Shafton is but a pedant, a cold and dull copyist ; it is its warmth and originality which give this style a true force and an accent of its own. You must conceive it, not as dead and inert, such as we have it to- day in old books, but springing from the lips of ladies and young lords in pearl-bedecked doublet, quickened by their vibrating voices, their laughter, the flash of their eyes, the motion of their hands as they played with the hilt of their swords or with their satin cloaks. They were witty, their heads full to overflowing ; and they amused themselves, as our sensi- tive and eager artists do, at their ease in the studio. They did not speak to convince or be understood, but to satisfy their excited imagination, to expend their overflowing wit. They played with words, twisted, put them out of shape, rejoiced in sudden views, strong contrasts, which they produced one after another, ever and anon, in quick succession, caring nothing for clearness, order, common sense. Yet in that time, even when THE PAGAN RENAISSANCE. ■jy the man was feeble, his work lived : force and creative fire pen- etrate through all this bombast and affectation. Lyly himself, so fantastic that he seems to write purposely in defiance of com- mon sense, is at times a genuine poet, a singer, a man capable of rapture, akin to Spenser and Shakspeare ; one of those intro- spective dreamers, who see dancing fairies, the purpled cheeks of goddesses, drunken, amorous woods, as he says: " Adorned with the presence of my love, The woods I fear such secret power shall prove, As they'll shut up each path, hide every way. Because they still would have her go astray. "* Luxuriance and irregularity were the two features of this spirit and this literature, — features common to all the literatures of the Renaissance, but more marked here than elsewhere, because the German race is not confined, like the Latin, by the taste for harmonious forms, and prefers strong impression to fine expression. We must select amidst this crowd of poets ; and here is one among the first, who will exhibit by his writings as well as by his life, the greatness and the folly of the prevailing manners and the public taste : Sir Philip Sidney, nephew of the Earl of Leicester, a man of action, accomplished in every kind of culture ; who, after a good training in polite literature, travelled in France, Germany, and Italy j read Plato and Aristotle, studied astronomy and geometry at Venice ; pondered over the Greek tragedies, the Italian sonnets, the pastorals of Montemayor, the poems of Ronsard ; displaying an interest in science, keeping up an exchange of letters with the learned Hubert Languet ; and withal a man of the world, a favorite of Elizabeth, having had enacted in her honor a flattering and comic pastoral ; a genu- ine "jewel of the Court j" a judge, like d'Urfe, of lofty gallantry and fine language ; above all, chivalrous in heart and deed, who had desired to follow maritime adventure with Drake, and, to crown all, fated to die an early and heroic death. He was a cav- alry officer, and had saved the English army at Gravelines. Shortly after, mortally wounded, and dying of thirst, as some water was brought to him, he saw by his side a soldier still more desperately hurt, who was looking at the water with anguish in his face : " Give it to this man, " said he ; "his necessity is yet greater than mine. " The Maid her Metamorphosis. -g THE PAGAN RENAISSANCE. His pastoral epic, the Arcadia, is but a recreation, a sort of poetical romance, written in the country for the amusement of his sister; a work of fashion, which, like Cyrus and Clehe, • is not a monument, but a relic. This kind of book shows only the externals, the current elegance and politeness, the jargon of the world of culture,— in short, that which should be spoken before ladies ; and yet we perceive from it the bent of the general spirit. ' In Cl'die, oratorical development, fine and collected analysis, the flowing converse of men seated quietly on elegant arm-chairs ; in the Arcadia, fantastic imagination, excessive sen- timents, a medley of events which suited men scarcely recovered from barbarism. Indeed, in London they still used to fire pis- tols at each other in the streets ; and under Heniy viii. and his children, queens, a Protector, the highest nobles, knelt under the axe of the executioner. Armed and perilous existence long resisted in Europe the establishment of peaceful and quiet life. It was necessary to change society and the soil, in order to trans- form men of the sword into citizens. At this period men's heads were full of tragical images. Sidney's Arcadia contains enough of them to supply half-a-dozen epics. In the first twenty-five pages you meet with a shipwreck, an account of pirates, a half- drowned prince rescued by shepherds, a voyage in Arcadia, vari- ous disguises, the retreat of a king withdrawn into solitude with his wife and children, the deliverance of a young imprisoned lord, a war against the Helots, the conclusion of peace, and many other things. Go on, and you will find princesses shut up by a wicked fairy, who beats them, and threatens them with death if they refuse to marry her son ; a beautiful queen condemned to perish by fire if certain knights do not come to her succor ; a treacherous prince tortured for his crimes, then cast from the top of a pyramid ; fights, surprises, abductions, travels : in short, the whole programme of the most romantic tales. That is the seri- ous element : the agreeable is of a like nature ; the fantastic predominates. Improbable pastoral serves, as in Shakspeare or Lope de Vega, for an intermezzo to improbable tragedy. You are always coming upon dancing shepherds. They are very courteous, good poets, and subtle metaphysicians. There are many disguised princes who pay their court to the pi-incesses. * Two French novels of the a£;e of Louis XIV., each in ten volumes, and written by Mademoiselle de Scudery. — Tr, THE PAGAN RENAISSANCE. 79 They sing continually, and get up allegorical dances ; two bands approach, servants of Reason and Passion ; their hats, ribbons, and dress are described in full. They quarrel in verse, and their hurried retorts, which follow close on one another, over- refined, keep up a tournament of wit. Who cared for what was natural or possible in this age ? There were such festivals at Elizabeth's entries ; and you have only to look at the engravings of Sadler, Martin de Vos, and Goltzius, to find this mixture of sensuous beauties and philosophical enigmas. In Sidney's second work, The Defence of Poesie, we meet with genuine imagination, a sincere and serious tone, a grand, com- manding style, all the passion and elevation which he carries in his heart and puts into his verse. In his eyes, if there is any art or science capable of augmenting and cultivating generosity, it is poetry. He draws comparison after comparison between it and philosophy or history, whose pretensions he laughs at and dis- misses.* He fights for poetry as a knight for his lady, and in what heroic and splendid style ! He says : " I never heard the old Song of Percie and Douglas, that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet : and yet it is sung by some blinde Crowder, with no rougher voyce, than rude stile ; which beeing so evill apparelled in the dust aud Cobweb of that uncivill age, what would it work, trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindare ? " f The philosoper repels, the poet attracts : " Nay hee doth as if your journey should lie through a faire vineyard, at the very first, give you a cluster of grapes, that full of that tast, you may long to passe further,":): What description of poetry can displease you? Pastoral, so easy and genial ? " Is it the bitter but wholesome lambicke, who rubbes the galled minde, making shame the Trumpet of villanie, with bold and open crying out against naughtinesse."§ At the close, he reviews his arguments, and the vibrating martial accent of his poetical period is like a trump of victory : " So that since the excellencies of it (poetry) may bee so easily and so The Defence of Poesie, zi. fol. 1629, p. 558: "I dare undertake, that Orlando Furioso, or honest King Arthur, will never displease a soldier : but the quidditie ol Ens zxiA prima wa/ma, will hardly agree with a Corselet." See also, in these pages, the very lively and spirited personification of His- tory and Philosophy. It contains genuine talent. t//5iV. p. 553. X Ibid. ^. Be present still to Caesar ! . . . Cotta. Let all the traitor's titles be defac'd. Trio. His images and statues be pull'd down. . . Sen. Liberty 1 liberty ! liberty ! Lead on. And praise to Macro that hath saved Rome."t It is the baying of a furious pack of hounds; let loose at last on him, under whose hand they had crouched, and who had for a long time beaten and bruised them. Jonson discovered in his own energetic soul the energy of these Roman passions ; and the clearness of his mind, added to his profound knowledge, unable to construct characters, furnished him with general ideas and striking incidents, which suffice to depict manners. Moreover, it was to this that he turned his talent. Nearly all his work consists of comedies, not sentimental and fanciful as Shakspeare's, but imitative, and satirical, written to represent and correct follies and vices. Men, as we see them in the streets, with their whims and humors — " When some one peculiar quality Doth so possess a man, that it doth draw All his affects, his spirits, and his powers In their confluxions, all to run one way. This may be truly said to be a humor ; "% * Tlie Fall of Sejanus, v. f I6id. X Every Man out of His Humor, Prologue. BEN JONSON. 131 —it is these humors which he exgoses to the light, not with the artist's curiosity, but with the moralist's hate : " I will scourge those apes, And to these courteous eyes oppose a mirror, As large as is the stage whereon we act ; Where they shall see the time's deformity Anatomized in every nerve, and sinew, With constant courage and contempt of fear. . . . My strict hand Was made to seize on vice, and with a gripe Squeeze out the humor of such spongy natures As lick up every idle vanity."* Doubtless a determination so strong and decided does vio- lence to the dramatic spirit. Jonson's comedies are not rarely harsh ; his characters are too grotesque, laboriously constructed, mere automatons ; the poet thought less of making living beings than of scotching a vice ; the scenes get arranged mechanically, or are confused together; we see the process, we feel the satir- ical intention throughout ; delicate and easy-flowing imitation is absent, as well as the graceful sprightliness which abounds in Shakspeare. But if Jonson comes across harsh passions, visibly evil and vile, he will derive from his energy and wrath the talent to render them odious and visible, and will produce a Volpone, a sublime work, the sharpest picture of the manners of the age, in which lewdness, cruelty, love of gold, shamelessness of vice, display a sinister yet splendid poetry, worthy of one of Titian's bacchanalians. Jonson did not go beyond this ; he was not a philosopher like Moli6re, able to grasp and dramatize the crises of human life, education, marriage, sickness, the chief characters of his country and century, the courtier, the tradesman, the hypocrite, the man of the world. He remained on a lower level, in the comedy of plot, the painting of the grotesque, the representation of too transient subjects of ridicule, too general vices. If at times, as in iht Alchemist, he has succeeded by the perfection of plot and the vigor of satire, he has miscarried more fre- quently by the ponderousness of his work and the lack of comic lightness. The critic in him mars the artist; his literary calculations strip him of spontaneous invention ; he is too much * Every Man out of his Humor, Prologue. 132 BEN JON SON. of a writer and moralist, not enough of a mimic and an actor. But he is loftier from another side, for he is a poet ; almost all writers, prose-authors, preachers even, were so at the time we speak of. Fancy abounded, as well as the perception of colors and forms, the need and wont of enjoying through the imagina- tion and the eyes. Many of Jonson's pieces, the Staple of News, Cynthia's Revels ; are fanciful and allegorical comedies, like those of Aristophanes. He there dallies with the real, and beyond the real, with characters who are but theatrical masks, abstractions personified, buffooneries, decorations, dances, music, pretty laugh- ing whims of a picturesque and sentimental imagination. Thus, in Cynthia's Revels, three children come on " pleading possession of the cloke " of black velvet, which an actor usually wore when he spoke the prologue. They draw lots for it ; one of the losers, in revenge, tells the audience beforehand the incidents of the piece. The others interrupt him at every sentence, put their hands on his mouth, and taking the cloak one after the other, begin the criticism of the spectators and authors. This child's play, these gestures and voices, this little amusing dispute, divert the public from their serious thoughts, and prepare them for the oddities which they are to look upon. Jonson went further than this, and entered the domain of pure poetry. He wrote delicate, voluptuous, charming love poems, worthy of the ancient idyllic muse.* Above all, he was the great, the inexhaustible inventor of Masques, a kind of masquerades, ballets, poetic dances, in which all the magnifi- cence and the imagination of the English Renaissance is dis- played. Even when he' grew to be old, his imagination, like that of Titian, remained abundant and fresh. Though forsaken, gasping on his bed, feeling the approach of death, in his supreme bitterness he did not lose his tone, but wrote The Sad Shepherd, the most graceful and pastoral of his pieces. Consider that this beautiful dream was dreamed in a sick chambei-, to an accom- paniment of bottles, physic, doctors, with a nurse at his side, amidst the anxieties of poverty and the choking-fits of a dropsy ! He is transported to a green forest, in the days of Robin Hood, amidst jovial chase and the great barking greyhounds. There are the malicious fairies, the Oberon and Titania, who lead men * Celebration of Charh — Miscellaneous Poems. BEN y ON SON. 133 aflounder in misfortune. There are open-souled lovers, the Daphne and Chloe, tasting with awe the painful sweetness of the first kiss. There lived Earine, whom the stream has '' suck'd in," whom her lover, in his madness, will not cease to lament : " Earine, Who had her very being, and her name With the first knots or buddings of the spring. Born with the primrose or the violet. Or earliest roses blown ; when Cupid smil'd. And Venus led the graces outto dance. And all the flowers and sweets in nature's lap Leap'd out, and made their solemn conjuration To last but while she liv'd." ... * " But she, as chaste as was her name, Earine, Dy'd undeflower'd : and now her sweet soul hovers Here in the air above us."f Above the poor old paralytic artist, poetry still hovers like a haze of light. Yes, he had cumbered himself with science, clogged himself with theories, constituted himself theatrical critic and social censor, filled his soul with unrelenting indignation, fos- tered a combative and morose disposition ; but heaven's dreams never deserted him. He is the brother of Shakspeare. * The Sad Shepherd, i. 5. f Ibid. iii. 2. CHAPTER VII. SHAKSPEARE. § 23. — I AM about to describe an extraordinary species of mind, perplexing to all the French modes of analysis and reas- oning, all-powerful, excessive, equally master of the sublime and the base ; the most creative that ever engaged in the exact copy of the details of actual existence, in the dazzling caprice of fancy, in the profound complications of superhuman passions; a na- ture poetical, not shackled by its morality, inspired, superior to reason by the sudden revelations of his seer's-madness ; so ex- treme in joy and pain, so abrupt of gait, so stormy and im- petuous in his transports, that this great age alone could have cradled such a child. Of Shakspeare all came from within — I mean from his soul and his genius ; external circumstances contributed but slightly to his development. He was intimately bound up with his age ; that is, he knew by experience the manners of country, court, and town ; he had visited the heights, depths, the middle regions of the condition of mankind ; nothing more. For the rest, his life was commonplace; the irregularities, troubles, passions, suc- cesses through which he passed, were, on the whole, such as we meet with everywhere else.* His father, a glover and wool stapler, in very easy circumstances, having married a sort of country heiress, had become high-bailiff and chief alderman in in his little town ; but when Shakspeare reached the age of four- teen he was on the verge of ruin, mortgaging his wife's property, obliged to resign his municipal offices, and to remove his son from school to assist him in his business. The young fellow applied himself to it as well as he could, not without some scrapes and escapades : if we are to believe tradition, he was * Bom 1564, died 1616. He adapted plays as early as 1591. The first play entirely from his pen appeared in 1593. — Payne Collier. SHAKSPEARE. I35 one of the thirsty souls of the place, with a mind to support the reputation of his little town in its drinking powers. Once, they say, having been beaten at Bideford in one of these ale-bouts, he returned staggering from the fight, or rather could not re- turn, and passed the night with his comrades under an apple- tree by the roadside. Without doubt he had already begun to write verses, to rove about like a genuine poet, taking part in the noisy rustic feasts, the gay pastoral plays, the rich and bold outbreak of pagan and poetical life, as it was then to be found in an English village. At all events, he was not a pattern of propriety, and his passions were as precocious as they were reck- less. While not yet nineteen years old, he married the daughter of a substantial yeoman, about eight years older than himself — and not too soon, as she was about to become a mother.* Other of his outbreaks were no more fortunate. It seems that he was fond of poaching, after the manner of the time, "being much given to all unluckinesse in stealing venison and rab- bits," says the Rev. Richard Davies; "particularly from Sir Lucy, who had him oft whipt and sometimes imprisoned, and at last made him fly the country ; . . . but his revenge was so great, that he is his Justice Clodpate." Moreover, about this time Shakspeare's father was in prison, his affairs were des- perate, and he himself had three children, following one close upon the other ; he must live, and life was hardly possible for him in his native town. He went to London, and took to the stage : took the lowest parts, was a " servant " in the theatre, that is, an apprentice, or perhaps a supernumerary. They even said that he had begun still lower, and that to earn his bread he had held gentlemen's horses at the door of the theatre.f At all events he tasted misery, and felt, not in imagination but in fact, the sharp thorn of care, humiliation, disgust, forced labor, public discredit, the power of the people. He was a comedian, one of "His majesty's poor p]ayers,"t — a sad trade, degraded * Mr. Halliwell and other commentators try to prove that at this time the preliminary trothplight was regarded as the real marriage ; that this troth- plight had taken place, and that there was therefore no irregularity in Shak- speare's conduct. \ AH these anecdotes are traditions, and consequently more or less doubtful ; but the other facts are authentic. X Terms of an extant document. He is named along with Burbadge and Greene. 136 SHAKSPEARE. in all ages by the contrasts and the falsehoods inseparable from it ; still more degraded then by the brutalities of the crowd, who not seldom would stone the actors, and by the severities of the magistrates, who would sometimes condemn them to lose their ears. He felt it, and spoke of it with bitterness : " Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there And made myself a motley to the view. Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear."* And again: " When in disgrace with fortune f and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state. And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. Featured like him, like him with friends possessed. . . With what I most enjoy contented least ; Yet in those thoughts myself almost despising.''^; It was not long, however, before he found his resting- place. Early, at least from an external point, he settled down to an orderly, sensible, citizen-like existence, engaged • in business, provident of the future. He. remained on the stage for at least seventeen years, though taking secondary parts ; § he set his wits at the same time to the touching up of plays with so much activity, that Greene called him " an upstart crow beautified with our feathers ; ... an ab- solute jfokannes factotum, in his owne conceyt the onely shake- scene in a countrey."|| At the age of tliirty-three he had amassed enough to buy at Stratford a house with two barns and two gardens, and he went on steadier and steadier in the same course. A man attains only to easy circumstances by his own labor ; if he gains wealth, it is by making others labor for him. This is why, to the trades of actor and author, Shakspeare ad- ded those of manager and director of a theatre. He acquired a partial proprietorship in the Blackfriars and Globe theatres, farmed tithes, bought large pieces of land, more houses, gave a * Sonnet no. \ See Sonnets 91 and ril ; also Hamlet, iii. 2. Many of Hamlet's words would come better from the mouth of an actor than a prince. See also the 66th Sonnet, " Tired with all these." \ Sonnet 29. § The part in which he excelled was that of the ghost in Hamlet. II Greene's A Groatsworth of Wit, etc. SHAKSPEARE. nr dowry to his daughter Susanna, and finally retired to his native town on his property, in his own house, like a good landlord, an honest citizen, who manages his fortune fitly, and takes his share of municipal work. He had an income of two or three hundred pounds, which would be equivalent to about eight or twelve hundred at the present time, and according to tradition, lived cheerfully and on good terms with his neighbors ; at all events, it does not seem that he thought much about his literary glory, for he did not even take the trouble to collect and publish his works. One of his daughters married a physician, the other a wine merchant; the last did not even know how to sign her name. He lent money, and cut a good figure in this little world. Strange close ; one which at first sight resembles more that of a shopkeeper than of a poet. Must we attribute it to that English instinct which^laces happing in the life of a'country gentleman and a landlord with a good rent-roll, well connected, surrounded- "Bycomforts, who quietly rejoices in his settled respectability,* his _ domestic^ authority, .and,his_ county, standing? Or rather,, was SHakipeare, like Voltaire, a common-sense man, though of an imaginatjy£- brain,- keeping- a sound judgment under the spark- ling of his geniuSj^prudent from skepticism, economical Jhrough lack of independence, and capable, after going the round of hu-- man ideas,, of ^deciding with Candide,t that the best thing one can do is " to_cul'avate one's garden ?" I would rather think, as his full and solid head suggests,^ that by the mere force of his overflowing imagination he escaped, like Goethe, the perils of an overflowing imagination ; that in depicting passion, he suc- ceeded, like Goethe, in quelling passion in his own case ; that tlie lava did not break out in his conduct, because it found issue in his poetry ; that his theatre redeemed his life ; and tliat, having passed, by sympathy, through every kind of folly and wretchedness that is incident to human existence, he was able to settle down amidst them with a calm and melancholy smile, listening, for distraction, to the aerial music of the fancies in which he revelled.§ I am willing to believe, lastly, that in frame * " He was a respectable man." " A good word ; what does it mean ?" " He kept a gig." — (From Thurtell's trial for the murder of Weare.) f The model of an optimist, the hero of one of Voltaire's tales. — Tr. X See his portraits, and in particular his bust. § Especially in his later plays ; Tempest, Twelfth Night. 128 SHAKSPBARE. as in the rest, he belonged to his great generation and his great age ; that with him, as with Rabelais, Titian, Michael Angelo, and Rubens, the solidity of his muscles balanced the sensibility of his nerves. Of all this we can but conjecture: if we would see the man more closely, we must seek him in his works. Let us then look for the man in his style. The style ex- plains the work ; while showing the principal features of the genius, it infers the rest. When we have once grasped the dominant faculty, we see the whole artist developed like a flower. Shakspeare imagines with copiousness and excess; he spreads metaphors profusely over all he writes ; every instant abstract ideas are changed into images ; it is a series of paint- ings which is unfolded in his mind. He does not seek them, they come of themselves ; they crowd within him, covering his arguments ; they dim with their brightness the pure light of logic. He does not labor to explain or prove ; picture on pic- ture, image on image, he is for ever copying the strange and splendid visions which are engendered one within another, and are heaped up within him. Compare to our dull writers this passage, which I take at hazard from a tranquil dialogue: " The single and peculiar life is bound. With all the strength and ardour of the mind, To keep itself from noyance ; but much more That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest The lives of many. The cease of majesty Dies not alone ; but, like a gulf, doth draw What's near it with it : it is a massy wheel, Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortised and adjoin'd ; which, when it falls. Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone Did the king sigh, but with a general groan."* Here we have three successive images to express the same thought. It is a whole blossoming ; a bough grows from the trunk, from that another, which is multiplied into numerous fresh branches. Instead of a smooth road, traced by a regular line of dry and well-fixed stakes, you enter a wood, crowded with inter- * Hamlet, iii. 3. SHAKSPEARE. 139 woven trees and luxuriant bushes, which conceal you and close your path, which delight and dazzle your eyes by the magnifi- cence of their verdure and the wealth of their bloom. This is because objects were taken into his mind organized and com- plete j they pass into ours disjointed, decomposed, fragment- arily. He thought in the lump, we think piecemeal ; hence his style and our style — two languages not to be reconciled. We employ but general terms, which every mind can understand, and regular constructions into which any mind can enter ; we attain justness and clearness, not life. Shakspeare lets justness and clearness look out for themselves, and attains life. From amidst his complex conception and his colored semi-vision he grasps a fragment, a quivering fibre, and shows it ; it is for you, from this fragment, to divine the rest. This is why Shakspeare is strange and powerful, obscure and original, beyond all the poets of his or any other age ; the most immoderate of all viola- tors of language, the most marvellous of all creators of souls, the farthest removed from regular logic and classical reason, the one most capable of exciting in us a world of forms, and of placing living beings before us. § 24. — Let us reconstruct this world, so as to find in it the imprint of its creator. A poet does not copy at random the manners which surround him; he selects from this vast material, and involuntarily brings upon the stage the moods of the heart and the conduct which best suit his talent. If he is a logician, a moralist, an orator, as, for instance, one of the French great tragic poets (Racine) of the seventeenth cen- tury, he will only represent noble manners, he will avoid low characters ; he will observe the greatest decorum in respect of the strongest outbreaks of passion ; he will reject as scandalous every low or indecent word ; he will suppress the familiarity, childishness, artlessness, gay banter of domestic life ; he will blot out precise details, special traits, and will raise tragedy into a serene and sublime region, where his abstract personages, un- encumbered by time and space, after an exchange of eloquent harangues and able dissertations, will kill each other becomingly, and as though they were merely concluding a <:;eremony. Shaks- peare does just the contrary, because his genius is the exact op- posite. His master faculty is an impassioned imagination, freed from the fetters of reason and morality. He abandons himself I40 SHAKSPEARE. to it, and finds in man nothing that he would care to lop ofF. He accepts nature, and finds it beautifial in its entirety. He paints it in its littlenesses, its deformities, its weakne_^eSjJtsex-_ cesses, its irregularities, and in its" rages ;'Ee exhibits man at his meals, in bed, af play, drunk, mad, sick ; he addsTiiarwEicir passes behind the stage to that which passes on the stage. He does not dream of ennobling, but of copying human life, and aspires only to make his copy more energetic and more striking than the original. Hence the morals of this drama j and first, the want of dig- nity. Dignity arises from self-command. A man selects the most noble of his acts and attitudes, and allows himself no other. Shakspeare's characters select none, but allow themselves all. His kings are men, and fathers of families. The terrible Leon- tes, who is about to order the death of his wife and his friend, plays like a child with his son : caresses him, gives him all the pretty little pet names which mothers are wont to employ ; he dares be trivial ; he gabbles like a nurse ; he has her language, and fulfils her ofiices : " Ironies. What, hast smutch'd thy nose ? They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain. We must be neat ; not neat, but cleanly, captain : . . . Come, sir page. Look on me with your welkin eye : sweet villain ! Most dear'st ! my coUop . . . Looking on the lines Of my boy's face, methoughts I did recoil Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech'd. In my green velvet coat, my dagger muzzled. Lest it should bite its master. . . . How like, methought, I then was to this kernel. This squash, this gentleman ! ... My brother, Are you so fond of your young prince as we Do seem to be of ours ? Polixenes. If at home, sir. He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter. Now my sworn friend and then mine enemy, My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all : He makes a July's day short as December, And with his varying childness cures in me Thoughts that would thick my blood."* There are a score of such passages in Shakspeare. The * Winter's Tale, i. 2. SHAKSPEARE. I4I great passions, with him as in nature, are preceded or followed by trivial actions, scraps of talk, commonplace sentiments. Strong emotions are accidents in our life : to drink, to eat, to talk of indifferent things, to carry out mechanically an habitual duty, to dream of some stale pleasure or some ordinary annoy- ance, that is the business of our lives. Shakspeare paints us as we are ; his heroes bow, ask people for news, speak of rain and fine weather, as often and as casually as ourselves, on the very eve of falling into the extremity of misery, or of plunging into fatal resolutions. Hamlet asks what's o'clock, finds the wind biting, talks of feasts and music heard without ; and this quiet talk, so little in harmony with action, so full of slight, insignifi- cant facts, which chance alone has raised up, lasts until the moment when his father's ghost, rising in the darkness, reveals the assassination which it is his duty to avenge. The manners of that stage are unbridled, like those of the age, and like the poet's imagination. To copy the common ac- tions of every-day life, the puerilities and feeblenesses to which the greatest continually sink, the transports which degrade them, the indecent, harsh, or foul words, the atrocious deeds in which licence revels, the brutality and ferocity of primitive nature, is the work of a free and unencumbered imagination. To copy this hideousness and these excesses with a selection of such fa- miliar, significant, precise details, that they reveal under every word of every personage the complete condition of civilization, is the work of a concentrated and all-powerful imagination. This species of manners and this energy of description indicate the same faculty, unique and excessive, which the style had al- ready indicated. On this common background stands out a population of dis- tinct living figures, illuminated by an intense light, in striking relief This creative power is Shakspeare's great gift, and it communicates an extraordinary significance to his words. He had the prodigious faculty of seeing in a twinkling of the eye a complete character, body, mind, past and present, in every de- tail and every depth of his being, with the exact attitude and the expression of face, which the situation demanded. These characters are all of the same family. Good or bad, gross or delicate, refined or awkward, Shakspeare gives them all the same kind of spirit which is his own. He has made of them imagi- 142 SHAKSPEARE. native people, void of will and reason, impassioned machines, vehemently hurled one upon another, who were the representa- tion of whatever is most natural and most abandoned in human nature. Let us act the play to ourselves, and see in all its stages this clanship of figures, this prominence of portraits. Lowest of all are the stupid folk, babbling or brutish. Im- agination already exists there, where reason is not yet born ; it exists also here, where reason is dead. The idiot and the brute blindly follow the phantoms which exist in their benumbed or mechanical brains. No poet has understood this mechanism like Shakspeare. His Caliban, for instance, a deformed savage, fed on roots, growls like a beast under the hand of Prospero, who has subdued him. He howls continually against his master, though he knows that every curse will be paid back with " cramps and aches." He is a chained wolf, trembling and fierce, who tries to bite when approached, and who crouches when he sees the lash raised above him. He has a foul sensuality, a loud base laugh, the gluttony of degraded humanity. He cries for his food, and gorges himself when he gets it. A sailor who had landed in the island, Stephano, gives him wine ; he kisses his feet, and takes him for a god ; he asks if he has not dropped from heaven, and adores him. We find in him rebellious and baffled passions, which are eager to be avenged and satiated. Stephano had beaten his comrade. Caliban cries, " Beat him enough : after a little time I'll beat him too." He prays Ste- phano to come with hiin and murder Prospero in his sleep ; he thirsts to lead him there, and sees his master already with his throat cut, and his brains scattered on the earth : " Prithee, my king, be quiet. See'st thou here. This is the mouth o' the cell : no noise, and enter. Do that good mischief which may make this island Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, For aye thy foot-licker."* Others, like Ajax and Cloten, are more like men, and yet it is pure mood that Shakspeare depicts in them, as in Caliban. The clogging corporeal machine, the mass of muscles, the thick blood coursing in the veins of these fighting brutes, oppress the intelligence, and leave no life but for animal passions. Otliers, again, are but babblers : for example, Polonius, the grave brain- * The Tempest, Iv. I. SHAKSPEARE. I43 less counsellor; a solemn booby, who rains on men a shower of counsels, compliments, and maxims. But the most complete of all these characters is that of the nurse in Romeo and Juliet, a gossip, loose in her talk, a regular kitchen-oracle, smelling of the stew-pan and old boots, foolish, impudent, immoral, but other- wise a good creature, and affectionate to her child. The mechanical imagination produces Shakspeare's fool- characters : a quick, venturesome imagination produces his men of wit. Of wit there are many kinds. One, altogether French, which is but reason, a foe to paradox, scorner of folly, a sort of incisive common sense, having no occupation but to render truth amusing and evident : such was the wit of Voltaire and the drawing-rooms. The other, that of improvisators and ar- tists, is a mere inventive transport, paradoxical, unshackled, exuberant, a phantasmagoria of images, quibbles, strange ideas, dazing and intoxicating, like the movement and illumination of a ball. Such is the wit of Mercutio, of the clowns, of Beatrice, Rosalind, and Benedick. They laugh, not from a sense of the ridiculous, but from the desire to laugh. You must look else- where for the campaigns which aggressive reason makes against human folly. Here folly is in its full bloom. Our folk think of amusement, and nothing more. They are good-humored ; they let their wit ride gaily over the possible and the impossible. They play ■ upon words, contort their sense, draw absurd and laughable inferences, exchange them alternately, like shuttle- cocks, one after another, and vie with each other in singularity and invention. They dress all their ideas in strange or spark- ling metaphors. The taste of the time was for masquerades ; their conversation is a masquerade of ideas. They say nothing in a simple style ; they only seek to heap together subtle things, far-fetched, difficult to invent and to understand; all their ex- pressions are over-refined, unexpected, extraordinary; they strain their thought, and change it into a caricature. " Alas, poor Romeo ! " says Mercutio, " he is already dead, stabbed with a white wench's black eye ; shot through the ear with a love- song, the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft." Benedick relates a conversation he has just held with his mistress : " O, she misused me past the endurance of a block ! an oak, with but one green leaf on it would have an- swered her ; my very visor began to assume life, and scold with 144 SHAKSPEARE. her." These gay and perpetual extravagances show the bearing of the interlocutors. They do not remain quietly seated in their chairs, like the Marquis in the Misanthrope; they wheel about, leap, paint their faces, gesticulate boldly their ideas ; their wit- rockets end with a song. Young folk, soldiers and artists, they let off their fireworks of phrases, and gambol round about. " There was a star danced, and under that was I born." This expression of Beatrice's aptly describes the kind of poetical, sparkling, unreasoning, charming wit, more akin to music than to literature, a sort of outspoken and wide-awake dream, not unlike that described by Mercutio in the well-known passage beginning " O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you." Falstaffhas the passions of an animal, and the imagination of a man of wit. There is no character which better exemplifies the dash and immorality of Shakspeare. Falstaff is a great sup- porter of disreputable places, swearer, gamester, brawler, wine- Isag, as low as he well can be. He is as big a swindler as Panurge, who had sixty-three ways of making money, " of which the hon- estest was by sly theft." And what is worse, he is an old man, a knight, a courtier, and well bred. Must he not be odious and repulsive ? By no means ; you cannot help liking him. At bottom, like his brother Panurge, " he is the best fellow in the world." He has no malice in his composition ; no other wish than to laugh and be amused. If he has vices, he exposes them so frankly that we are obliged to forgive him them. Conscience ends at a certain point ; nature assumes its place, and the man rushes upon what he desires, without more thought of being just or unjust than an animal in the neighboring wood. His second excuse is his unfailing spirit. If ever there was a man who could talk, it is he. Insults and oaths, curses, protests, flow from him as from an open barrel. He is never at a loss ; he devises a shift for every difficulty. Lies sprout out of him, fiructify, increase, beget one another, like mushrooms on a rich and rotten bed of earth. He lies still more from his imagina- tion and nature than firom interest and necessity. It is evident from the manner in which he strains his fictions. He says he has fought alone against two men. The next moment it is four. Presently we have seven, then eleven, then fourteen. He is stopped in time, or he would soon be talking of a whole army. SHAKSPEARE. I45 When unmasked, he does not lose his temper, ana is the first to laugh at his boastings. This big pot-bellied fellow, a coward, a jester, a brawler, a drunkard, is one of Shakspeare's favorites. The reason is, that his manners are those of pure nature, and Shakspeare's mind is congenial -with his own. Nature is shameless and gi^oss amidst this mass of flesh, heavy with wine and fatness. It is delicate in the delicate body of women, but as unreasoning and impassioned in Desdemona as in Falstaff. Shakspeare's women are charming children, who feel in excess and love with folly. They have unconstrained manners, little rages, pretty words of friendship, coquettish re- belliousness, a graceful volubility, which recall the warbling and the prettiness of birds. The heroines of the French stage are almost men ; these are women, and in every sense of the word. More imprudent than Desdemona a woman could not be. She is moved with pity for Cassio, and asks a favor for him passion- ately, recklessly, be the thing just or no, dangerous or no. She knows nothing of man's laws, and thinks nothing of them. All that she sees is, that Cassio is unhappy : " Be thou assured, good Cassio . . . My lord shall never rest ; I'll watch him tame, and talk him out of patience ; His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift ; I'll intermingle everything he does With Cassio's suit."* This vivacity, this petulance, does not prevent shrinking mod- esty and silent timidity : on the contrary, they spring from a common cause, extreme sensibility. She, who feels much and deeply, has more reserve and more passion than others ; she breaks out or is silent; she says nothing or everything. Such is this Imogen, " So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, And strokes death to her."f Such is Virgilia, the sweet wife of Coriolanus : her heart is not a Roman one ; she is terrified at her husband's victories : when Volumnia describes him stamping on the field of battle, and wiping his bloody brow with his hand, she grows pale : " His bloody brow ! O Jupiter, no blood ! . . . Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius ! "% * Othello, iii. 3. \ Cymbeline, iii. 5. \ Coriolanus, i. 3. 10 146 SHAKSPEARE. When Cordelia hears her father, an irritable old man, already half insane, ask her how she loves him, she cannot make up her mind to say aloud the flattering protestations which her sisters have been lavishing. She is ashamed to display her tenderness before the world, and to buy a dowry by it. He disinherits her, and drives her away j she holds her tongue. And when she afterwards finds him abandoned and mad, she goes on her knees before him, with such a touching emotion, she weeps over that dear insulted head with so gentle a pity, that you might fancy it was the tender accent of a desolate but delighted mother, kissing the pale lips of her child : " O you kind gods. Cure this great breach in his abused nature ! The untuned and jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed fatlier ! . . . O my dear father ! Restoration hang Thy medicine on my lips ; and let this kiss Repair those violent hai-ms that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made ! . . . Was this a face To be opposed against the warring winds ? . . . Mine enemy's dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?"* Nothing is easier to such a poet than to create perfect vil- lains. Throughout he is handling the unruly passions which make their character, and he never hits upon the moral law which restrains them ; but at the same time, and by the same faculty, he changes the inanimate masks, which the conventions of the stage mould on an identical pattern, into living and illu- sory figures. How shall a demon be made to look as real as a man ? lago is a soldier of fortune who has roved the world from Syria to England, who, nursed in the lowest ranks, having had close acquaintance with the horrors of the wars of the sixteenth century, had drawn thence the maxims of a Turk and the phil- osophy of a butcher ; principles he has none left. " O my repu- tation, my reputation ! " cries the dishonored Cassio. " As I am an honest man," says lago, " I thought you had received some bodily wound ; there is more sense in that than in reputa- tion." Desdemona, on the shore, trying to forget her care, begs * King Lear, Iv. 7. shakspeare: i47 him to sing the praises of l:er sex. For every portrait ne finds the most insulting insinuations. He says : " O gentle lady, do not put me to't ; for I am nothing, if not critical." > This is the key to his character. He despises man ; he only speaks m sar- casms ; he has them ready for every one, even for those whom he does not know. When he wakes Brabantio to inform liim of the elopement of his daughter, he tells him the matter in coarse terms, sharpening the sting of the bitter pleasantry, like a con- scientious executioner, rubbing his hands when he hears the culprit groan under the knife. " Thou art a villain ! " cries Brabantio. " You are— a senator ! " answers lago. But the feature which really completes him, and makes him rank with Mephistopheles, is the atrocious truth and the cogent reasoning by which he likens his crime to virtue. Cassio, under his ad- vice, goes to see Desdemona, to obtain her intercession for him ; this visit is to be the ruin of Desdemona and Cassio. lago, left alone, hums for an instant quietly, then cries : " And what's he then that says I play the villain ? A/Vhen this advice is free I give and honest, Probal to thinking and indeed the course To win the Moor again." To all these features must be added a diabolical energy, an in- exhaustible inventiveness in images, caricatures, obscenity, the manners of a guard-room, the brutal bearing and tastes of a trooper, habits of dissimulation, coolness and hatred, patience, contracted amid the perils and devices of a military life, and the continuous miseries of long degradation and frustrated hope; you will understand how Shakspeare could transform abstract treachery into a concrete form, and how lago's atrocious ven- geance is only the natural consequence of his character, life, and training. § 25. — How much more visible is this impassioned and un- fettered genius of Shakspeare in the great characters which sus- tain the whole weight of the drama ! The startling imagination, the furious velocity of the manifold and exuberant ideas, the unruly passion, rushing upon death and crime, hallucinations, madness, all the ravages of delirium bursting through will and reason : such are the forces and ravings which engender them. Shall I speak of dazzling Cleopatra, who holds Antony in the whirlwind of her devices and caprices, who fascinates and kills, 148 SHAKSPEARE. who scatters to the winds the lives of men as a handful of desert- dust, the fatal Eastern sorceress who sports with life and death, headstrong, irresistible, child of air and fire, whose life is but a tempest, whose thought, ever repointed and broken, is Uke the crackling of a lightning flash ? Of Othello, who, when the toils close around him, cries at every word of lago like a man on the rack ; who, his nerves hardened by twenty years of war and shipwreck, grows mad and swoons for grief, and whose soul, poisoned by jealousy, is distracted and disorganized in convul- sions and in stupor ? Or of old King Lear, violent and weak, whose half unseated reason is gradually toppled over under the shocks of incredible treacheries, who presents the frightful spectacle of madness, first increasing, then complete, of curses, howUngs, superhuman sorrows, into which the transport of the first access of fury carries him, and then of peaceful incoherence, chattering imbecility, into which the shattered man subsides : a marvellous creation, the supreme effort of pure imagination, a disease of reason which reason could never have conceived ? Amid so many portraitures let us choose two or three to indicate the depth and nature of them all. The critic is lost in Shak- speare, as in an immense town ; he will describe a couple of monuments, and entreat the reader to imagine the city. Plutarch's Coriolanus is an austere, coldly haughty patrician, a general of the army. In Shakspeare's hands he becomes a coarse soldier, a man of the people as to his language and man- ners, an athlete of war, with a voice like a trumpet; whose eyes by contradiction are filled with a rush of blood and anger, proud and terrible in mood, a lion's soul in the body of a steer. The philosopher Plutarch told of him a lofty philosophic action, saying that he had been at pains to save his landlord in the sack of Corioli. Shakspeare's Coriolanus has indeed the same disposition, for he is really a good fellow ; but when Lartius asks him the name of this poor Volscian, in order to secure his liberty, he yawns out : " By Jupiter ! forgot. I am weary ; yea, my memory is tired. Have we no wine liere? "* He is hot, he has been fighting, he must drink ; he leaves his Volscian in chains, and thinks no more of him. He fights * Coriolanus^ i. 9. siiaksPeare. 149 like a porter, with shouts and insults, "and the cries from that deep chest are heard above the din of the battle like the sounds from a brazen trumpet. He has scaled the walls of Corioli, he has butchered till he is gorged with slaughter. Instantly he turns to the other army, and arrives red with blood, " as he were flay'd." " Come I too late ? " Cominius begins to compliment him. " Come I too late ? " he repeats. The battle is not yet finished : he embraces Cominius : " O ! let me clip ye In arms as sound as when I woo'd, in heart As merry as when our nuptial day was done."* For the battle is a real holiday to him. Such senses, such a frame, need the outcry, the din of battle, the excitement of death and wounds. This haughty and indomitable heart needs the joy of victory and destruction. Mark the display of his pa- trician arrogance and his soldier's bearing, when he is offered the tenth of the spoils : " I thank you, general ; But cannot make my heart consent to take A bribe to pay my sword. "-j- The soldiers cry, Marcius ! Marcius ! and the trumpets sound. He gets into a passion ; rates the brawlers : " No more, I say ! For that I have not wash'd My nose that bled, or foil'd some debile wretch, — . . . You shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical ; As if I loved my little should be dieted In praises sauced with lies.":|; They are reduced to loading him with honors ; Cominius gives him a war-horse; decrees him the cognomen of Coriolanus : the people shout Caius Marcius Coriolanus ! He replies : " I will go wash ; And when my face is fair, you shall perceive "Whether I blush or no : howbeit, I thank you. I mean to stride your steed."§ This loud voice, loud laughter, blunt acknowledgment of a man who can act and shout better than speak, foretell the mode in which he will treat the plebeians. He loads them with insults; he cannot find abuse enough for the cobblers, tailors, greedy * Coriolanus, i. 6. \ Ibid. i. 9. % Ibid. § Ilid. 1 50 SHAKSPEARE. cowards, down on their knees for a copper. " To beg of Hob and Dick ! " " Bid them wash their faces and keep their teeth clean." But he must do this, if he would be consul ; his friends constrain him. It is then that the passionate soul, incapable of self restraint, such as Shakspeare knew how to paint, breaks forth without let. He is there in his candidate's gown, gnashing his teeth, and getting up his lesson in this style : " What must I say ? ' I pray, sir ' — Plague upon't ! I cannot bring My tongue to such a pace : — •' Look, sir, my wounds .' I got them In my country's service, when Some certain of you brethren roar'd and ran From the noise of our own drums.' "* The tribunes have no difficulty in stopping the election of a can- didate who begs in this fashion. They taunt him in full senate, reproach him with his speech about the corn. He repeats it, with aggravations. Once roused, neither danger nor prayer re- strains him : " His heart's his mouth : And, being angry, 'does forget that ever He heard the name of death. "f He rails against the people, the tribunes, street-magistrates, flatterers of the plebs. " Come, enough," says his friend Men- enius. " Enough, with over-measure," says Brutus the tribune. He retorts : " No, take more : What may be sworn by, both divine and human, Seal what I end withal ! ... At once pluck out The multitudinous tongue ; let them not lick The sweet which is their poison. "| The tribune cries, Treason ! and bids seize him. He cries : " Hence, old goat ! . . Hence, rotten thing ! or I shall shake thy bones Out of thy garments ! " § He strikes him, drives the mob off: he fancies himself among Volscians. " On fair ground, I could beat forty of them ! " And when his friends hurry him off, he threatens still, and " Speak(s) 0' the people, As if you (he) were a god to punish, not a man Of their infirmity." || * Coriolanus, ii. 3. \ Ibid. iii. i. % Ibid. § Ibid. \ Ibid. SHAKSPEARE. 1 5 I Yet he bends before his mother, for he has recognized in her a soul as lofty and a courage as intractable as his own. He has submitted from his infancy to the ascendancy of this pride which he admires. Volumnia reminds hiin : " My praises made thee first a soldier." Without power over himself, continually tost on the fire of his too hot blood, he has always been the arm, she the thought. He obeys from involuntary respect, like a soldier before his general, but with what effort ! " Coriolanus. The smiles of knaves Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys' tears take up The glances of my sight ! a beggar's tongue Make motion through my lips, and my arm'd knees, Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath received an alms ! — I will not do't. . . . Volumnia. . , . Do as thou list. Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me, But owe thy pride thyself. Cor. Pray, be content : Mother, I am going to the market-place ; Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves. Cog their hearts from them, and come home beloved Of all the trades in Rome."* He goes, and his friends speak for him. Except a few bitter asides, he appears to be submissive. Then the tribunes pro- nounce the accusation, and summon him to answer as a traitor : " Cor. How J traitor ! Me-,i. Nay, temperately : your promise. Cor. The fires i' the lowest hell fold-in the people ! Call me their traitor ! Thou injurious tribune ! Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say, ' Thou liest,' unto thee with a voice as free As I do pray the gods."')' His friends surround him, entreat him : he will not listen ; he foams, he is like a wounded lion : " Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death. Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger But with a grain a day, I would not buy Their mercy at the price of one fair word." J The people vote exile, supporting by their shouts the sentence of the tribune : " Cor. You common cry of curs ! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose love I prize * Coriolanus, iii. 2. \ Ibid. iii. 3. :j; Ibid. 1 52 SHAKSPEARE. As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my 'air, I banish you. . . Despising, For you, the city, thus I turn my bade : There is a world elsewhere."* Judge of his hatred by these raging words. It goes on in- creasing by the expectation of vengeance. We find him next with the Volscian army before Rome. His friends kneel before him, he lets them kneel. Old Menenius, who had loved him as a son, only comes now to be driven away. " Wife, mother, child, I know not."t It is himself he knows not. For this power of hating in a noble heart is equal \*ith the power of loving. He has transports of tenderness as of hating, and can contain himself no more in joy than in grief. He runs, spite of his resolution, to his wife's arms ; he bends his knee before his mother. He had summoned the Volscian chiefs to make them witnesses of his refusals ; and before them, he grants all and weeps. On his return to Corioli, an insulting word from Aufi- dius maddens him, and drives him upon the daggers of the Vol- scians. Vices and virtues, glory and misery, greatness and feebleness, the unbridled passion which composes his nature, endowed him with all. If the life of Coriolanus is the history of a mood, that of Mac- beth is the history of a monomania. The witches' prophecy was buried in his heart, instantaneously, like a fixed idea, which grad- ually corrupts and transforms the man. He is haunted ; he for- gets the thanes who surround him and " who stay upon his leisure; " he already sees in the future an indistinct chaos of images of blood : . . . Why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair And make my seated heart knock at my ribs? . . . My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man that function Is smother'd in surmise, and nothing is But what is not.":j: This is the language of hallucination. Macbeth's hallucina- tion becomes complete when his wife has resolved on the assas- sination of the king. He sees in the air a blood-stained dagger, " in form as palpable, as this which now I draw." His whole brain is filled with grand and terrible phantoms, which the mind * Coriolanus, iii. 3. f Ibid. v. 2. t Macbetii, i. 3 SHAKSPEARE. 1 53 of a common murderer would never have conceived \ the poetry of which indicates a generous heart, enslaved to an idea of fate, and capable of remorse : ..." Now o'er the one half world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep ; witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder, Alaram'd by his sentinel, the wolf. Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace. With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost. ... (A bell rings.) I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell."* He has done the deed, and returns tottering, haggard, like a drunken man. He is horrified at his bloody hands, "these hangman's hands." Nothing now can cleanse them. The whole ocean might sweep over them, but they would keep the hue of murder. " What hands are here ? ha, they pluck out mine eyes ! " He is disturbed by a word which the sleeping cham- berlains uttered : " One cried, ' God bless us ! ' and ' Amen,' the other ; As they had seen me with these hangman's hands Listening their fear, I could not say ' Amen/ When they did say, * God bless us ! ' . . . But wherefore could not I pronounce ' Amen ? ' I had most need of blessing, and ' Amen' Stuck in my throat. "f Then comes a strange dream ; a frightful vision of punishment descends upon him. Above the beating of his heart, the tingling of the blood which boils in his brain, he had heard them cry : " ' Sleep no more ! Macbeth does murder sleep,' the innocent sleep. Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath. Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course. Chief nourisher in life's feast.":]: And the voice, like an angel's trumpet, calls him by all his titles : " Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more ; Macbeth shall sleep no more ! "§ * Macbeth, ii. i. ■)• Ibid. ii. 2. % Ibid. § Ibid. i 54 SHAKSPEARE. This mad idea, incessantly repeated, beats in his brain, with monotonous and hard-pressing strokes, like the tongue of a bell. Insanity begins ; all the force of his mind is occupied by keep- ing before him, in spite of himself, the image of the man whom he has murdered in his sleep : " To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. {Knock) Wake Duncan with thy knocking ! I would thou couldst ! "* Thenceforth, in the rare intervals in which the fever of his mind is assuaged, he is like a man worn out by a long malady. It is the sad prostration of maniacs worn out by their fits of rage : " Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessed time ; for, from this instant There's nothing serious in mortality ; All is but toys : renown and grace is dead ; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of."f When rest has restored some force to the human machine, the fixed idea shakes him again, and drives him onward, like a piti- less horseman, who has left his panting horse only for a moment, to leap again into the saddle, and spur him over precipices. The more he has done, the more he must do: " I am in blood Steep'd in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er."J . . . He kills in order to preserve the fruit of his murders. The fatal circlet of gold attracts him like a magic jewel ; and he beats down, from a sort of blind instinct, the heads which^ he sees between the crown and him : " But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly : better be with the dead. Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace. Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave ; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well ; Treason has done his worst : nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further."§ Macbeth has Banquo murdered, and in the midst of a great * Macbeth, ii. 2, f Ib'ui. ii. 3. :|: Ibid. iii. 4. g Ibid. iii. 2. SHAKSPEARE. 1 55 feast he is informed of the success of his plan. He smiles, and proposes Banquo's health. Suddenly, conscience-smitten, he sees the ghost of the murdered man ; for this phantom, which Shakspeare summons, is not a mere stage-trick : we feel that here the supernatural is unnecessary, and that Macbeth would create it, even if hell would not send it. With stiffened muscles, dilated eyes, his mouth half open with deadly terror, he sees it shake its bloody head, and cries with that hoarse voice which is only to be heard in maniacs' cells: " Prithee, see there ! Behold ! look ! lo ! how say you ? Why, what care I ? If thou canst nod, speak too. If charnel-houses and our graves must send Those that we bury, back our monuments Shall be the maws of kites. . . . Blood hath been shed ere now, i' th' olden time, . . . Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd Too terrible for the ear : the times have been That, when the brains were out, the man would die. And there an end ; but now they rise again. With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools : . . . Avaunt ! and quit my sight ! let the earth hide thee ! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with ! "* His body trembling like that of an epileptic, his teeth clenched, foaming at the mouth, he sinks on the ground, his limbs beat against the floor, shaken with convulsive quiverings, while a dull sob swells his panting breast, and dies in his swollen throat What joy can remain for a man besieged by such visions ? The wide dark country, which he surveys from his towering castle, is but a field of death, haunted by deadly apparitions ; Scotland, which he is depopulating, a cemetery, " Where ... the dead man's knell Is there scarce ask'd for who ; and good men's lives Expire before the flowers in their caps. Dying or ere they sicken."']- His soul is " full of scorpions." He has " supp'd fiill with hor- rors," and the faint odor of blood has disgusted him with all else. He goes stumbling over the corpses which he has heaped up, with the mechanical and desperate smile of a maniac-murderer. * Macbeth, iii. 4. ■(■ Ilnd. iv. 3. 1 55 SHAKSPEARE. Thenceforth death, life, all is one to him ; the habit of murder has placed him beyond humanity. They tell him that his wife is dead : " Maclr. She should have died hereafter ; There would have been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That stmts and frets his hour upon the stage. And then is heard no more : it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing."* There remains for him the hardening of the heart in crime, the fixed belief in destiny. Hunted down by his enemies, " bear- like, tied to a stake," he fights, troubled only by the prediction of the witches, sure of being invulnerable so long as the man whom they have pointed at does not appear. His thoughts inhabit a supernatural world, and to the last he walks with his eyes fixed on the dream which has possessed him from the first. The history of Hamlet, like that of Macbeth, is the story of a moral poisoning. Hamlet's is a delicate soul, an impassioned imagination, like that of Shakspeare. He has lived hitherto, occupied in noble studies, apt in bodily and mental exercises, with a taste for art, loved by the noblest father, enamored of the purest and most charming girl, confiding, generous, not yet having perceived, from the height of the throne to which he was born, aught but the beauty, happiness, grandeur of nature and humanity.t On this soul, which character and training make more sensitive than others, misfortune suddenly falls, extreme, overwhelming, of the very kind to destroy all faith and every spring of action : with one look he has seen all the vileness of humanity; and this insight is given him in his mother. His mind is yet intact ; but judge from the violence of his style, the crudity of his exact details, the terrible tension of the whole ' nervous machine, whether he has not already one foot on the verge of madness : " O that this too, too solid flesh would melt. Thaw and resolve itself into a dew ! * Macbeth v. 5. f Gootlic IVilhchn RUistci: SHAKSPEARE. 1 5 v Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter ! O God ! God ! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, Seem to me all the uses of this world ! Fie on't ! ah fie ! 'tis an unweeded garden. That grows to seed ; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this ! But two months dead : nay, not so much, not two : So excellent a king, ... so loving to my motlier, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth ! . . . And yet, within a month, — Let me not think on't — Frailty, thy name is woman ! — A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she foUow'd my poor father's body, . . . Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married "* Here already are contortions of thought, earnests of hallu- cination, the symptoms of what is to come after. In the middle of a conversation the image of his father rises before his mind. He thinks he sees him. How then will it be when the "canon- ised bones have burst their cerements," " the sepulchre hath oped his ponderous and marble, jaws," and when the ghost comes in the night, upon a high "platform " of land, to hint to him of the tortures of his prison of fire, and to tell him of the fratricide, who has driven him thither ? Hamlet grows faint, but grief strengthens him, and he has a cause for living : " Hold, hold, my heart ; And you my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up ! Remember thee ! Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe. — Remember thee ! Yea, from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records. All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, . . And thy commandment all alone shall live. . . . O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain ! My tables, — meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain ; At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark : So, uncle, there you are." f {writing^ This convulsive outburst, this fevered writing hand, this * Hamlet, i. 2. -j- Ibid. i. 5. 158 SHAKSPEARE. frenzy of intentness, prelude the approach of a monomania. When his friends come up, he treats them with the speeches of a child or an idiot. He is no longer master of his words ; hol- low phrases whirl in his brain, and fall from his mouth as in a dream. They call him ; he answers by imitating the cry of a sportman whisthng to his falcon: " Hillo, ho, ho, boy! come, bird, come." Whilst he is in the act of swearing them to secrecy, the ghost below repeats " Swear." Hamlet cries, with a nervous excitement and fitful gayetj' : "Ah ha, boy ! say'st thou so ? art thou there, truepenny? Come on — ^you hear this fellow in the cellarage, — Consent to swear. . . . Ghost {beneath). Swear. Ham. Hie et ubique ? then we'll shift our ground. Come hither, gentlemen. . . . Swear by my sword. Ghost (beneath). Swear. Ham. Well said, old mole ! canst work i' the earth so fast ? A worthy pioneer ! " * Understand that as he says this his teeth chatter, " pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other." Intense anguish ends with a burst of laughter, which is nothing else than a spasm. Thenceforth Hamlet speaks as though he had a continuous ner- vous attack. His madness is feigned, I admit ; but his mind, as a door whose hinges are twisted, swings and bangs to every wind with a mad precipitance, and with a discordant noise. He has no need to search for the strange ideas, apparent incoheren- cies, exaggerations, the deluge of sarcasms which he accumu- lates. He finds them within him ; he does himself no violence, he simply gives himself up to them. When he has the piece played which is to unmask his uncle, he raises himself, lounges on the floor, would lay his head in Ophelia's lap ; he addresses the actors, and comments on the piece to the spectators ; his nerves are strung, his excited thought is like a waving and crackling flame, and cannot find fuel enough in the multitude of objects surrounding it, upon all of which it seizes. When the king rises unmasked and troubled, Hamlet sings, and says, " Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathfers — if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me — with two Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir?"t * Hamlet, i. 5. | Ibid. iii. 2. SHAKSPEARE. 159 And he laughs terribly, for he is resolved on murder. It is clear that this state is a disease, and that the man will not sur- vive it. In a soul so ardent of thought, and so mighty of feeling, what is left but disgust and despair ? We tinge all nature with the color of our thoughts ; we shape the world according to our own ideas ; when our soul is sick, we see nothing but sickness in the universe : " This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man ! how noble in reason ! how infinite in faculty ! in form and moving how express and admirable ! in action how like an angel ! in appre- hension how like a god ! the beauty of the world ! the paragon of animals ! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust ? man delights not me : no, nor woman neither." * Henceforth his thought tarnishes whatever it touches. He rails bitterly before Ophelia against marriage and love. ^ When he has killed Polonius by accident, he hardly repents it ; it is one fool less. He jeers lugubriously: "King. Now Hamlet, where's Polonius? Hamlet. At supper. K. At supper ! where ? H. Not where he eats, but where he is eaten : a certain convocation of politic worms are e'eu at him." f And he repeats in five or six fashions these grave-digger jests. His thoughts already inhabit a churchyard : to this hopeless philosophy your true man is a corpse. Duties, honors, passions, pleasures, projects, science, all this is but a borrowed mask, which death removes, that we may see ourselves what we are, an evil-smelling and grinning skull. It is this sight he goes to see by Ophelia's grave. He counts the skulls which the grave-dig- ger turns out: this was a lawyer's, that a courtier's. What salu- tations, intrigues, pretensions, arrogance ! And here now is a clown knocking it about with his spade, and playing " at loggats with 'erii." Csesar and Alexander have turned to clay, and make the earth fat ; the masters of the world have served to " patch a wall." " Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favor she must come ; * Hamlet, ii. z. \ Ibid. iv. 3. l6o SHAKSFEARE. make her laugh at that." * When one has come to this, there is nothing left but to die. This heated imagination, which explains Hamlet's nervous disease and his moral poisoning, explains also his conduct. If he hesitates to kill his uncle, it is not from horror of blood or from our modern scruples. He belongs to the sixteenth century. On board ship he wrote the order to behead Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and to do so without giving them " shriving-time." He killed Polonius, he caused Ophelia's death, and has no great remorse for it. tf for once he spared his uncle, it was because he found him praying, and was afraid of sending him to heaven. He thought he was kiUing him when he killed Polonius. What his imagination robs him of, is the coolness and strength to go quietly and with premeditation to plunge a sword into a breast. He can only do the thing on a sudden suggestion ; he must have a moment of enthusiasm ; he must think the king is behind the arras, or else, seeing that he himself is poisoned, he must find his victim under his foil's point. He is not master of his acts ; occasion dictates them ; he cannot plan a murder, but must improvise it. A too lively imagination exhausts energy, by the accumulation of images and by the fury of intentness which absorbs it. You recognize in him a poet's soul, made not to act, but to dream, which is lost in contemplating the phantoms of its creation, which sees the imaginary world too clearly to play a part in the real world ; an artist whom evil chance has made a prince, whom worse chance has made an avenger of crime, and who, destined by nature for genius, is condemned by fortune to madness and unhappiness. Hamlet is Shakspeare, and, at the close of this gallery of porti'aits which have all some features of his own, Shakspeare has painted himself in the most striking of all. If Racine or Corneille had framed a psychology, they would have said, with Descartes : Man is an incorporeal soul, served by organs, endowed with reason and will, living in palaces or porticos, made for conversation and society, whose harmonious and ideal action is developed by discourse and replies, in a world constructed by logic beyond the realms of time and space. * Hamlet, v. i. SHAKSPEARE. l6l If Shakspeare had framed a psychology, he would have said with Esquirol : * Man is a nervous machine, governed by a mood, disposed to hallucinations, transported by unbridled pas- sions, essentially unreasoning, a mixture of animal and poet, having no rapture but mind, no sensibility but virtue, imagina- tion for prompter and guide, and led at random, by the most determinate and complex circumstances, to pain, crime, mad- ness, and death, f § 26. — Could such a poet always confine himself to the imita- tion of nature ? Will this poetical world which is going on in his brain, never break loose from the laws of the world of re- ality ? Is he not powerful enough to follow his own ? He is ; and the poetry of Shakspeare naturally finds an outlet in the fantastical. This is the highest grade of unreasoning and creative imagination. Despising ordinary logic, it creates there- from another ; it unites facts and ideas in a new order, appar- ently absurd, at bottom legitimate; it lays open the land of dreams, and its dreams deceive us like the truth. When we enter upon Shakspeare's comedies, and even his half dramas,t it is as though we met him on the threshold, like an actor to whom the prologue is committed, to prevent misun- derstanding on the part of the public, and to tell them: "Do not take too seriously what you are about to hear ; I am joking. My brain, being full of fancies, desired to make plays of them, and here they are. Palaces, distant landscapes, transparent mists which blot the morning sky with their gray clouds, the red and glorious flames into which the evening sun descends, white cloisters in endless vista through the ambient air, grottos, cot- tages, the fantastic pageant of all human passions, the mad sport of unlooked-for chances, — this is the medley of forms, colors, sentiments, which I shuffle and mingle before me, a many-tinted skein of glistening silks, a slender arabesque, whose sinuous curves, crossing and confused, bewilder the mind by the whim- sical variety of their infinite complications. Don't regard it as * A French physician (1772-1844), celebrated for his endeavors to im- prove the treatment of tlie insane. — Tr. f And in this contrast we see the immeasurable superiority of Shaks- peare as compared -vi'iih Racine or Corneille. — ^J. F. X Twelfth Night, As You Like It, Tempest, Winter's Tale, etc., Cymbe- line. Merchant of Venice, etc. 1 62 SHAKSPEARE. a picture. Don't look for a precise composition, harmonious and increasing interest, the skilful management of a well-ordered and congruous plot. I have novels and romances in my mind which I am cutting up into scenes. Never mind Has. finis, I am amusing myself on the road. It is not the end of the journey which pleases me, but the journey itself Is there any good in going so straight and quick ? Do you only care to know whether the poor merchant of Venice will escape Shylock's knife ? Here are two happy lovers seated under the palace walls on a calm night ; wouldn't you like to listen to the peace- ful reverie which rises like a perfume from the bottom of their hearts ? " How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank .' Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold : There's not the smallest orb which tliou behold'st. But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins ; Such harmony is in immortal souls ; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. (Enter musicians^ Come, ho ! and wake Diana with a hymn : With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear. And draw her home with music. Jessica. I am never merry when I hear sweet music."* " Have I not the right, when I see the big laughing face of a clownish servant, to stop near him, see him mouth, frolic, gos- sip, go through his hundred pranks and his hundred grimaces, and treat myself to the comedy of his spirit and gayety ? Two fine gentlemen pass by. I hear the rolling fire of their meta- phors, and I follow their skirmish of wit. Here in a corner is the artless arch face of a young wench. Do you forbid me to linger by her, to watch her smiles, her sudden blushes, the child- ish pout of her rosy lips, the coquetry of her pretty motions? You are in a great hurry if the prattle of this fresh and musical voice can't stop you. Is it no pleasure to view this succession of sentiments and figures? I s your fancy so dull that you must * Merchant of Venice, v. i. SUAKSPEARE. 163 have the mighty mechanism of a geometrical plot to shake it? My sixteenth century playgoers were easier to move. A sun- beam that had lost its way on an old wall, a foolish song thrown into the middle of a drama, occupied their mind as well as the blackest of catastrophes. After the horrible scene in which Shylock brandished his butcher's knife before Antonio's bare breast, they saw just as willingly the petty household wrangle, and the amusing bit of raillery which ends the piece. Like soft moving water, their soul rose and sank in an instant to the level of the poet's emotion, and their sentiments readily flowed in the bed he had prepared for them. They let him go about on his journey, and did not forbid him to make two voyages at once. They allowed several plots in one. If but the slightest thread united them, it was sufficient. Lorenzo eloped with Jessica, Shylock was frustrated in his revenge, Portia's suitors failed ia the test imposed upon them ; Portia, disguised as a doctor of laws, took from her husband the ring which he had promised never to part with ; these three or four comedies, disunited, mingled, were shuffled and unfolded together, like an unknotted skein in which threads of a hundred colors are entwined. To- gether with diversity, my spectators allowed improbability. Comedy is a slight-winged creature, which flutters from dream to dream, whose wings you would break if you held it captive in the narrow prison of common sense. Do not press its fic- tions too hard ; do not probe their contents. Let them float before your eyes like a charming swift dream. Let the fleeting apparition plunge back into the bright misty land from whence it came. For an instant it deceived you ; let it suffice. It is sweet to leave the world of realities behind you ; the mind can rest amidst impossibilities. We are happy when delivered from the rough chains of logic, when we wander among strange ad- ventures, when we live in sheer romance, and know that we are living there. I do not try to deceive you, and make you believe in the world where I take you. One must disbelieve in it in order to enjoy it. We must give ourselves up to illusion, and feel that we are giving ourselves up to it. We must smile as we listen. We smile in The Winter's Tale when Hermione descends from her pedestal, and when Leontes discovers his wife in the statue, having believed her to be dead. We smile in Cymbeline, when we see the lone cavern in which the young princes have lived 164 SHAKSPEARE. like savage hunters. Improbability deprives emotions of their sting. The events interest or touch us without making us suf- fer. At the very moment when sympathy is too lively, we re- mind ourselves that it is all a fancy. They become like distant objects, whose distance softens their outline, and wraps them in a luminous veil of blue air. Your true comedy is an opera. We listen to sentiments without thinking too much of plot. We follow the tender or gay melodies without reflecting that they interrupt the action. We dream elsewhere on hearing music ; here I bid you dream on hearing verse." So the prologue retires, and then the actors come on. As You Like It is a caprice.* Action there is none, interest barely ; likelihood still less. And the whole is charming. Two cousins, princes' daughters, come to a forest with a court clown, Celia disguised as a shepherdess, Rosalind as a boy. They find here the old duke, Rosalind's father, who, driven out of his duchy, lives with his friends like a philosopher and a hunter. They find amorous shepherds, who with songs and prayers pur- sue intractable shepherdesses. They discover or they meet with lovers who become their husbands. Suddenly it is an- nounced that the wicked Duke Frederick who had usurped the crown, has just retired to a cloister, and restored the throne to the old exiled duke. Every one gets married, every one dances, everything ends with a "rustic revelry." Where is the pleasantness of these puerilities ? First, the fact of its being puerile ; the absence of the serious permits repose. There are no events, and there is no plot. We peacefully follow the easy current of graceful or melancholy emotions, which guides and conducts us without wearying. The place adds to the illusion and charm. It is an autumn forest, in which the warm rays permeate the blushing oak leaves, or the half-stript ashes trem- ble and smile to the feeble breath of evening. The lovers wan- der by brooks that " brawl " under antique roots. As you listen to them, you see the slim birches, whose cloak of lace grows glossy under the slant rays of the sun that gilds them, and the thoughts wander down the mossy vistas in which their footfall is lost. What better place could be chosen for the comedy of * In English, a word is wanting to express the French fantaisie, used by M. Taine, in describing this scene : what in music is called a capricdo. Tennyson calls Ihe Princess a medley, but it is ambiguous. — Tr. SHAKSPEARE. i6s sentiment and the play of heart-fancies ? Is not this a fit spot in which to listen to love-talk ? Some one has seen Orlando, Rosalind's lover, in this glade; she hears it and blushes. "Alas the day ! . . . What did he, when thou sawest him ? What said he ? How looked he ? Wherein went he ? What makes he here ? Did he ask for me ? Where remains he ? How parted he with thee ? And when shalt thou see him again ? " Then, with a lower voice, somewhat hesitating : " Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled ? " Not yet exhausted : " Do you not know I am a woman ? When I think I must speak. Sweet, say on."* Question on question, she closes the mouth of her firiend, who is ready to answer. At every word she jests, but agitated, blushing, with a forced gayety ; her bosom heaves, and her heart beats. Nevertheless she is calmer when Orlando comes ; bandies words with him ; sheltered under her disguise, she makes him confess that he loves Rosalind. Then she plagues him, like the frolic, the wag, the coquette she is. " Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while ? You a lover ? " Orlando repeats his love, and she pleases herself by making him repeat it more than once. She sparkles with wit, jests, mischievous pranks ; pretty fits of anger, feigned sulks, bursts of laughter, deafening babble, engaging caprices. " Come, woo me, woo me ; for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind ? " And every now and then she repeats with an arch smile, " And I am your Rosalind ; am I not your Rosalind ?"t Orlando protests that he would die. Die! Who ever thought of dying for love ! Leander ? He took one bath too many in the Hellespont ; so poets have said he died for love. Troilus ? A Greek broke his head with a club ; so poets have said he died for love. Come, come, Rosalind will be softer. And then she plays at marriage with him, and makes Celia pro- nounce the solemn words. She irritates and torments her pre- tended husband ; tells him all the whims she means to indulge in, all the pranks she will play, all the bother he will have to endure. The retorts come one after another like fireworks. At every phrase we follow the looks of these sparkling eyes, the curves of this laughing mouth, the quick movements of this supple * As You Like It, iii, 2. I liid, iy. i. 1 66 SHA KSPEARE. figure. It is a bird's petulance and volubility. "Ocoz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst know how many fathom deep I am in love." Then she plays with her cousin Celia, sports Mith her hair, calls her by every woman's name. An- titheses without end, words all a-jumble, quibbles, pretty exag- gei-ations, word-racket ; as you listen you fancy it is the war- bling of a nightingale. The trill of repeated metaphors, the melodious roll of the poetical gamut, the summer-symphony rustling under the foliage, change the piece into a veritable opera. The three lovers end by chanting a sort of trio. The first throws out a fancy, the others take it up. Four times this strophe is renewed ; and the symmetry of ideas, added to the jingle of the rhymes, makes of a dialogue a concerto of love: " Pliebe. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love. Silvius. It is to be all made of sighs and tears ; And so am I for Phebe. P. And I for Ganymede. O. And I for Rosalind. R. And I for no woman. . . . S. It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion, and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty and observance. All humbleness, all patience and impatience, AH purity, all trial, all observance ; And so I am for Phebe. P. And so am I for Ganymede. 0. And so am I for Rosalind. R. And so am I for no woman."* The necessity of singing is so urgent, that a minute later songs break out of themselves. The prose and the conversation end in lyric poetry. We pass straight on into these odes. We do not find ourselves in a new country. We feel the distractioft and foolish gayety as if it were a holiday. We see the graceful couple whom the song brings before us, passing in the misty light, "o'er the green corn-field,' amid the hum of sportive insects, on the finest day of the flowering spring-time. The unlikelihood grows natural, and we are not astonished when we see Hymen leading the two brides by the hand to give them to their hus- bands. Whilst the young folk sing, the old folk talk. Their life also is a romance, but a sad one. Shakspeare's delicate soul, bruised SHAKSPEARE. 167 by the shocks of social life, took refuge in contemplations of solitary life. To forget the strife and annoyances of the world he must bury himself in a wide silent forest, and " Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time."* We may look at the bright images which the sun carves on the white beech-boles, the shade of trembling leaves flickering on the thick moss, the long waves of the summit of the trees ; the sharp sting of care is blunted ; we suffer no more, simply re- membering that we suffered once ; we feel nothing but a gentle misanthropy, and being renewed, we are the better for it. The old duke is happy in his exile. Solitude has given him rest, de- livered him from flattery, reconciled him to nature. He pities the stags which he is obliged to hunt for food : " Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools. Being native burghers of this desert city. Should in their own confines with forked heads. Have their round haunches gored."f Nothing sweeter than this mixture of tender compassion, dreamy philosophy, delicate sadness, poetical complaints, and rustic songs. One of the lords sings : " Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen. Because thou art not seen. Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! unto the green holly : Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh-ho, the holly ! This life is most jolly ."J Among these lords is found a soul that suffers more, Jacques the ijielancholy, one of Shakspeare's best-loved characters, a transparent mask behind which we perceive the face of the poet. He is sad because he is tender ; he feels the contact of things too keenly, and what leayes the rest indifferent, makes him weep.§ He does not scold, he is sad ; he does not reason, he is moved ; he has not the .combative spirit of a reforming * As You Like It^ ii. 7. 1' f Ibid. ii. I. % Ibid. ii. 7. § Compare Jacques with the Alcdste of Moliere. It is the contrast be- tween a, misanthrope through reasoning and one through imagination. 1 68 SHAKSPEARE. moralist ; his soul is sick and weary of life. Impassioned im- agination leads quickly to disgust. Like opium, it excites and shatters. It leads man to the loftiest philosophy, then lets him down to the whims of a child. Jacques leaves the others brusquely, and goes to the quiet nooks to be alone. He loves his sadness, and would not exchange it for joy. Meeting Or- lando, he says : " Rosalind is your love's name ? O. Yes, just. y. I do not like her name."* He has the fancies of a nervous woman. He is scandalized because Orlando writes sonnets on the forest trees. He is whimsical, and finds subjects of grief and gayety, where others would see nothing of the sort : " A fool, a fool ! I met a fool i' the forest, A motley fool ; A miserable world ! As I do live by food, I met a fool ; Who laid liim dovi'n and bask'd him in the sun, And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms. In good set terms and yet a motley fool. . . . O noble fool ! A worthy fool ! Motley's the only wear. . . . that I were a fool ! 1 am ambitious for a motley coat."f The next minute he returns to his melancholy dissertations, bright pictures whose vivacity explains his character, and be- trays Shakspeare, hiding under his name : " All the world's a stage. And all the men and women merely players : They have their exits and their entrances ; And one man in his time plays many parts. His acts being seven ages. At first the infant. Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. And then the whining schoolboy, with, his satchel, And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover. Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier. Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden aiid quick in quarrel. Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouthi And then the justice. In fair round belly with good capon lined, * As You Like It, iii. 2. | ma, „. 7. SHAKSPEARE. 1 69 With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances ; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon. With spectacles on nose and pouch on side. His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all. That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." * As You Like It is a. half-dream. Midsummer Nighfs Dream is a complete one. The scene, buried in the far-off mist of fabulous antiquity, carries us back to Theseus, Duke of Athens, who is preparing his palace for his marriage with the beautiful queen of the Ama- zons. The style, loaded with contorted images, fills the mind with strange and splendid visions, and the airy elf- world divert the comedy into the fairy-land from whence it sprung. Love is still the theme ; of all sentiments, is it not the greatest fancy-weaver ? But we have not here for language the charming tittle-tattle of Rosalind; it is glaring like the season of the year. It does not brim over in slight conversations, in supple and skipping prose ; it breaks forth into long rhyming odes, dressed in magnificent metaphors, sustained by impas- sioned accents, such as a warm night, odorous and star-spang- led, inspires in a poet who loves. Lysander and Hermia agree to meet : " Lys. To-morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold Her silver visage in the watery glass. Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass, A time that lovers' flights doth still conceal. Through Athens' gates have we devised to steal. Her. And in the wood, where often you and I Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie. . . . There my Lysander and myself shall meet." f They get lost, and fall asleep, wearied, under the trees. Puck squeezes in the youth's eyes the juice of a magic flower, and changes his heart. Presently, when he awakes, he will become * As You Like It, ii. 7. f Midsummer Nighfs Dream, i. i. lyo SHAKSPEARE. enamoured of the first woman he sees. Meanwhile Demetrius, Hermia's rejected lover, wanders with Helena, whom he rejects, in the solitary wood. The magic flower changes him in turn : he now loves Helena. The lovers flee and pursue one another, beneath the lofty trees, in the calm night. We smile at their transports, their complaints, their ecstasies, and yet we join in them. This passion is a dream, and yet it moves us. It is like those airy webs which we find at morning on the crest of the hedgerows where the dew has spread them, and whose weft sparkles like a jewel casket. Nothing can be more fragile, and nothing more graceful. The poet sports with emotions; he mingles, confuses, redoubles, interweaves themj he twines and untwines these loves like the mazes of a dance, and we see the noble and tender figures pass by the verdant bushes, under the radiant eyes of the stars, now wet with tears, now bright with rapture. They have the abandonment of true love, not the grossness of sensual love. Nothing causes us to fall from the ideal world in which Shakspeare conducts us. Dazzled by beauty, they adore it, and the spectacle of their happiness, their emotion, and their tenderness, is a kind of enchantment. Above these two couples flutters and hums the swarm of elves and fairies. They also love. Titania, their queen, has a young boy for her favorite, son of an Indian king, of whom Oberon, her husband, wishes to deprive her. They quarrel, so that the elves creep for fear into the acorn cups, in the golden primroses. Oberon, by way of vengeance, touches Titania's sleeping eyes with the magic flower, and thus on waking, the nimblest and most charming of the fairies finds herself enam- oured of a stupid blockhead with an ass' head. She kneels before him ; she sets on his " hairy temples a coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers : " "And that same dew, which sometime on the buds Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, Stood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes, Like tears that did their own disgi-ace bewail." * She calls round her all her fairy attendants : " Be kind and courteous to this gentleman : Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes ; Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, * Midsummer Night's Dream, w. i. SHAKSPEARE. I/I With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries ; The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, To have my love to bed and to arise ; And pluck the wings from painted butterflies To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes. . . . Come, wait upon him ; lead him to my bower. The moon methinks, looks with a watery eye ; And when she weeps, weeps every little flower. Lamenting some enforced chastity. Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently." * It was necessary, for her love brayed horribly, and to all the offers of Titania, replied with a petition for hay. What can be sadder and sweeter than this irony of Shakspeare ? What rail- lery against love, and what tenderness for love! The senti- ment is divine : its object unworthy. The heart is ravished, the eyes blind. It is a golden butterfly, fluttering in the mud ; and Shakspeare, while painting its misery, preserves all its beauty : " Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. . . . Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. . . . So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently entwist ; the female ivy so Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. O, how I love thee ! how I dote on thee ! " t At the return of morning, when " The eastern gate, all fiery red, Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams. Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams," \ the enchantment ceases, Titania awakes on her couch of wild thyme and drooping violets. She drives the monster away ; her recollections of the night are effaced in a vague twilight : " These things seem small and undistinguishable. Like far-off mountains turned into clouds." § And the fairies " Go seek some dew-drops here And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear." || * Midsummer Nighfs Dream, iii. i. -j- Ibid. iv. I. X Ibid. iii. 2. § Ibid. iv. I. || Ibid. ii. i. 172 SHAKSPEARE. Such is Shakspeare's fantasy, a light tissue of bold inventions, of ardent passions, melancholy mockery, dazzling poetry, such as one of Titania's elves would have made. Nothing could be more like the poet's mind than these nimble genii, children of air and flame, whose flights " compass the globe " in a second, who glide over the foam of the waves and skip between the atoms of the winds. Ariel flies, an invisible songster, around shipwrecked men to console them, discovers the thoughts of traitors, pursues the savage beast Caliban, spreads gorgeous visions before lovers, and does all in a lightning-flash : " Where the bee sucks, there suck I : In a cowslip's bell I lie, . . . Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. . . . I drink the air before me, and return Or ere your pulse twice beat." * Shakspeare glides over things ,on as swift a wing, by leaps as sudden, with a touch as delicate. What a soul ! what extent of action, and what sovereignty of an unique faculty ! what diverse creations, and what persist- ence of the same impress ! There they all are reunited, and all marked by the same sign, void of will and reason, governed by mood, imagination, or pure passion, destitute of the faculties contrary to those of the poet, dominated by the corporeal type which his painter's eyes have conceived, endowed by the habits of mind and by the vehement sensibility which he finds him- self f Go through the groups, and you will only discover in them divers forms and divers states of the same power. Here, the flock of brutes, dotards, and gossips, made up of a mechan- ical imagination ; further on, the company of men of wit, anima- ted by a gay and foolish imagination ; then, the Charming swarm of women whom their delicate imagination raises so high, and their self-forgetting love carries so far ; elsewhere the band of villains, hardened by unbridled passions, inspired by the artist's animation ; in the centre the mournful train of grand characters, whose excited brain is filled with sad or criminal visions, and whom an inner destiny urges to murder, madness, or death. * Tempest, v. i. f There is the same law in the organic and in the modern world. It is what Geoffrey Saint-Hilaire calls unity of composition. SHAKSPEARE. 173 Ascend one stage, and contemplate the whole scene : the aggre- gate bears the same mark as the details. The drama repro- duces promiscuously uglinesses, basenesses, horrors, unclean details, profligate and ferocious manners, the whole reality of life just as it is, when it is unrestrained by decorum, common sense, reason, and duty. Comedy, led through a phantasma- goria of pictures, gets lost in the likely and the unlikely, with no other check but the caprice of an amused imagination, wan- tonly disjointed, and romantic, an opera without music, a con- certo of melancholy and tender sentiments, which bears the mind into the supernatural world, and brings befoi"e our eyes on its fairy-wings the genius which has created it. Look now. Do you not see the poet behind the crowd of his creations ? They have heralded his approach ; they have all shown somewhat of him. Ready, impetuous, impassioned, delicate, his genius is pure imagination, touched more vividly and by slighter things than ours. Hence his style, blooming with exuberant images, loaded with exaggerated metaphors, whose strangeness is like incoherence, whose wealth is superabundant, the work of a mind, which at the least incitement produces too much and leaps too far. Hence his implied psychology, and his terrible penetra- tion, which instantaneously percei\'ing all the effects of a situa- tion, and all the details of a character, concentrates them in every response, and gives his figure a relief and a coloring which create illusion. Hence our emotion and tenderness. We say to him, as Desdemona to Othello : " I love thee for the battles, sieges, fortunes thou hast passed, and for the distressful stroke that thy youth suffered." CHAPTER VIII. THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. I 27. — It must be admitted that the Reformation entered England by a side door ; but it is enough that it came in, what- ever the manner : for great revolutions are not introduced by court intrigues and official sleight of hand, but by social con- ditions and popular instincts. When five millions of men are converted, it is because five millions of men wish to be con- verted. Every great change has its root in the soul, and we have only to look close into this deep soil to discover the na- tional inclinations and the secular irritations from which Pro- testantism has issued. A hundred and fifty years before, it had been on the point of bursting forth ; Wyclif had appeared, the Lollards had sprung up, the Bible had been translated ; the Commons had proposed the confiscation of ecclesiastical property ; then, under the pressure of the united Church, royalty and aristocracy, the growing Reformation being crushed, disappeared underground, only to reappear at long intervals by the sufferings of its mar- tyrs. The bishops had received the right of imprisoning with- out trial laymen suspected of heresy ; they had burned Lord Cobham alive • the kings chose their ministers from the bench ; settled in authority and pride, they had made the nobility and people bend under the secular swonlavhich_ had been-lntruste.d to them, and in their hands. the.stem network of law, which from the conquest had compressed the nation in its iron grasp7hadi3H^ come more stringent and more injurious. Venial acts had been construed into crimes, and the judicial repression, extended to faults as well as to outrages, had changed the police into an in- quisition. "Offences against chastity," "heresy," or "matter sounding thereunto," " witchcraft," " drunkenness," " scandal," "defamation," "impatient words," "broken promises," "un- truth," " absence from church," " speaking evil of saints," " non- THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. 175 payment of offerings," " complaints against the constitutions of the courts themselves ;" all these transgressions, imputed or sus- pected, brought folk before the ecclesiastical tribunals, at enor- mous expense, with long delays, from great distances, under a a captious procedure, resulting in heavy fines, strict imprison- ments, humiliating abjurations, public penances, and the men- ace, often fulfilled, of torture and the stake. People saw their companion, relation, brother, bound by an iron chain, with clasped hands praying amid the smoke, while the flame black- ened his skin and destroyed his flesh. Such sights are not for- gotten ; the last words uttered on the fagot, the last appeals to God and Christ, remain in their hearts all-powerful and inef- faceable. They carry them about with them, and silently pon- der over them in the fields, at their labor, when they think themselves alone ; and then, darkly, passionately, their brains work. For, beyond this universal sympathy which gathers man- kind about the oppressed, there is the working of the religious sentiment. The crisis of conscience has begun, which is natural to this race ; theymeSitate on saT\'alion7"tTiey"a"re^larrried_at their condition : terrified at the judgments of God, they ask ThemseTves^ Whether, living under imposed obedience and cere- monTesT-they do irot become culpable, and~ merit damnation. Thenceforth man has made up his mind ; he will be saved at all costs. At the peril of his life he obtains one of the books which teach the way of salvation, Wyclif's Wicket Gate, The Obedience of a Christian, or sometimes Luther's Revelations of Antichrist, but above all some portion of the word of God, which Tyndale had just translated. One hid his books in a hollow tree ; another learned by heart an epistle or a gospel, so as to be able to ponder it to himself even in the presence of his accu- sers. When sure of his friend, he speaks with him in private ; and peasant talking to peasant, laborer to laborer— you know what the effect would be. It was the yeomen's sons, as Latimer said, who more than all others maintained the faith of Christ in England ; and it was with the yeomen's sons that Cromwell afterwards reaped his Puritan victories. When such words are whispered through a nation, all official voices clamor in vain : the nation has found its poem, it stops its ears to the trouble- some would-be distractors, and presently sings it out with a full voice and from a full heart. 176 THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. But the contagion had even reached the men in office, and Heniy viii. at last permitted the English Bible to be published.* England had her book. Every one, says Strype, who could buy this book either read it assiduously, or had it read to him by others, and many well advanced in years learned to read with the same object. On Sunday the poor folk gathered at the bot- tom of the churches to hear it read. In vain the king in his proclamation had ordered people not to rest too much upon their own sense, ideas, or opinions ; not to reason publicly about it in the public taverns and alehouses, but to have recourse to learned and authorized men ; the seed sprouted, and they chose rather to take God's word in the matter than men's. The preface itself invited men to independent study, saying that " the Bishop of Rome has studied long to keep the Bible from the people, and specially from princes, lest they should find out his tricks and his falsehopds ; . . . knowing well enough, that if the clear sun of God's word came over the heat of the day, it would drive away the foul mist of his devilish doctrines." I have before me one of these old square folios,f in black letter, in which the pages, worn by horny fingers, have been patched together, in which an old engraving figures forth to the poor folk the deeds and menaces of the God of Israel, in which the preface and table of contents point out to simple people the moral which is to be drawn from each tragic history, and the application which is to be made of each venerable precept. Hence have sprung much of the English language, and half of the English manners ; to this day the country is biblical ; % it was these big books which had transformed Shakspeare's Eng- land. To understand this great change, try to picture these yeomen, these shopkeepers, who in the evening placed this Bible on their table, and bareheaded, with veneration, heard or read one of its chapters. Think that they have no other books, that theirs was a virgin mind, that every impression would make a furrow, that they opened this book not for .amusement, but to discover in it their doom of life and death. Tyndale, the trans- lator, wrote with such sentiments, condemned, hunted, in con- cealment, his spirit full of the idea of a speedy death, and of the * In 1536. Strype's Memorials, appendix. Froude, iii. ch. 12. f 1549. Tyndale's translation. X An expression of Stendhal's ; it was his general impression. THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. 177 great God for whom at last he mounted the funeral pyre. The short Hebrew verse-style took hold upon them by its uncultivated severity. They have no need, like the French, to have the ideas developed, explained in fine clear language, to be modified and bound together.* The serious and pulsating tone shakes them at once ; they understand it with the imagination and the heart; they are not, like Frenchmen, enslaved to logical regularity ; and the old text, so confused, so lofty and terrible, can retain in their language its wildness and its majesty. More than any people in Europe, by their innate concentration and rigidity, they realize the Semitic conception of the solitary and almighty God. Never has a people been seen so deeply imbued by a for- eign book, has let it penetrate so far into its manners and writings, its imagination and language. Thenceforth they have found their King, and will follow Him ; no word, lay or ecclesiastic, shall prevail over His word ; they have submitted their conduct to Him, they will give body and life for Him ; and if need be, a day will come when, out of fidelity to Him, they v/ill overthrow the State. It is not enough to hear this King, they must answer Him ; and religion is not complete until the prayer of the people is added to the revelation of God. In 1548, at last, England received her Prayer-bookf from the hands of Cranmer, Peter Martyr, Bernard Ochin, Melanchthon ; the chief and most ardent reformers of Europe were invited to compose a body of doctrines conformable to Scripture, and to express a body of sentiments conformable to the true Christian life, — an admira- ble book, in which the full spirit of the Reformation breathes out, where, beside the moving tenderness of the gospel, and the manly accents of the Bible, throb the profound emotion, the grave eloquence, the noble-mindedness, the restrained enthusi- asm of the heroic and poetic souls v?ho had re-discovered Chris- tianity, and had passed near the fire of martyrdom. One detail is still needed to complete this manly religion — human reason. The minister ascends the pulpit and speaks : he speaks coldly, I admit, with literary comments and over-long * See Lemaistre de Sacy's translation, so slightly biblical. f The first Primer of note was in 1545 ; Froude, v. 141. The Prayer- book underwent several changes in 1552, others under Elizabeth, and a few, lastly, at the Restoration. 12 178 THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. demonstrations ; but solidly, seriously, like a man who desires to convince, and that by worthy means, who addresses only the reason, and discourses only of justice. With Latimer and his contemporaries, preaching, like religion, changes its, object and character ; like religion, it becomes popular and moral, and appropriate to those who hear it, to recall them to their duties. Few men have deserved better of their fellows, in life and word, than he. He was a genuine Englishman, conscientious, coura- geous, a man of common sense and good upright practice, sprung from the laboring and independent class, with whom were the heart and thews of the nation. His father, a brave yeoman, had a farm of about four pounds a year, on which he employed half- a-dozen men, with thirty cows which his wife milked, himself a good soldier of the king, keeping equipment for himself and his horse so as to join the aiTny if need were, training his son to use the bow, making him buckle on his breastplate, and finding a few nobles at the bottom of his purse wherewith to send him to school, and thence to the university. Little Latimer studied eagerly, took his degrees, and continued long a good Catholic, or, as he says, "in darckense and in the shadow of death." At about thirty, having often heard Bilney the martyr, and having, moreover, studied the world and thought for himself, he, as he tells us, " began from that time forward to smell the word of God, and to forsooke the Schoole Doctours, and such fooleries ;" presently to preach, and forthwith to pass for a seditious man, very troublesome to the men in authority, who were indifferent to justice. For this was in the first place the salient feature of his eloquence : he spoke to people of their duties, in exact terras. One day, when he preached before the university, the Bishop of Ely came, curious to hear him. Immediately he changed his subject, and drew the portrait of a perfect prelate, a portrait which did not tally well with the bishop's character ; and he was denounced for the act. When he was made chap- lain of Henry viii., awe-inspiring as' the king was, little as he was himself, he dared to write to him freely to bid him stop the persecution which was set on foot, and to prevent the interdic- tion of the Bible ; verily he risked his life. He had done it before, he did it again ; like Tyndale, Knox, all the leaders of the Reformation, he lived in almost ceaseless expectation of THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. 179 death, and in contemplation of the stake. Sick, liable to rack- ing headaches, stomach-aches, pleurisy, stone, he wrought a vast work, travelling, writing, preaching, delivering at the age of sixty-seven two sermons every Sunday, and generally rising at two in the morning, winter and summer, to study. Nothing can be simpler or more effective than his eloquence ; and the reason is, that he never speaks for the sake of speaking, but of doing work. His sermons, among others those which he preached before the young king Edward VI., are not, like those of Massil- lon before Louis xv., hung in the air, in the calm region of philosophical amplifications : Latimer wishes to correct and he attacks actual vices, vices which he has seen, which every one can point at with the finger ; he too points them out, calls things by their name, and people too, telling facts and details, like a brave heart ; and sparing nobody, sets himself without hesita- tion to denounce and reform iniquity. Universal as his morality is, ancient as is his text, he applies it to the time, to his audi- ence, at times to the judges who are there " in velvet cotes," who will not hear the poor, who give but a dog's hearing to such a woman in a twelvemonth, and who leave another poor woman in the Fleet, refusing to accept bail;* at times to the king's officers, whose thefts he enumerates, whom he sets between hell and restitution, and of whom he obtains, nay extorts, pound for pound, the stolen money. Ever from abstract iniquity he pro- ceeds to special abuse ; for it is abuse which cries out and demands, not a discourser, but a champion. With him, theology holds but a secondary place ; before all, practice : the true offence against God in his eyes is a bad deed ; the true service, the suppression of bad deeds. He spoke the truth to the king, unmasked robbers, incurred all kind of hate, resigned his see rather than sign anything against his conscience ; and at eighty years, under Mary, refusing to retract, after tjvo years of prison and waiting — and what waiting ! — he was led to the stake. His companion, Ridley, slept the night before as calmly, we are told, as ever he did in his life ; and when ready to be chained to the post, said aloud, " O heavenly Father, I give Thee most hearty thanks, for that Thou hast called me to be a professor of Thee, even unto death." Latimer in his turn, when they brought the * Latimer's Seven Sermons before Edward \\., ed. Edward Arber, i86r). Second sermon, pp. 73 and 74. I go THE CHUrSTIAN RENAISSANCE. lighted faggots, cried, " Be of good comfort. Master Ridley, and play the man : we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out." He then bathed his hands in the flames, and resigning his soul to God, expired. He had judged rightly: it is by this supreme proof that a creed demonstrates its power and gains its adherents ; martyr- doms are a sort of propaganda as well as a witness, and make converts while they make martyrs. All the writings of the time, and all the commentaries which may be added to them, are weak beside actions which, one after the other, shone forth at that time from doctors and from people, down to the most simple and ignorant. In three years, under Mary, nearly three hun- dred persons, men, women, old and young, some all but children, let themselves be burned alive rather than abjure. The all-pow- erful idea of God, and qf the fidelity due to Him, made them strong against all the revulsions of nature, and all the trembling of the flesh. " No one will be crowned," said one of them, " but they who fight like men ; and he who endures to the end shall be saved." Doctor Rogers suffered first, in presence of his wife and ten children, one at the breast. He had not been told beforehand, and was sleeping soundly. The wife of the keeper of Newgate woke him, and told him that he must burn that day. "Then," said he, "I need not truss my points." In the midst of the flames he did not seem to suffer. " His chil- dren stood by consoling him, in such a way that he looked as if they were conducting him to a merry marriage." Before such examples the people were shaken. A woman wrote to Bishop Bonner, that there was not a child but called him Bonner the hangman, and knew on his fingers, as well as he knew his Pater, the exact number of those he had burned at the stake, or suf- fered to die of hunger in prison these nine months. " You have lost the hearts of twenty thousand persons who were inveterate Papists a year ago." The spectators encouraged the martyrs, and cried out to them that their cause was just. The CathoKc envoy Renard wrote to Charles v. that it was said that several had desired to take their place at the stake, by the side of those who were being burned. In vain the queen had forbidden, on pain of death, all marks of approbation. " 'We know that they are men of God," cried one of the spectators ; " that is why we THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. \%\ cannot help saying, God strengthen them." And all the people answered, " Amen, Amen." What wonder if, at the coming of Elizabeth, England cast in her lot with Protestantism ? The threats of the Armada urged her further in advance; and the Reformation became national under the pressure of foreign hos- tility, as it had become popular through the triumph of its mar- tyrs. § 28. — Two distinct branches receive the common sap, — one above, the other beneath : one respected, flourishing, shooting forth in the open air ; the other despised, half buried in the ground, trodden under foot by those who would crush it : both living, the Anglican as well as the Puritan, the one in spite of the effort made to destroy it, the other in spite of the care taken to develop it. The court has its religion, like the country — a sincere and winning religion. Amid the pagan poesies which up to the Revolution always had the ear of the world, we find gradually piercing through and rising higher the grave and grand idea which sent its roots to the depth of the public mind. Many poets, Drayton, Davies, Cowley, Giles Fletcher, Quarles, Crashaw, wrote sacred histories, pious or moral verses, noble stanzas on death and the immortality of the soul, on the frailty of things human, and on the supreme providence in which alone man finds the support of his weakness and the consolation of his sufferings. In the greatest prose writers. Bacon, Burton, Sir Thomas Browne, Raleigh, we see the fruits of veneration, a settled belief in the obscure beyond ; in short, faith and prayer. Several prayers written by Bacon are among the finest known ; and the courtier Raleigh, while writing of the fall of empires, and how the barbarous nations had destroyed this grand and magnificent Roman Empire, ended his book with the ideas and tone of a Bossuet.* If several poets are pious, several ecclesiastics are poetical, — Bishop Hall, Bishop Corbet, Wither a rector, and the preacher Donne. If several laymen rise to religious contemplations, sev- * " O eloquent, just, and mightie Death ! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded ;'what none hath dared, thou hast done ; and whom all the \:ox\& hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised : thou hast drawne together all the farre stretched greatnesse, all the pride, crueltie, and ambition of man, and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Ilicjacet." 1 82 THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. eral theologians, Hooker, John Hales, Taylor, Chillingworth, set philosophy and reason by the side of dogma. Accordingly we find a new literature arising, elevated and original, eloquent and measured, armed at once against the Puritans, who sacrifice fireedom of intellect to the tyranny of the letter, and against the Catholics, who sacrifice independence of criticism to the tyranny of tradition; opposed equally to the servility of literal interpre- tation and the servility of a prescribed interpretation. In front of all appears the learned and excellent Hooker, one of the sweetest and most conciliatory of men, the most solid and per- suasive of logicians, a comprehensive mind, and a methodical writer, correct and always ample, worthy of being regarded not only as one of the fathers of the English Church, but as one of the founders of English prose. With a sustained gravity and simplicity, he shows the Puritans that the laws of nature, reason, and society, like the law of Scripture, are of divine institution, that all are equally worthy of respect and obedience, that we must not sacrifice the inner word, by which God reaches our intellect, to the outer word, by which God reaches our senses ; that thus the civil constitution of the Church, and the visible ordinance of ceremonies, may be conformable to the will of God, even when they are not justified by a clear text of Scripture ; and that the authority of the magistrates, as well as the reason of man, does not exceed its rights in establishing certain uni- formities and disciplines on which Scripture is silent, in order that reason may decide : — " For if the natural strength of man's wit may by experience and study attain unto such ripeness in the linowledge of things human, that men in this respect may presume to build somewhat upon their judgment ; what reason have we to think but that even in matters divine, the like wits fur- nished with necessary helps, exercised in Scripture with like diligence, and assisted with the grace of Almighty God, may grow unto so much perfec- tion of knowledge, that men shall have just cause, when anything pertinent unto faith and religion is doubted of, the more willingly to incline their minds towards that which the sentence of so grave, wise, and learned in that faculty shall judge most soimd." * This " natural light " therefore must not be despised, but rather nourished so as to augment the other, f as we put torch * Ecc. Pol. i. book ii. ch. vii. 4, p. 405. f See the Dialogtws of GaUh-o. The same idea which is persecuted by the church at Rome is at the same time defended by the church in England. See also Ecc. Pol. i. book iii. 461-481. THE CI-miSTIAN RENAISSANCE. 183 to torch ; above all, nourished that we may live in harmony with each other. " Far more comfort it were for us (so small is the joy we take in these strifes) to labor under the same yoke, as men that look for the same eternal reward of their labors, to be conjoined with you in bands of indissoluble love and amity, to live as if our persons being many, our souls were but one, rather than in such dismembered sort to spend our few and wretched days in a tedious prosecuting of wearisome contentions." In fact, it is in such amity that the greatest theologians con- clude : they quit an oppressive practice to grasp a liberal spirit. If by its political structure the English Church is persecuting, by its doctrinal structure it is tolerant ; it needs the reason of the laity too much to refuse it liberty ; it lives in a world too cultivated and thoughtful to proscribe thought and culture. John Hales, its most eminent doctor, declared several times that he would renounce the Church of England to-morrow, if she insisted on the doctrine that other Christians would be damned ; and that men believe other people to be damned only when they desire them to be so. * So Chillingworth, a notably militant and loyal mind, the most exact, the most penetrating, and the most convincing of controversialists, first Protestant, then Catholic, then Protestant again and for ever, has the courage to say that these great changes, wrought in himself and by himself, through study and research, are, of all his actions, those which satisfy him most. He maintains that reason applied to Scripture alone ought to persuade men ; that authority has no claim in it ; " that nothing is more against religion than to force religion ; " that the great principle of the Reformation is liberty of conscience ; and that if the doctrines of the different Protestant sects are not absolutely true, at least they are free from all impiety and from all error damnable in itself, or destructive of salvation. A writer of genius appears among these, a prose-poet, gifted with imagination like Spenser and Shakspeare,— Jeremy Taylor, who, from the bent of his mind, as well as from circumstances, was destined to present the alliance of the Renaissance with the Reformation, and to carry into the pulpit the ornate style of the court. A preacher at St. Paul's, appreciated and admired by men of fashion " for his youthful and fresh beauty, and his grace- * Clarendon's witness. See the same doctrines in Jeremy Taylor, Lib- erty of Prophesying J 1647. 1 84 THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. fill bearing," as also for his splendid diction ; patronized and promoted by Archbishop Laud, he wrote for the king a defence of episcopacy; became chaplain to the king's army ; was taken, ruined, twice imprisoned by the Parliamentarians ; married a natural daughter of Charles i.; then, after the Restoration, was loaded with honors ; became bishop, member of the Privy Council, and chancellor of the Irish university : in every pas- sage of his life, fortunate or otherwise, private or public, we see that he is an Anglican, a royalist, imbued with the spirit of the cavaliers and courtiers, not with their vices. On the contrary, there was never a better or more upright man, more zealous in his duties, more tolerant by principle ; so that, preserving a Christian gravity and purity, he received from the Renaissance only its rich imagination, its classical erudition, and its liberal spirit. But he had these gifts entire, as they existed in the most brilliant and original of the men of the world, in Sir Philip Sidney, Lord Bacon, Sir Thomas Browne, with the graces, splen- dors, refinements which are characteristic of these sensitive arid creative geniuses, and yet with the redundancies, singularities, incongruities inevitable in an age when excess of transport pre- vented the soundness of taste. Like all these writers, like Mon- taigne, he was imbued with the classic antiquity ; in the pulpit he quotes Greek and Latin anecdotes, passages from Seneca, verses of Lucretius and Euripides, and this side by side with texts from the Bible, from the Gospels and the Fathers. Cant was not yet in vogue ; the two great sources of teaching, Chris- tian and Pagan, ran side by side j they were collected in the ■ same vessel, without imagining that the wisdom of reason and nature could mar the wisdom of faith and revelation. Taylor' will relate to you the history of the bears of Pannonia, which, when wounded, will press the iron deeper home; or of tlie apples of Sodom, which are beautiful to the gaze, but full within of rottenness and worms ; and many others of the same kind. For it was a characteristic of men of this age and school not to possess a mind swept, levelled, regulated, laid out in straight paths, like our seventeenth century writers, and like the gardens at Versailles, but full, and crowded with circumstantial fac(s, complete dramatic scenes, little colored pictures, pell-mell and badly dusted. Metaphors multiply one above the other, jum- bled, blocking each other's path, as in Shakspeare. Yet, just by THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. 185 virtue of this same turn of mind, Taylor imagines objects, not vaguely and feebly, by some indistinct general conception, but precisely, entire, as they are, with their sensible color, their proper form, the multitude of true and particular details which distinguish them in their species. He is not acquainted with them by hearsay ; he has seen them. Better, he sees them now, and makes them to be seen. Read this piece, and say if it does not seem to have been copied from a hospital, or from the field of battle :— " And what can we complain of the weakness of our strengths, or the pressures of diseases, when we see a poor soldier stand in. a breach almost starved with cold and hunger, and his cold apt to be relieved only by the heats of anger, a fever, or a fired musket, and his hunger slacked by a greater pain and a huge fear ? This man shall stand in his arms and •wounds, /rtft'cKJ luminis atque solis,-pa\& and faint, weary and watchful; and at night shall have a bullet pulled out of his flesh, and shivers from his bones, and endure his mouth to be sewed up from a violent rent to its own dimensions ; and all this for a man whom he never saw, or, if he did, was not noted by him ; but one that shall condemn him to the gallows if he runs away from all this miseiy." * This is the advantage of a full imagination over ordinary reason. It produces in a mass twenty or thirty ideas, and as many iriiages, exhausting the subject which the other only out- lines and sketches. There are a thousand circumstances and shades in every event ; and they are all grasped in living words like these : — " For so have I seen the little purls of a spring sweat through the bot- tom of a bank, and intenerate the stubborn pavement, till it hath made it fit for the impression of a child's foot ; and it was despised, like the descending pearls of a misty morning, till it had opened its way and made a stream large enough to carry away the ruins of the undermined strand, and to invade the neighboring gardens ; but then the despised drops were grown into an artificial river, and an intolerable mischief. So are the first entrances of sin, stopped with the antidotes of a hearty prayer, and checked into sobriety by the eye of a reverend man, or the counsels of a single ser- mon ; but when such beginnings are neglected, and our religion hath not in it so much philosophy as to think anything evil as long as we can endure it, they grow up to ulcers and pestilential evils ; they destroy the soul by their abode, who at their first entry might have been killed with the pressure of a little finger." f * Jeremy Taylor's Works, ed. Eden, 1840, 10 vols., Holy Dying, ch. iii. sec. 4, § 3, p. 315. f Sermon xvi., Of Growthin Sin. 1 86 THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. All extremes meet in that imagination. The cavaliers who heard him, found, as in Ford, Beaumont, and Fletcher, the crude copy of the most coarse and unclean truth, and the light music of the most graceful and airy fancies ; the smell and horrors of a dissecting room, and all on a sudden the freshness and cheer- fulness of a smiling dawn ; the hateful detail of a leprosy, its white spotSj its inner rottenness ;* and then this lovely picture of a lark, rising amid the early perfumes of the fields: — " For so have I seen a lark rising from his bed of grass, and soaring upwards, singing as he rises, and hopes to get to heaven, and climb above the clouds ; but the poor bird was beaten back with the loud sighings of an eastern wind, and his motion made irregular and inconstant, descending more at every breath of the tempest, than it could recover by the vibration and frequent v/eighing of his wings, till the little creature was forced to sit down and pant, and stay till the storm was over ; and then it made a pros- perous flight, and did rise and sing, as if it had learned music and motion from an angel, as he passed sometimes through the air, about his ministries here below. So is the prayer of a good man." \ And he continues with the charm, sometimes with the very words, of Shakspeare. In the preacher, as well as in the poet, as well as in all the cavaliers and all the artists of the time, the imagination is so full that it reaches the real, even to its filth, and the ideal as far as its heaven. § 29. — This was, however, but an imperfect Reformation, and the official religion was too closely bound up with the world to undertake to cleanse it thoroughly : if it repressed the excesses of vice, it did not attack its source ; and the paganism of the Renaissance, following its bent, already under James i. issued in the corruption, orgie, mincing, and drunken habits, appetizing and gross sensuality, which subsequently under the Restoration stank like a sewer in the sun. But underneath the established Pro- testantism was propagated the interdicted Protestantism: the yeomen were settling their faith like the gentlemen, and already the Puritans made headway under the Anglicans. No culture here, no philosophy, no sentiment of harmonious and pagan beauty. Conscience only spoke, and its restlessness had become a terror. The son of the shopkeeper, of the farmer, who read the Bible in the barn or the counting-house, amid the * "We have already opened up this dunghill covered with snow, which was indeed on the outside white as the spots of leprosv." f Golden Grove Sermons: V. " The Return of Prayers.'' THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. 1 8/ barrels or the wool-bags, did not take matters as the fine cav- alier bred up in the old mythology, and refined by an elegant Italian education. They took them tragically, sternly examined themselves, pricked their hearts with their scruples, filled their imaginations with the vengeance of God and the terrors of the Bible. A gloomy epic, terrible and grand as the Edda, was fermenting in their melancholy imaginations. They steeped themselves in texts of Saint Paul, in the thundering menaces of the prophets ; they burdened their minds with the pitiless doc- trines of Calvin ; they admitted that the majority of men were predestined to eternal damnation : many believed that this mul- titude were criminal before their birth ; that God willed, foresaw, provided for their ruin ; that He designed their punishment from all eternity ; that He created them simply to give them up to it. Nothing but grace can save the wretched creature, free grace, God's sheer favor, which He only gives to a few, and which He grants not to the struggles and works of men, but after the ar- bitrary choice of His single and absolute will. We are " children of wrath," plague-stricken, and condemned from our birth ; and wherever we look in all the expanse of heaven, we find but thunderbolts to deafen and destroy us. Thenceforth rigor and rigidity mark their manners. The Puritan condemns the stage, the assemblies, the world's pomps and gatherings, the court's gallantry and elegance, the poetical and symbolical festivals of the country, the May-days, the merry feasts, bell-ringings, all the outlets by which sensual or instinc- tive nature had essayed to relieve itself. He gives them up, abandons recreations and ornaments, crops his hair, wears a simple sombre-hued coat, speaks through his nose, walks stiffly, with his eyes in the air, absorbed, indifferent to visible things. The external and natural man is abolished ; only the inner and spiritual man survives; there remains of the soul only the ideas of God and conscience, — a conscience alarmed and diseased, but strict in every duty, attentive to the least requirements, dis- daining the equivocations of worldly morality, inexhaustible in patience, courage, sacrifice, enthroning purity on the domestic hearth, truth in the tribunal, probity in the counting-house, labor in the workshop, above all, a fixed determination to bear all and do all rather than fail in the least injunction of moral justice and Bible-law. The stoical energy, a fundamental honesty of 1 88 THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. the race, were aroused at the appeal of an enthusiastic imagi- nation; and these unbending characteristics were displayed in their entirety in conjunction with abnegation and virtue. Around them, fanaticism and folly gained ground. Independ- ents, Millenarians, Antinomians, Anabaptists, Libertines, Fara- ilists, Quakers, Enthusiasts, Seekers, Perfectionists, Socinians, Arians, anti-Trinitarians, anti-Scripturalists, Sceptics ; the list of sects is interminable. Women, troopers, suddenly got up into the pulpit and preached. The strangest ceremonies took place in public. In 1644, says Dr. Featly, the Anabaptists rebaptized a hundred men and women together at twilight, in streams, in branches of the Thames and elsewhere, plunging them in the water over head and ears. One Gates, in the county of Essex, was brought before a jury for the murder of Anne Martin, who died a few days after her baptism of a cold which had seized her. George Fox the Quaker spoke with God, and witnessed with a loud voice, in the streets and market-places, against the sins of the age. William Simpson, one of his disciples, " was moved of the Lord to go, at several times, for three years, naked and barefoot before them, as a sign unto them, in the markets, courts, towns, cities, to priests' houses, and to great men's houses, telling them, so shall they all be stripped naked, as he was stripped naked. And sometimes he was moved to put on hair sackcloth, and to besmear his face, and to tell them, so would the Lord besmear all their religion as he was besmeared.'' A Quaker came to the door of the Parliament House with a drawn sword, and wounded several who were present, saying " that he was inspired by the Holy Spirit to kill every man that sat in the house." The Fifth Monarchy men believed that Christ was about to descend to reign in person upon earth for a thousand years, with the saints for His ministers. The Ranters looked upon furious vociferations and contortions as the prin- cipal signs of faith. The Seekers thought that religious truth could only be seized in a sort of mystical fog, with doubt and fear. The Muggletonians decided that " John Reeve and Ludo- vick Miiggleton were the two last prophets and messengers of God ; " they declared the Quakers possessed of the devil, exor- cised him, and prophesied that William Penn would be damned. * A Journal of the Life, etc., of that Ancient, Eminent, and Faithful Ser- vant of Jems Christ, George Fox, Gtli edit., 1836. THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. \ 89 Jamss Nayler, an old quartermaster of General Lambert, was adored as a god by his followers. Several women led his horse, others cast before him their kerchiefs and scarfs, singing, Holy, holy, Lord God. When he was put in the pillory some of his disciples began to sing, weep, smite their breasts ; others kissed his hands, rested on his bosom, and kissed his wounds.* Bed- lam broken loose could not have surpassed them. Underneath these disorderly bubbles at the surface, the wise and deep strata of the nation had settled, and the new faith was doing its work with them, — a practical and positive, a political and moral work. While the German Reformation, after the German wont, resulted in great volumes and a scholastic system, the English Reformation, after the English wont, resulted in action and establishments. " How the Church of Christ shall be governed ; " that was the great question which was discussed among the sects. There was no separation here between theory and practice, between private and public life, between the spirit- ual and the temporal. They wished to apply Scripture to "es- tablish the kingdom of heaven upon earth," to institute not only a Christian church, but a Christian society, to change the law into a guardian of morals, to exact piety and virtue. " Though the discipline of the church was at an end, there was neverthe- less an uncommon spirit of devotion among people in the par- liament quarters ; the Lord's day was observed with remarka- ble strictness, the churches being crowded with numerous and attentive hearers three or four times in the day ; the officers of the peace patroled the streets, and shut up all public-houses ; there was no travelling on the road, or walking in the fields, except in cases of absolute necessity. Religious exercises were set up in private families, as reading the Scriptures, family prayer, repeating sermons, and singing of psalms, which was so universal, that you might walk through the city of London on the evening of the Lord's day without seeing an idle person, or hearing anything but the voice of prayer or praise from churches and private houses."t During Cromwell's expedition in Ireland * Burton's Parliamentary Diary, i. 46-173. Neal, History of the Puri- tans, iii., Supplt. f Neal, ii. 553. Compare with the French Revolution. When the Bastille was demolished, they wrote on the ruins these words : " Ici I'on danse." From this contrast we see the difference between the two doctrines and the two nations. I go THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. we read that no blasphemy was heard in the camp ; the soldiers spent their leisure hours in reading the Bible, singing psalms, and holding religious controversies. In 1650 the punishments inflicted on Sabbath-breakers were redoubled. Stern laws were passed against betting, gallantry was reckoned a crime; the theatres were destroyed, the spectators fined, the actors whipt at the cart's tail ; adultery punished with death : in order to reach crime more surely, they persecuted pleasure. But if they were austere against others, they were so against themselves, and practised the virtues they exacted. After the Restoration, two thousand ministers, rather than conform to the new liturgy, resigned their cures, though they and their families had to die of hunger. Many of them, says Baxter, thinking that they were not justified in quitting their ministry after being set apart for it by ordination, preached to such as would hear them in the fields and in certain houses, until they were seized and thrown into prisons, where a great number of them perished. Crom- well's fifty thousand veterans, suddenly disbanded and without resources, did not bring a single recruit to the vagabonds and bandits. " The Royalists themselves confessed that, in every department of honest industry, the discarded warriors prospered beyond other men, that none was charged with any theft or rob- bery, that none was heard to ask an alms, and that, if a baker, a mason, or a waggoner attracted notice by his diligence and sobriety, he was in all probability one of Oliver's old soldiers."* Purified by persecution and ennobled by patience, they ended by winning the tolerance of the law and the respect of the pub- lic, and raised the national morality, as they had saved the na- tional liberty. But others, exiles in America, pushed to an ex- tremity this great religious and stoical spirit, with its weaknesses and its power, with its vices and its virtues. Their determina- tion, intensified by a fervent faith, employed in political ^nd practical pursuits, invented the science of emigration, made ex- ile tolerable, drove back the Indians, fertilized the desert, raised a rigid morality into a civil law, founded and armed a church, and on the Bible as a basis built up a new state. That was not a conception of life from which a genuine lit- erature might be expected to issue. The idea of the beautiful * Macaulay, Hist, of England, ed. Lady Trevelyan, i. 121. THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. 191 is wanting, and what is a literature without it ? The natural expression of the heart's emotions is proscribed, and what is a literature without it ? They abolished as impious the free stage and the rich poesy which the Renaissance had brought them. They rejected as profane the ornate style and ample eloquence which had been established around them by the imitation of antiquity and of Italy. They mistrusted reason, and were inca- pable of philosophy. They ignored the divine languor of Jeremy Taylor, and the touching tenderness of the gospel. Their character exhibits only manliness, their conduct austerity, their mind preciseness. We find among them only excited theologi- ans, minute controversialists, energetic men of action, limited and patient minds, engrossed in positive proofs and practical labors, void of general ideas and refined tastes, resting upon texts, dry and obstinate reasoners, who twisted the Scripture in order to extract from it a form of government or a table of dogma. ■ Seldom is a generation found more mutilated in all the faculties which produce contemplation and ornament, more limited in the faculties which nourish discussion and morality. They are without style ; they speak like business men ; their histories, like May's for instance, are flat and heavy. Their memoirs, even those of Ludlow and Mrs. Hutchinson, are long, wearisome, mere statements, destitute of personal feelings, void of enthusiasm or entertaining matter ; " they seem to ignore themselves, and are engrossed by the general prospects of their cause." * Good works of piety, solid and convincing sermons ; sincere, edifying, exact, methodical books, like those of Baxter, Barclay, Calamy, John Owen ; personal narratives, like that of Baxter, like Fox's journal, Bunyan's life, a large collection of documents and arguments, conscientiously arranged, — this is all they offer : the Puritan destroys the artist, stiffens the man, fet- ters the writer ; and leaves of artist, man, writer, only a sort of abstract being, the slave of a watchword. If a Milton springs up among them, it is because by his wide curiosity, his travels, his comprehensive education, above all by his youth saturated in the great poetry of the preceding age, and by his independ- ence of spirit, loftily adhered to even against the sectarians, Milton passes beyond sectarianism. Strictly speaking, they * Guizot, Portraits Politiques, 5tli ed., 1862. 192 THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. could but have one poet, an involuntary poet, a madman, a martyr, a hero, and a victim of grace ; a genuine preacher, who attains the beautiful by accident, while pursuing the useful on principle ; a poor tinker, who, employing images so as to be understood by mechanics, sailors, servant-girls, attained, without pretending to it, eloquence and high art. After the Bible, the book most widely read in England is the Pilgrim's Progress, by John Bunyan. The reason is, that the basis of Protestanism is the doctrine of salvation by grace, and that no writer has equalled Bunyan in making this doctrine understood. To treat well of supernatural impressions, one must have been subject to them. Bunyan had that kind of imagination which produces them. Powerful as that of an artist, but more vehement, this imagination worked in the man without his co- operation, and besieged him with visions which he had neither willed nor foreseen. Bunyan, like Saiint Theresa, was from infancy " greatly troubled with the thoughts of the fearful tor- ments of hell-fire," sad in the midst of pleasures, believing him- self damned, and so despairing, that he wished he was a devil, " supposing they were only tormentors ; that if it must needs be that I went thither, I might be rather a tormentor, than be tormented myself" * There already was the assault of exact and bodily images. Already his ideas clung to him with that irresistible hold which constitutes monomania ; no matter how absurd they were, they ruled him, not by their truth, but by their presence. The thought of an impossible danger terrified him as much as the sight of an imminent peril. Like a man hung over an abyss by a sound rope, he forgot that the rope was sound, and vertigo seized upon him. After the fashion of Eng- lish villagers, he loved bell-ringing : when he became a Puritan, he considered the amusement profane, and gave it up ; yet, im- pelled by his desire, he would go into the belfry and watch the ringers. " But quickly after, I began to think, ' How if one of the bells should fall ? ' Then I chose to stand under a main beam, that lay overthwart the steeple, from side to side, thinking here I might stand sure : but then I thought again, should the bell fall with a swing, it might first hit the wall, and then * Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners, § 7. THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. 193 rebounding upon me, might kill me for all this beam. This made me stand in the steeple-door j and now, thought I, I am safe enough, for if a bell should then fall, I can slip out behind these thick walls, and so be preserved notwithstanding. So after this I would yet go to see them ring, but would not go any farther than the steeple-door ; but then it came into my head, ' How if the steeple itself should fall ? ' And this thought (it may, for aught I know, when I stood and looked on) did con- tinually so shake my mind that I durst not stand at the steeple- door any longer, but was forced to flee, for fear the steeple should fall upon ray head." * Frequently the mere conception of a sin became for him a temptation so involuntary and so strong, that he felt upon him the sharp claw of the devil. The fixed idea swelled in his head like a painful abscess, full of sen- sitiveness and of his life's blood. In him circumstances develop character ; his kind of life develops his kind of mind. He was born in the lowest and most despised rank, a tinker's son, himself a wandering tinker, with a wife as poor as himself, so that they had not a spoon or a dish between them. He had been taught in childhood to read and write, but he had since '' almost wholly lost what he had learned." Education draws out and disciplines a man ; fills him with varied and rational ideas ; prevents him from sinking into monomania or being excited by transport ; gives him deter- minate thoughts instead of eccentric fancies, pliable opinions for fixed convictions ; replaces impetuous images by calm rea- sonings, sudden resolves by the results of reflection ; furnishes us with the wisdom and ideas of others ; gives us conscience and self-command. Suppress this reason and this discipline, and consider the poor working-man at his work ; his head works while his hands work, not ably, with methods acquired from any logic he might have mustered, but with dark emotions, beneath a disorderly flow of confused images. Morning and evening, the hammer which he uses in his trade drives in v.'ith its deafening sounds the same thought perpetually returning and self communing. A troubled, obstinate vision floats before him in the brightness of the hammered and quivering metal. In the red furnace where the iron is bubbling, in the clang of the ham- * Grace Abounding, g§ 33, 34. 13 194 THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. mered brass, in the black corners where the damp shadow creeps, he sees the flame and darkness of hell, and the rattling of eter- nal chains. Next day he sees the same image, the day after, the whole week, month, year. His brow wrinkles, his eyes grow sad, and his wife hears him groan in the night-time. She remem- bers that she has two volumes in an old bag. The Plain Man's Pathway to Heaven and The Practice of Piety ; she spells them out to console him ; and the impressive thoughtfulness, already sublime, made more so by the slowness with which it is read, sinks like an oracle into his subdued faith. The braziers of the devils — the golden harps of heaven — the bleeding Christ on the cross, — each of these deep-rooted ideas sprouts poisonously or wholesomely in his diseased brain, spreads, pushes out and springs higher with a ramification of fresh visions, so crowded, that in his encumbered mind he has no further place nor air for more conceptions. Will he rest when he sets forth in the winter on his tramp ? During his long solitary wanderings, over wild heaths, in cursed and haunted bogs, always abandoned to his own thoughts, the inevitable idea pursues him. These neg- lected roads where he sticks in the mud, these sluggish rivers which he crosses on the cranky ferry-boat, these threatening whispers of the woods at night, where in perilous places the livid moon shadows out ambushed forms, — all that he sees and hears falls into an involuntary poem around the one absorbing idea ; thus it changes into a vast body of sensible legends, and multiplies its power as it multiplies its details. Having become a dissenter, Bunyan is shut up for twelve years, having no other amusement but the Book of Martyrs and the Bible, in one of those infectious prisons where the Puritans rotted under the Restoration. There he is, still alone, thrown back upon himself by the monotony of his dungeon, besieged by the terrors of the Old Testament, by the vengeful outpourings or denunciations of the prophets, by the thunder-striking words of Paul, by the spec- tacle of trances and of martyrs, face to face with God, now in despair, now consoled, troubled with involuntary images and unlooked-for emotions, seeing alternately devil and angels, the actor and the witness of an internal drama whose vicissitudes he is able to relate. He writes them : it is his book. . You see now the condition of this inflamed brain. Poor in ideas, full of images, given up to a fixed and single thought, plunged into THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. 1 95 this thought by his mechanical pursuit, by his prison and his readings, by his knowledge and his ignorance, circumstances, like nature, make him a visionary and an artist, furnish him with supernatural impressions and sensible images, teaching him the history of grace and the means of expressing it. The Filgrim's Progress is a manual of devotion for the use of simple folk, while it is an allegorical poem of grace. In it we hear a man of the people speaking to the people, who would render intelligible to all the terrible doctrine of damnation and salvation.* According to Bunyan, we are " children of wrath," condemned from our birth, guilty by nature, justly predestined to destruction. Under this formidable thought the heart gives way. The unhappy man relates how he trembled in all his limbs, and in his fits it seemed to him as though the bones of his chest would break. " One day," he tells us, " I walked to a neighboring town, and sat down upon a settle in the street, and fell into a very deep pause about the most fearful state my sin had brought me to j and after long musing, I lifted up my head, but methought I saw, as if the sun that shineth in the heavens * This is an abstract of the events : — From highest heaven a voice has proclaimed vengeance against the City of Destruction, where lives a sinner of the name of Christian. Terrified, he rises up amid the jeers of his neighbors, and departs, for fear of being devoured by the fire which is to consume the criminals. A helpful man, Evangelist, shows him the right road. A treacherous man, Worldlywise, tries to turn him aside. His com- panion. Pliable, who had followed him at first, gets stuck in the Slough of Despond, and leaves him. He advances bravely across the dirty water and the slippery mud, and reaches the Strait Gate, where a wise Interpreter in- structs him by visible shows, and points out the way to the Heavenly City. He passes before a cross, and the heavy burden of sins, which he carried on his back, is loosened and falls off. He painfully climbs the steep hill of Difficulty, and reaches a great castle, where Watchful, the guardian, gives him in charge to his good daughters Piety and Prudence, who warn him and arm him against the monsters of hell. He finds his road barred by one of these demons, Apollyon, who bids him abjure obedience to the heavenly King.. After a long fight he slays him. Yet the way grows narrow, the shades all thicker, sulphurous flames rise along the road : it is the valley of the Shadow of Death. He passes it, and arrives at the town of Vanity, a vast fair of business, deceits, and shows, which he walks by with lowered eyes, not wishing to take part in its festivities or falsehoods. The people of the place beat him, throw him into prison, condemn him as a traitor and rebel, burn his companion Faithful. Escaped from their hands, he falls mto those of Giant Despair, who beats him, leaves him in a poisonous dun- geon without food, and giving him daggers and cords, advises him to rid himself from so many misfortunes. At last he reaches the Delectable Moun- tains, whence he sees the holy city. To enter it he has only to cross a deep river, where there is no foothold, where'the water dims the sight, and which is called the River of Death. 196 THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. did grudge to give light ; and as if the very stones in the street, and tiles upon the houses, did bend themselves against me. O how happy now was every creature over I was ! For they stood fast, and kept their station, but I was gone and lost." * The devils gathered together against the repentant sin- ner ; they choked his sight, besieged him with phantoms, yelled at his side to drag him down their precipices ; and the black valley into which the pilgrim plunges, almost matches by the horror of its sight the anguish of the terrors by which he is assailed : — " I saw then in my Dream, so far as this Valley reached, there was on the right hand a very deep Ditch ; that Ditch is it into which the blind have led the blind in all ages, and have both there miserably perished. Again, behold on the left hand, there was a dangerous Quag, into which, if even a good man falls, he can find no bottom for his foot to stand on. . . . " The path-way was here also exceeding narrow, and therefore good Christian was the more put to it ; for when he sought in the dark to shun the ditch on the one hand, he was ready to tip over into the mire on the other ; also when he sought to escape the mire, without great carefulness he would be ready to fall into the ditch. Thus he went on, and I heard him here sigh bitterly ; for, besides the dangers mentioned above, the path-way was here so dark, that ofttimes, when he lift up his foot to set forward, he Icnew not where, or upon what he should set it next. " About the midst of this Valley, I perceived the mouth of Hell to be, and it stood also hard by the wayside. Now thought Christian what shall I do ? And ever and anon the flame and smoke would come out in such abundance, with sparks and hideous noises, . . . that he was forced to put up his Sword, and betake himself to another weapon, called All-prayer. So he cried in my hearing : ' O Lord I beseech thee deliver my soul.' Thus he went on a great while, yet still the flames would be reaching towards him : Also he heard doleful voices, and rushings to and fro, so that sometimes he thought he should be torn in pieces, or trodden dovra like mire in the Streets." f Against this anguish, neither his good deeds, nor his pray- ers, nor his justice, nor all the justice and all the prayers of all other men, could defend him. Grace alone justifies. God must impute to him the purity of Christ, and save him by a free choice. What is more full of passion than the scene in which, under the name of his poor pilgrim, he relates his own doubts, his conversion, his joy, and the sudden change of his heart? " Then the water stood in mine eyes, and I asked further. But Lord, may * Bunyan's Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners, § 187. I Pilgnm's Progress, Cambridge, 1S62, First Part, p. 64. THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. 197 sucli a great sinner as I am be indeed accepted of thee, and be saved by thee ? And I heard liim say, And him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out. . . . And now was my heart full of joy, mine eyes full of tears, and mine affections running over with love to the Name, People, and Ways of Jesus Christ. . . . " Itmade me see that all the World , notwithstanding all the righteous- ness thereof, is in a state of condemnation. It made me see that God the Father, though he be just, can justly justify the coming sinner. It made me greatly ashamed of the vileness of my former life, and confounded me with the sense of mine own ignorance ; for there never came thought into my heart before now, that shewed me so the beauty of Jesus Christ. It made me love a holy life, and long to do something for the Honor and Glory of the name of the Lord Jesus ; yea, I thought that had I now a thousand gallons of blood in my body, I could spill it all for the sake of the Lord Jesus." * Such an emotion does not weigh Hterary calculations. Alle- gory, the most artificial kind, is natural to Bunyan. If he em- ploys it here, it is because he does so throughout ; if he employs it throughout, it is from necessity, not choice. As children, countrymen, and all uncultivated minds, he transforms argu- ments into parables; he only grasps truth when it is made simple by images; abstract terms elude him; he must touch forms and contemplate colors. Dry general truths are a sort of algebra, acquired by the mind slowly and after much trouble, against our primitive inclination, which is to observe detailed events and sensible objects ; man being incapable of contem- plating pure formulas until he is transformed by ten years' read- ing and reflection. We understand at once the term purifica- tion of heart ; Bunyan understands it fully only, after transla- ting it by this fable : — " Then the Interpreter took Christian by the hand, and led him into a very large Parlor that was full of dust, because never swept ; the which after he had reviewed a little while, the Interpreter called for a man to sweep. Now when he began to sweep, the dust began so abundantly to fly about, that Christian had almost therewith been choaked. Then said the Interpre- ter to a Damsel that stood by. Bring hither the Water, and sprinkle the Room ; the which when she had _ done, it was swept and cleansed with pleasure. " Then said Christian, What means this ? " The Interpreter answered. This parlour is the heart of a man that was never sanctified by the sweet Grace of the Gospel ; the dust is his Original Sin, and inward Corruptions, that have dafiled the whole man. He that began to sweep at first, is the Law ; but she that brought water, and did * Pilgrim's Progress, First Part, p. 160. igS THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. sprinkle it, is the Gospel. Now, whereas thou sawest that so soon as the first began to sweep, the dust did so fly about that the Room by him could not be cleansed, but that thou wast almost choaked therewith ; this is to shew thee, that the Law, instead of cleansing the heart (by its working) from sin, doth revive, put strength into, and increase it in the soul, even as it doth discover and forbid it, for it doth not give power to subdue. " Again, as thou sawest the Damsel sprinkle the room with Water, upon which it was cleansed with pleasure ; this is to shew thee, that when the Gospel comes in the sweet and precious influences thereof to the heart, then I say, even as thou sawest the Damsel lay the dust by sprinkling the floor witli Water, so is sin vanquished and subdued, and the soul made clean, through the faith of it, and consequently fit for the King of Gloiy to inhabit." * These repetitions, embarrassed phrases, famihar comparisons, this frank style, whose awkwardness recalls the childish periods of Herodotus, and whose lightheartedness recalls tales for chil- dren, prove that if his work is allegorical, it is so in order that it may be intelligible, and that Bunyan is a poet because he is a child, t Again, under his simplicity you will find power, and in his puerility the vision. These allegories are hallucinations as clear, complete, and sound as ordinary perceptions. No one but Spenser is so lucid. Imaginary objects rise of themselves within him. He has no trouble in calling them up or forming them. They agree in all their details with all the details of the precept which they represent, as a pliant veil fits the body which it covers. Dialogues flow from his pen as in a dream. He does not seem to be thinking ; we should even say that he was not himself there. Events and speeches seem to grow and dis- pose themselves within him, independently of his will. Nothing, * Filgrim's Progress, First Part, p. 26. ■]• Here is another of his allegories, almost spiritual, so just and simple it is. See Pilgrim's Progress, First Part, p. 68 ; Now I saw in my Dream, that at the end of this Valley lay blood, bones, ashes, and mangled bodies of men, even of Pilgrims that had gone this way formerly ; and while I was musing what should be the reason, I espied. a little before me a Cave, where two Giants, Pope and Pagan, dwelt in old time ; by whose power and tyranny the men whose bones, blood, ashes, etc., lay there, were cruelly put to death. But by this place Christian went without much danger, whereat I somewhat wondered ; but I have learnt since, that Pagan has been dead many a day ; and as for the other, though he be yet alive, he is by reason of age, and also of the many shrewd brushes that he met with in his younger days, grown so crazy, and stiff in his joints, that he can now do little more than sit in his Cave's mouth, grinning at Pilgrims as they go by, and biting his nails, because he cannot come at them. THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. 199 as a rule, is colder than the characters in an allegory ; his are living. Looking upon these details, so small and familiar, illu- sion gains upon us. Giant Despair, a simple abstraction, be- comes as real in his hands as an English jailer or farmer. He is heard talking by night in bed with his wife Diffidence, who gives him good advice, because here, as in other households, the strong and brutal animal is the least cunning of the two : — " Then she counselled him that when he arose in the morning he should (take the two prisoners and) beat them without mercy. So when he arose, he getteth him a grievous Crab-tree Cudgel, and goes down into the Dun- geon to them, and there first falls to rating of them as if they were dogs, although they gave him never a word of distaste. Then he falls upon them, and beats them fearfully, in such sort, that they were not able to help themselves, or to turn them upon the floor."* This stick, chosen with a forester's experience, this instinct of rating first and storming to get oneself into trim for knock- ing down, are traits which attest the sincerity of the narrator, and succeed in persuading the reader. Bunyan has the free- dom, the tone, the ease, and the clearness of Homer ; he is as close to Homer as an Anabaptist tinker could be to an heroic singer, a creator of gods. Nay, he is nearer. Before the senti- ment of the sublime, inequalities are levelled. The depth of emotion raises peasant and poet to the same eminence ; and here also, allegory stands the peasant in stead. It alone, in the absence of ecstasy, can paint heaven ; for it does not pretend to paint it : expressing it by a figure, it declares it invisible, as a glowing sun at which we cannot look full, and whose image we obfeerve in a mirror or a stream. The ineffable world thus re- tains all its mystery ; warned by the allegory, we imagine splen- dors beyond all which it presents to us ; we feel behind the beauties which are opened to us, the infinite which is concealed. He was imprisoned for twelve years and a half; in his dun- geon he made wire snares to support himself' and his family ; he died at the age of sixty in 1688. At the same time Milton lingered obscure and blind. The last two poets of the Reforma- tion thus survived, amid the classical coldness which then dried up English literature, and the social excess which then corrupted English morals. " Shorn hypocrites, the psalm-singers, gloomy bigots," such were the names by which men who reformed the ' Pilgtim's Progress, First Part, p. 126. 200 THE CHRISTIAN RENAISSANCE. manners and renewed the constitution of England were insulted. But oppressed and insalted as they were, their work continued of itself and without noise below the earth ; for the ideal which they had raised was, after all, that which the clime suggested and the race demanded. Gradually Puritanism began to ap- proach the world, and the world to approach Puritanism. The restoration was to fall into evil odor, the Revolution was to come, and under the insensible progress of national sympathy, as well as under the incessant effort of public reflection, parties and doctrines were to rally around a free and moral Protes- tantism. CHAPTER IX. MILTON. § 30. — On the borders of the licentious Renaissance which was drawing to a close, and of the exact school of poetry which was springing up, between the monotonous conceits of Cowley and the correct gallantries of Waller, appeared a mighty and superb mind, prepared by logic and enthusiasm for eloquence and the epic style ; liberal, Protestant, a moralist and a poet ; adorning the cause of Algernon Sidney and Locke with the in- spiration of Spenser and Shakspeare ; the heir of a poetical age, the precursor of an austere age, holding his place between the epoch of unbiassed dreamland and the epoch of practical action ; like his own Adam, who, entering a hostile earth, heard behind him, in the closed Eden, the dying strains of heaven. John Milton was not one of those fevered souls, void of self- command, whose rapture takes them by fits, whom a sickly sen- sibility drives for ever to the extreme of sorrow or joy, whose pliability prepares them to produce a variety of characters, whose inquietude condemns them to paint the insanity and con- tradictions of passion. Vast knowledge, close logic, and grand passion : these were his marks. His mind was lucid, his im- agination limited. He was incapable of disturbed emotion or of transformation. He conceived the loftiest of ideal beauties, but he conceived only one. He was not born for the drama, but for the ode. He does not create souls, but constructs argu- ments and experiences emotions. Emotions and arguments, all the forces and actions of his soul, assemble and are arranged beneath a unique sentiment, that of the sublime ; and the broad river of lyric poetry streams from him, impetuous, with even flow, splendid as a cloth of gold. Milton was of a family in which courage, moral nobility, the love of art, were present to whisper the most beautiful and eloquent words around his cradle. His mother was a most ex- 202 ^^^-^ TON. emplary woman, well known through all the neighborhood for her benevolence. His father, a student of Christ Church, and disinherited as a Protestant, had alone made his fortune, and, amidst his occupations as a scrivener or writer, had preserved the taste for letters, being unwilling to give up " his liberal and intelligent tastes to the extent of becoming altogether a slave to the world ; " he wrote verses, was an excellent musician, one of the best coniposers in his time ; he gave his son the widest and fullest literary education. Let the reader try to picture this child, in the street inhabited by merchants, in this citizen-like and scholarly, religious and poetical family, whose manners were regular and their aspirations lofty, where music, letters, painting, all the adornments of the beauty-loving Renaissance, decorated the sustained gravity, the hard-working honesty, the deep Chris- tianity of the Reformation. All Milton's genius springs from this ; he carried the splendor of the Renaissance into the earnest- ness of the Reformation, the magiiificence'of" Spenser Into the severity of Calvin, 'and, witK^liis"fainily,"T6und himself at^ t he_ confluence of the two civilizations which he combined. Before he was ten years old he had a learned tutor, " a Puritan, who cut his hair short ; " after that he went to St. Paul's School, then to the University of Cambridge, that he might be instructed in " polite literature ; " and at the age of twelve he worked, in spite of his weak eyes and headaches, until midnight and even later. In fact, at school, then at Cambridge, then with his father, he was strengthening and preparing himself with all his power, free from all blame, and loved by all good men ; traversing the vast fields of Greek and Latin literature, not only the great writers, but all the writers, down to the half of the middle- age ; and simul- taneously the ancient Hebrew, Syriac and rabbinical Hebrew, French and Spanish, the old English literature, all the Italian literature, with such zeal and profit that he wrote Italian and Latin verse and prose like an Italian or a Roman ; beyond this, music, mathematics, theology, and much besides. A serious thought regulated this great toil. " The church, to whose ser- vice, by the intentions of my parents and friends, I was des- tined of a child, and in mine own resolutions : till coming to some maturity of years, and perceiving what tyranny had in- vaded the church, that he who would take orders must subscribe slave, and take an oath withal, which unless he took with a con- MILTON. 203 science that would retch, he must either straight perjure, or split his faith ; I thought it better to prefer a blameless silence before the sacred office of speaking, bought and begun with ser- vitude and forswearing."* He refused to be a priest from the same feelings that he had wished it: the desire and the renunciation all sprang from the same source — a fixed resolve to act nobly. Falling back into the life of a layman, he continued to cultivate and perfect him- self, studying with passion and with method, but without pedan- try or rigor ; nay, rather, after his master, Spenser, in E Allegro, n Penseroso, Comits, he set forth in sparkling and variegated dress the wealth of mythology, nature and fancy ; then, sailing for the landjjf^science and beauty, he visited Italy, made the acguajntMjcejDf Grotii^^ the "society of the Jlearned, the men of letters, the men of the world, heard the_ musicians, steeped himself in all the beauties stored up by the Renaissance at Florence^ andTRonieT'TJvery where his learning, his fine Italian and Latin style, secured him the friendship and attachment of scholars, so that, on his return to Florence, he " was as well received as if he had returned to his native coun- try." He collected books and music, which he sent to England, and thought of traversing Sicily and Greece, those two homes of ancient letters and arts. Of all the flowers that opened to the Southern sun under the influence of the two great Pagan- isms, he gathered freely the sweetest and most exquisite of odors, but without staining himself with the mud which surrounded them. When the Revolution began to threaten, he returned, drawn by conscience, as a soldier who hastens to danger at the noise of arms, convinced, as he himself tells us, that it was a shame to him leisurely to spend his life abroad, and for his own pleasure, while his fellow-countrymen were striving for their lib- erty. In battle he appeared in the front ranks as a volunteer, courting danger everywhere. Throughout his education and tiiroughout his youth, in his profane readings and his sacred studies, in his acts and his maxims, already a ruling and per- manent thought grew manifest — ^the resolution to develop and unfold within him the ideal man. On his return to England, Milton fell back among his books, * Milton's Frose Works, ed. St. John, 5 vols., 1848, The Reason of Church Government, ii. 482. 204 MILTON. and received a few pupils, from whom he exacted, as from him- self, continuous toil, serious reading, a frugal diet, a strict be- havior; the life of a recluse, almost of a monk. Suddenly, in a month, after a country visit, he married.* A few weeks after- wards, his wife returned to her father's house, would not return, took no notice of his letters, and sent back his messenger with scorn. The two characters had come into collision. The " priest " character is made for sohtude ; the tact, abandon, charm, pleasantness, and sweetness necessary to all companion- ship, is wanting to it ; we admire him, but we go no further, especially if, like Milton's wife, we are somewhat dull and com- mon-place, adding mediocrity of intellect to the repugnance of our hearts. He_had,sohis biographers say, a cert^n gravity_ of nature, or severity of mind jwhich would not condescend to petty things, but kept him in the clouds, in a region whicFjal- no,t that of the household. He was accused of being harsh, choleric ; and certainly he stood upon his manly dignity, his authority as a husband, and was not so greatly esteemed, re- spected, studied, as he thought he deserved to be. In short, he passed the day among his books, and the rest of the time his heart lived in an abstracted and sublime world of which few wives catch a glimpse, his wife least of all. He had, in fact, chosen like a student, the more at random because his former life had been of " a well-governed and wise appetite." Equally like a man of the closet, he resented her flight, being the more irritated because the world's ways were unknown to him. _ffith- out dread of ridicule, and with the sternness of a speculative "man suHdenly in collision with actual life, he wia te~irepisesoir_ Divorce, signed them with his name, dedicated, them tq^Parlia- ment, held himself divorced, de facto because his wife refused to return, //^ y«i^^ because he had four texts of_ Scripture for If," whereupon he paid court to a young lady, and suddenly, seeing_ his wife on her knees and weeping, forgave her, took her back, renewed the dry and sad marriage-tie, not profiting by ex-_ perience, but on the other hand fated to contract two other unions, the last with a wife thirty years younger than himself Other parts of his domestic life were neither better managed nor happier. He had taken his daughters for secretaries, and made * 1643, at the age of 35. MILTON. 205 them read languages which they did not understand,— a repel- ling task of which they bitterly complained. In return, he accused them of being " undutiful and unkind," of neglecting him, not caring whether they left him alone, of conspiring with the servants to rob him in their purchases, of stealing his books, so that they would have disposed of the whole of them. Mary, the second, hearing one day that he was going to be married, said that his marriage was no news ; the best news would be his death. An incredible speech, and one which throws a strange light on the miseries of this family. Neither circumstances nor nature had created him for happiness. They had created him for strife, and from his return to Eng- land he had thrown himself heartily into it, armed with logic, indignation, and learning, protected by conviction and con- science. In 1641 he wrote his Reformation in England, jeering at and attacking with haughtiness and scorn the prelacy and its defenders. Refuted and attacked in turn, he doubled his bit- terness, and crushed those whom he had beaten. Transported to the limits of his creed, and like a knight making a rush, and who pierces with a dash the whole line of battle, he hurled him- self upon the" prince, concluded the abolition of Royalty as well as the overthrow of the Episcopacy ; and one month after the death of Charles i., justified his execution, replied to the Bikon Basilike, then to Salmasius' Defence of the King, with incompara- ble breadth of style and scorn, like a soldier, like an apostle, like a man who everywhere feels the superiority of his science and logic, who wishes to make it felt, who proudly treads down and crushes his adversaries as ignoramuses, inferior minds, base hearts. Thus absorbed in strife, he lived out of the world, as blind to palpable facts as he was protected against the seduc- tions of the senses, placed above the stains and the lessons of experience, as incapable of leading men as of yielding to them. There was nothing in him akin to the devices and delays of the statesman, the crafty schemer, who pauses on his way, experi- mentalizes, with eyes fixed on what may turn up, who gauges what is possible, and employs logic for practical purposes. He was speculative and chimerical. With closed eyes, sacred text in hand, he advances from consequence to consequence, tramp- ling upon the prejudices, inclinations, habits, wants of men, as if a reasoning or religious spirit were the whole man, as if evi- 2o6 MILTON. dence always created belief, as if belief always resulted in prac- tice, as if, in the struggle of doctrines, truth or justice gave doc- trines the victory and sovereignty. But his obstinacy constituted his power, and the inner consti- tution, which closed his mind to instruction, armed his heart against weaknesses. He lived complete and untainted to the end ; experience could not instruct nor misfortune depress him ; he endured all, and repented of nothing. He lost his sight, willingly, by writing, though ill, and against the prohibition of his doctors, to justify the English people against the invectives of Salmasius. He saw the funeral of the Republic, the pro- scription of his doctrines, the defamation of his honor. Around him rioted the disgust of liberty, the enthusiasm of slavery. A whole people threw itself at the feet of a young, incapable and treacherous libertine. The glorious leaders of the Puritan faith were condemned, executed, cut down alive from the gallows, quartered amidst insults ; others, whom death had saved from the hangman, were dug up and exposed on the gibbet ; others, exiles in foreign lands, lived under the menaces and outrages of royalist arms ; others again, more unfortunate, had sold their cause for money and titles, and sat amid the executioners of their*former friends. The most pious and austere citizens of England filled the prisons, or wandered in poverty and oppro- brium ; and gross vice, shamelessly seated on the throne, stirred up around it the riot of unbridled lusts and sensualities. Mil- ton himself had been constrained to hide j his books had been burned by the hand of the hangman j even after the general act of indemnity he was imprisoned ; when set at liberty, he lived in the expectancy of assassination, for private fanaticism might seize the weapon relinquished by public revenge. Other smaller misfortunes came to aggravate by their stings the great wounds which afflicted them. Confiscations, a bankruptcy, finally, the great fire of London, had robbed him of three-fourths of his fortune ; * his daughters neither esteemed nor respected him j he sold his books, knowing that his family could not profit * A scrivener caused liim to lose ^^2000. At the Restoration he was refused payment of £1000 which he liad put into the Excise Office, and deprived of an estate of £^0 a year, bought by him from the property of the Chapter of Westminster. His house was burnt in the great fire. Wlien he died he only left ;£'i500, including the produce of his library. MILTON. 207 by them after his death ; and amidst so many private and public miseries, he continued calm. Instead of repudiating what he had done, he gloried in it j instead of being cast down, he increased in firmness. Milton lived in a small house in London, or in the country, in Buckinghamshire, where he wrote his History of Britain, his Logic, a Treatise on True Religion and Heresy, and meditated his great Treatise on Christian Doctrine. Of all consolations, work is the most fortifying and the most healthy, because it solaces a man not by bringing him ease, but by requiring efforts. Every morning he had a chapter of the Bible read to him in Hebrew, and remained for some time in silence, grave, in order to medi- tate on what he had heard. He never went to a place of wor- ship. Independent in religion as in all else, he was sufficient to himself; finding in no sect the marks of the true church, he prayed to God alone, without needing others' help. He studied till mid-day ; then, after an hour's exercise, he played the organ or the bass-viol. Then he resumed his studies till six, and in the evening enjoyed the society of his friends. When any one came to visit him, he was usually found in a room hung with old green hangings, seated in an arm-chair, and dressed quietly in black ; his complexion was pale, says one of his visitors, but not sallow ; his hands and feet were gouty ; his hair, of a light brown, was parted in the midst, and fell in long curls ; his eyes, grey and clear, showed no sign of blindness. He had been very beautiful in his youth, and his English cheeks, once deli- cate as a young girl's, retained their color almost to the end. His face, we are told, was pleasing ; his straight and manly gait bore witness to intrepidity and courage. Something great and proud breathes out yet from all his portraits ; and certainly few men have done such honor to their kind. Thus expired this noble life, like a setting sun, bright and calm. Amid so many trials, a pure and lofty joy, altogether worthy of him, had been granted to him : the poet, buried under the Puritan, had reap- peared, more sublime than ever, to give to Christianity its second Homer. The dazzling dreams of his youth and the reminis- cences of his ripe age were found in him, side by side with Cal- vinistic dogmas and the visions of John, to create the Protestant epic of damnation and grace ; and the vastness of primitive horizons, the flames of the infernal dungeon, the splendors of 2o8 MILTON. the celestial court, opened to the inner eye of the soul unknown regions beyond the sights which the eyes of flesh had lost. § 3 1. — I have before me the formidable volume in which, some time after Milton's death, his prose works were collected* What a book ! The chairs creak when you place it upon them, and a man who had turned its leaves over for an hour, would have less pain in his head than in his arm. As the book, so were the men : from the mere outsides we might gather some notion of the controversialists and theologians whose doctrines they contain. We think involuntarily of the portraits of the theologians of the age, severe faces engraved on steel by the hard tool of masters, whose square brows and steady eyes stand out in startling prominence against the black oak panel. We compare them to modern countenances, in which the delicate and complex features seem to shudder at the alternate contact of hardly begun sensations and innumerable ideas. We try to imagine the heavy Latin education, the physical exercises, the rude treatment, the rare ideas, the imposed dogmas, which once occupied, oppressed, fortified, and hardened the young ; and we might fancy ourselves looking at a museum of megatheria and mastodons, reconstructed by Cuvier. The race of living men is changed. Our mind fails us now- adays at the idea of this greatness and this barbarism ; but we discover that barbarism was then the cause of greatness. Mil- ton fought in the front rank, pre-ordained to barbarism and greatness by his individual nature and surrounding manners, capable of displaying in high prominence the logic, style, and spirit of his age. It is drawing-room life which trims men into shape : the society of ladies, the lack of serious interests, idle- ness, vanity, security, are needed to bring men to elegance, urbanity, fine and light humor, to teach the desire to please, the fear of becoming wearisome, a perfect clearness, a finished "pre- cision, the art of insensible transitions and delicate tact, the taste for suitable images, continual ease, and choice diversity. Seek nothing like this in Milton. The old scholastic system * The titles of Milton's chief writings in prose are these : — History of Reformation ; The Reason of Church Government urged against Prelacy ; Animadversions upon the Remonstrants' Defence; Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce ; Tetrachordon ; Tractate on Education ; Areopagitica ; Tenure of Kings and Magistrates ; Eikonoklastes ; History of Britain ; Thesaurus Lingua Latino: ; History of Moscovia ; De Logicce Arte. MIL TON'. 209 was not far off; it still weighed on those who were destroying it. Under this secular armor discussion proceeded pedantically, with measured steps. The first thing was to propound a thesis ; and then follow, legion after legion, the disciplined army of the arguments. Battalion after battalion they pass by, numbered very distinctly. There is a dozen of them together, each with its title in clear characters, and the little brigade of sub-divisions which it commands. And yet there is a lack of order, the ques- tion is not reduced to a single idea; we cannot see our way; proofs succeed proofs without logical sequence ; we are rather tired out than convinced. We remember that the author speaks to Oxford men, lay or cleric, trained in pretended discussions, capable of obstinate attention, accustomed to digest indigestible books. They are at home in this thorny thicket of scholastic brambles ; they beat a path through, somewhat at hazard, hard- ened against the hurts which repulse us, and not giving a thought to the daylight which we require. With such ponderojis reasoners, you must not look for wit. Wit is the nimbleaeaS-QC-^victQriousJ'eason : here, because all is powerful, all is heavy. When Milton wishes to joke. He looks like ^lie~"of'Cfomweirs pikeraen, who, entering a room to dance, should fall upon the floor, and that with the extra momentum of his armor. At the end of an argument his adversary concludes with this specimen of theological wit : " In the meanwhile see, brethren, how you have with Simon fished all night, and caught nothing." And Milton boastfully replies : " If we, fishing with Simon the apostle, can catch nothing, see what you can catch with Simon Magus ; for all his hooks and fishing implements he bequeathed among you." Here a great savage laugh would break out. The spectators saw a charm in this way of insinu- ating that his adversary was simoniacal. Neither can we expect urbanity, here ? Urbanity is the ele- gaiTtUigmty which answers insult by calm irony, and respects man while piercing a dogma. Milton coarsely knocks his ad- versary down. A bristling pedant, born from a Greek lexicon and a Syriac grammar, Salmasius had disgorged upon the Eng- lish people a vocabulary of insults and a folio of quotations. Milton replies to him in the same style ; calling him a buffoon, a mountebank, '■'■professor triobolaris" a hired pedant, a nobody, a rogue, a heartless being, a wretch, an idiot, sacrilegious, a 14 2IO MILTON. slave worthy of rods and a pitchfork. A dictionary of big Latin words passed between them. He ends by calling him savage beast, apostate, and devil. " Doubt not that you are reserved for the same end as Judas, and that, driven by despair rather than repentance, self-disgusted, you must one day hang yourself, and like your rival, burst asunder in your belly." We fancy we are listening to the bellowing of two bulls. So much coarseness and dulness was as an outer breastplate, the mark and the protection of the superabundant force and life which coursed in those athletic limbs and chests. Nowadays, the mind being more refined, has become feebler ; convictions, being less stern, have become less strong. The attention, de- livered from the heavy scholastic logic and scriptural tyranny, is softer. The faith and the will, dissolved by universal toler- ance and by the thousand opposing shocks of multiplied ideas, have engendered an exact and refined style, the instrument of conversation and pleasure, and have expelled the poetic and rude style, the weapon of war and enthusiasm. Force and great- ness are manifested in Milton, displayed in his opinions and his style, the sources of his belief and his talent. This superb rea- son aspired^ to unfold itself without„shaid^l£5gJtl^3emandeg~tli at reason might unfold itself without shackles. It claimed for hu-- manity what it coveted for itself, and cTiampibned every liberty in his every work. From the first he attacked the;;corpulent ~ bishops,* scholastic upstarts, persecutors of free discussion, pen- sioned tyrants of Christian conscience. Above the clamor of the Protestant Revolution, his voice was heard thundering ' against tradition and obedience. He sourly railed at the pedan- tic theologians, devoted worshippers of old texts, who took a mouldy martyrology for a solid argument, and answered a dem- onstration v.ith a quotation. He declared that most of the Fathers were turbulent and babbling intriguers, that they were not worth more collectively than individually, that their councils were but a pack of underhand intrigues and vain disputes ; he rejected their authority! and their example, and set up logic as the only interpreter of Scripture. Throw open, then, all the doors ; let there be light ; let every * Of Reformation in Euglaml, ii. f " The loss of Cicero's works alone, or those of Livy, could not be re- paired by all the Fathers of the church." — .ircopagitica. ....„.„.., 211 man think, and bring his thoughts to the light. Dread not any divergence, rejoice in this great work ; why insult the laborers by the name of schismatics and sectarians ? "Yet these are the men cried out against for schismatics and sectaries, as if, while the temple of the Lord was building, some cutting, some squaring the marble, others hewing the cedars, there should be a sort of irrational men, who could not consider there must be many schisms and many dissec- tions made in the quarry and in the timber ere the house of God can be built. And when every stone is laid artfully together, it cannot be united into a continuity, it can but be contiguous in this world : neither can every piece of the building be of one form ; nay, rather the perfection consists in this, that out of many moderate varieties and brotherly dissimilitudes that are not vastly disproportional, arises the goodly and the graceful symmetry that commends the whole pile and structure."* Milton triumphs here through sympathy; he breaks forth into magriiiicent images, he displays in his style the force which he perceives around him and in himself. He lauds the Revolu- tion, and his praises seem like the blast of a trumpet, to come from a brazen throat: — " Behold now this vast city, a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with his protection ; the shop of war has not there more anvils and hammers working, to fashion out the plates and in- struments of armed justice in defence of beleaguered truth, than there be pens and heads there, sitting by their studious lamps, musing, searching, revolv- ing new notions and ideas wherewith to present, as with their homage and their fealty, the approaching reformation. . . . What could a man require more from a nation so pliant, and so prone to seek after knowledge ? What wants there to such a towardly and pregnant soil, but wise and faithful labor- ers, to make a knowing people, a nation of prophets, of sages, and of wor- thies ?■]■... Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks : methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam ; purging and unsealing her long- abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance ; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that love the twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she means, and in their envious gabble would prognosticate a year of sects and schisms. ":j: Do not take these metaphors for an accident. Milton lav- ishes them, like a priest who in his worship exhibits splendors aiid wins the eye, to gain the heart. He has been nourished by the reading of Spenser, Drayton, Shakspeare, Beaumont, all * Areopagitica, ii. 92. \ Ibid. ii. 91. | Ibid. ii. 94. the most sparkling poets; and the golden flow of the preceding age, though impoverished all around him and slackened in him- self, has become enlarged like a lake through being dammed up in his heart. Like Shakspeare, he imagines at every turn, and even out of turn, and scandalises the classical and French taste. "... As if they could make God earthly and fleshly, because they could not make themselves heavenly and spiritual ; they began to draw down all the divine intercourse betwixt God and the soul, yea, the very shape Oi God himself, into an exterior and bodily form ; . . . they hallowed it, they fumed up, they sprinkled it, they bedecked it, not in robes of pure inno- cency, but of pure linen, with other deformed and fantastic dresses, in palls and mitres, and gewgaws fetched from Aaron's old wardrobe, or the flamins vestry : then was the priest set to con his motions and his postures, his lit- urgies and his lurries, till the soul by this means of overbodying herself, given up justly to fleshly delights, bated her wing apace downward : and finding the ease she had from her visible and sensuous colleague, the body, in performance of religious duties, her pinions now broken, and flagging, shifted off from herself the labor of high soaring any more, forgot her heav- enly flight, and left the dull and droiling carcase to plod on in the old road, and drudging trade of outward conformity."* If we did not discern here the traces of theological coarseness, we might fancy we were reading an imitator of the Phcedo, and under the fanatical anger recognize the images of Plato. There is one phrase which for manly beauty and enthusiasm recalls the tone of the Republic : — " I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered, unexercised and unbreathed virtue, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat." But Milton is only Platonic by his richness and exaltation. For the rest, he is a man of the Renaissance, pedantic and harsh; he insults the Pope, who, after the gift of Pepin le Bref, " never ceased baiting and goring the successors of his best lord Con- stantine, what by his barking curses and excommunications ; "f he is mythological in his defence of the press, showing that formerly " no envious Juno sat cross-legged over the nativity of any man's intellectual offspring." It matters little : these learned, familiar, grand images, whatever they be, are powerful and nat- ■«• Of Reformation in England, ii. book first, p. 365. \ Ibid., second book, 395. MILTON. 213 ural.* Superabundance, like crudity, here only manifests the vigor and lyric dash which Milton's character had predicted. Is Milton truly a prose-writer? Entangled dialectics, a heavy and awkward mind, fanatical and ferocious provincialism, an epic grandeur of sustained and superabundant images, the blast and the temerities of implacable and all-powerful passion, the sublimity of religious and lyric exaltation : we do not recog- nize in these features a man born to explain, persuade, and prove. The scholasticism and grossness of the time have blunted or rusted his logic. Imagination and enthusiasm carried him away and enchained him in metaphor. Thus dazzled or marred, he couldno^^roduce a j)erfect work ; he did but write useful tracts, called forth by practical interest and actual hate, and fine isolated morsels, inspired by collision with a grand idea, and by the momentary flight of genius. Yet, in all these aban- doned fragments, the man shows in his entirety. The systematic and lyric spirit is manifested in the pamphlet as well as in the poem ; the faculty of embracing general effects, and of being shaken by them, remains on an equality in Milton's two careers, and you will see in the Paradise and Cotnus what you have met with in the Treatise on the Reformation, and in the Animadver- sions on the Remonstrant. §32. — "Milton has acknowledged to me," writes Dryden, " that Spenser was his original." In fact, by the purity and elevation of their morals, by the fulness and connection of their style, by the noble chivalric sentiments, and their fine classical arrangement, they are brothers. But he had yet other masters — Beaumont, Fletcher, Burton, Drummond, Ben Jonson, Shaks- peare, the whole splendid English Renaissance, and behind it the Italian poesy, Latin antiquity, the fine Greek literature, and all the sources whence the English Renaissance sprang. He continued the great current, but in a manner of his own. He took their mythology, their allegories, sometimes their conceits,t and found the trick of their rich coloring, their magnificent serii- * " Whatsoever time, or the heedless hand of blind chance, hath drawn down from of old to this present, in her huge drag-net, whether fish or sea- weed, shells or shrubs, unpicked, unchosen, those are the fathers." {Of Pre. latical Episcopacy, ii. 422.) f See the Hymn on the Nativity ; among others, the first few strophes. See also Lycidas. 214 Jaji^iui^. ment of living nature, their inexhaustible admiration of forms and colors. But, at the same time, he transformed their diction, and employed poetry in a new service. He wrote, not by impulse, and at the mere contact with things, but like a man of letters, a classic, in a scholarlike manner, with the assistance of books, seeing objects as much through previous writings as in themselves, adding to his images the images of others, borrow- ing and re-casting their inventions, as an artist who unites and multiplies the bosses and driven gold, already entwined on a diadem by twenty workmen. He made thus for himself a com- posite and brilliant style, less natural than that of his precur- sors, less fit for effusions, less akin to the lively first glow of sen- sation, but more solid, more regular, more capable of concen- trating in one large patch of light all their sparklings and splendors. He brings together, like ^schylus, words of " six cubits," plumed and decked in purple, and made them flow like a royal train before his idea, to exalt and announce it. He introduces to us " The breathing roses of the wood. Fair silver-buskin'd nymphs ; "* and tells how " The gray-hooded Even, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed. Rose from the hindmost wlieels of Phoebus' wain ; "f and speaks of " All the sea-girt isles. That, like to rich and various gems, inlay The unadorned bosom of the deep ; "% and — " That undisturbed song of pure concent. Aye sung before the sapphire-color'd throne. To Him that sits thereon. With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee ; Where the bright Seraphim, in burning row. Their loud-uplifted angel-trumpets blow."§ He gathered into full nosegays the flowers scattered through the other poets : " Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks. On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks ; * Arcades, v. 32. f Coinvs, v. 188-igo. % Ibid. v. 21-23. § Ode at a Solemn M/usic, v. 6-11. MILTON. 21 S Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes, That on tlie green turf suck the honied showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, The glowing violet. The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears : Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed. And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies."* When still quite young, on his quitting Cambridge, he inclined to the magnificent and grand ; he wanted a great rolling verse, an ample and sounding strophe, vast periods of fourteen and four- and-twenty lines. He did not face objects on a level, as a mor- tal, but from on high, like those archangels of Goethe,f who embrace at a glance the whole ocean lashing its coasts, and the earth rolUng on, wrapt in the harmony of the fraternal stars. It was not life that he felt, like 'the masters of the Renaissance, but greatness, like ^schylus, and the Hebrew seers, J manly and lyric spirits like his own, who, nourished like him in relig- ious emotions and continuous enthusiasm, like him displayed sacerdotal pomp and majesty. To express such a sentiment, images, and poetry addressed only to the eyes, were not enough ; sounds also were requisite, and that more introspective poetry which, purged from corporeal shows, could reach the soul : Mil- ton was a musician ; his hymns rolled with the slowness of a measured song and the gravity of a declamation ; and he seems himself to be describing his art in these incomparable verses, which are evolved like the solemn harmony of a motett : " But else, in deep of night, when drowsiness Hath lock'd up mortal sense, then listen I To the celestial sirens' harmony. That sit upon the nine infolded spheres. And sing to those that hold the vital shears. And turn the adamantine spindle round, ^ Lyci as, v. 136— 151, f Faust, Prolog im Himmel. % See the prophecy against Archbishop Laud in Lycidas, v. 130 : " But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." 2l6 MILTON. Oil which the fate of gods and men is wound. Such sweet compulsion doth in musick lie. To lull the daughters of Necessity, And keep unsteady Nature to her law, And the low world in measured motion draw After the heavenly tune, which none can hear Of human mould, with gross unpurged ear."* From the first, at St. Paul's School and at Cambridge, he had written Paraphrases of the Psalms, then composed odes on the Nativity, Circumcision, and Passion. Presently appeared sad poems on the Death of a Fair Infant, An Epitaph on the Mar- chioness of Winchester ; then grave and noble verses On Time, at a Solemn Musick, a sonnet On his being arrived to the Age of Twenty-three, " a late spring which shew'th no bud or blossom." At last we have him in the country with his father, and the hopes, dreams, first enchantments of youth, rise from his heart like the morning breath of a summer's day. But what a dis- tance between thesp calm and bright contemplations and the warm youth, the voluptuous Adonis of Shakspeare ! He walked, used his eyes, listened ; there his joys ended ; they are but the poetic joys of the soul : " To hear the lark begin his flight. And singing, startle the dull night. From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; . . . While the plowman, near at hand. Whistles o'er the furrowed land. And the milk-maid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his sithe, And evei-y shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale."f To see the village dances and gayety ; to look upon the " high triumphs " and the " busy hum of men " in the " tower'd cities ; " above all, to abandon himself to melody, to the divine roll of sweet verse, and the charming dreams which they spread before us in a golden light ; — this is all j and presently, as if he had gone too far, to counterbalance this eulogy of sensuous joys, he summons Melancholy : " Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, * Arcades, v. 61-73. t L' Allegro, v. 41-68. MILTON. 21/ All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestick train. And sable stole of Cyprus lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait ; And looks commercing with the skies. Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes."* With her he wanders amidst grave thoughts and grave sights, which recall a man to his condition, and prepare him for his duties, now among the high colonnades of primeval trees, whose " high-embowed roof" retains the silence and the twilight under their shade ; now in " The studious cloysters pale, . . . With antick pillars massy proof. And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light ; "f now again in the retirement of the study, where the cricket chirps, where the lamp of labor shines, where the mind, alone with the noble minds of the past, may " Unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold The immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook.":j: He was filled with this lofty philosophy. Whatever the language he used, English, Italian, or Latin, whatever the kind of verse, sonnets, hymns, stanzas, tragedy or epic, he always returned to it. Hejraised above all chaste love, piety, genergsjty, heroic force. It was not from scruple, but it was ijiijLateJji-him ; his.. "chiefTieear^nd faculty led him to noble conceptions. -.-He took a delight in a:diiiiring,"^as Shakspeare in creating, as Swift in de- stroying, as Byron in combating, as Spenser in dreaming. Even on ornamental poems, which were only employed to exhibit cos- tumes and introduce fairy-tales, in Masques, like those of Ben Jonson, he impressed his own, character. They were amuse- ments for the castle ; he made out of them lectures on magnan- imity and constancy : one of them, Comus, well worked out, with a complete originality and extraordinary elevation of style, is perhaps his masterpiece, and is simply the eulogy of virtue. * II Penseroso, v. 31-40. f Ibid. v. 156-160. % Ibid. -j. 88-02. 21.8 MILTON. Here we are in the heavens at the first dash. A spirit, descended in the midst of wild woods, repeats this ode : " Before the starry threshold of Jove's court My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air. Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, Which men call earth ; and with low-thoughted care Confined, and pester'd in this pinfold here. Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being. Unmindful of the crown that Virtue gives, After this mortal change, to her true servants, Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats."* Such characters cannot speak ; they sing. The drama is an antique opera, composed like the Prometheus of solemn hymns. The spectator is transported beyond the real world. He does not listen to men, but to sentiments. He assists at a concert, as in Shakspeare ; the Comus continues the Midsummer Night's Dream, as a choir of deep men's voices continues the glowing and sad symphony of the instruments : " Through the perplex'd paths of this drear wood. The nodding horrour of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger, "•!■ Strays a noble lady, separated from her two brothers, troubled by the savage cries and turbulent joy which she hears from afar. There the son of Circe the enchantress, sensual Comus, dances and shakes his torches amid the clamor of men transformed into brutes ; it is the hour when " The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove, Now to the moon in wavering morrice move ; And, on the tawny sands and shelves Trip the pert faeries, and the dapper elves."J The lady is terrified, and sinks on her knees ; and in the misty forms which float above in the pale light, perceives the mysteri- ous and heavenly guardians who watch over her life and honor : " O, welcome, pure-eyed Faith ; white-handed Hope, Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings ; And thou, unblemish'd form of Chastity ! I see ye visibly, and now believe That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, * Connis, V. I-II. \ Ibid, z: 37-39. % Ibid v. 115-118. MILTON. 2i9 Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, To keep my life and honour unassail'd. Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night ? I did not err ; there does a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night. And casts a gleam over this tufted grove."* She calls her brothers : " At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound Rose like a steam of rich distiU'd perfumes. And stole upon the air,f across the " violet-embroider'd vale," to the dissolute god whom she enchants. He comes disguised as a " gentle shepherd," and says : " Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment ? Sure something holy lodges in that breast. And Vfith these raptures moves the vocal air To testify his hidden residence. How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night. At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness, till it smiled ! I have oft heard My mother Circe with the syrens three, Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs ; Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul. And lap it in Elysium : Scylla wept, And chid her barking waves into attention. . . . But such a sacred and home-felt delight. Such sober certainty of waking bliss, I never heard till now.":]: They were heavenly songs which Comus heard ; Milton de- scribes, and at the same time imitates them ; he makes us under- stand the saying of his master Plato, that virtuous melodies teach virtue. Circe's son has by deceit carried off the noble lady, and seats her, with " nerves all chained up," in a sumptuous palace before a table spread with all dainties. She accuses him, resists, in- sults him, and the style assumes an air of heroical indignation, to scorn the offer of the tempter. * Coirnis, V. 213-225. \ Ibid. v. 555-557. % Ibid. v. 244-264. 220 MILTON. " When lust, By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk. But most by lewd and lavish act of sin. Lets in defilement to the inward parts ; The soul grows clotted by contagion, Imbodies and imbmtes, till she quite lose The divine property of her first being. Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp. Oft seen in charnel vaults and sepulchres Lingering, and sitting by a new-made grave, As loth to leave the body that it loved."* Confounded, Comus pauses ; and at the same instant the broth- ers, led by the attendant Spirit, cast themselves upon him with drawn swords. He flees, carrying off his magic wand. To deliver the enchanted lady, they summon Sabrina, the benevo- lent naiad, who sits " Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of thy (her) amber-dropping hair." f The " goddess of the silver lake " rises lightly from her " coral- paven bed," and her chariot " of turkis blue and emerald-green," sets her down " By the rushy-fringed bank. Where grows the willow, and the osier dank." | Sprinkled by this chaste and cool hand, the lady leaves the " venom'd seat " which held her spell-bound ; the brothers, with their sister, reign peacefully in their father's palace ; and the Spirit, who has conducted all, pronounces this ode, in which the poetry leads up to philosophy : the voluptuous light of an Ori- ental legend bathes the Elysium of the good, and all the splen- dors of nature assemble to add a seductiveness to virtue. " To the ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Wliere day never shuts his eye Up in the broad fields of the sky : There I suck the liquid air All amidst the gardens fair Of Hesperus, and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree : Along the crisped shades and bowers * Comus, v. 463-473. It is the elder brother who utters these lines when speaking of his sister, — Tr. \ Ibid. V. 861-863. ;]: Ibid. V. 890. MILTON. 221 Revels the spruce and jocund Sjaring ; The Graces, and the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Thither all their bounties bring ; There eternal Summer dwells, And west winds, with musky wing. About the cedar'n alleys fling Nard and cassia's balrny smells. Iris there with humid bow Waters the odorous banks, that blow Flowers of more mingled hew Than her purpled scarf can shew ; And drenches with Elysian dew (List, mortals, if your ears be true) Beds of hyacinth and roses, Where young Adonis oft reposes. Waxing well of his deep wound In slumber soft, and on the ground Sadly sits the Assyrian queen : But far above in spangled sheen Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced,. Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced. After her wandering labors long. Till free consent the gods among Make her his eternal bride. And from her fair unspotted side Two blissful twins are to be bom. Youth and Joy ; so Jove hath sworn. But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run, Quickly to the green earth's end. Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend ; And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the moon. Mortals, that would follow me. Love Virtue ; she alone is free : She can teach ye how tp climb Higher than the sphery chime ; Or, if Virtue feeble were. Heaven itself would stoop to her."* That, I think, was his last secular poem. Already, in the one which followed, Lycidas, celebrating in the style of Virgil the death of a beloved friend,f he suffers the Puritan wrath and prejudices to shine through, inveighs against the bad teaching and tyranny of the bishops, and speaks of " that two-handed * Comas, V. 976-1023. f Edward King, 1637. 222 MILTON. engine at the door, ready to smite once, and smite no more." On his return from Italy, controversy and action carried him away ; prose begins, poetry is arrested. From time to time a patriotic or religious sonnet comes to break the long silence ; now to praise the chief Puritans, Cromwell, Vane, Fairfax ; now to celebrate the death of a pious lady, or the life of " a virtuous young lady ; " once to pray God " to avenge his slaughter'd saints," the unhappy Protestants of Piedmont, " whose bones lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ; " again, on his second wife, dead a year after their marriage, his well-beloved "saint" —"brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave, . . . came, vested ?.ll in v/hite, pure as her mind ; " loyal friendships, sor- rows bowed to or subdued, aspirations generous or stoical, which reverses did but purify. Old age came ; cut off from power, action, even hope, he returned to the great dreams of his youth. As of old, he went out of this low world in search of the sub- lime ; for the actual is petty, and the familiar seems dull. He selects his new characters on the verge of sacred antiquity, as he selected his old ones on the verge of fabulous antiquity, because distance adds to their stature ; and habit, ceasing to measure, ceases also to depreciate them. Just now we had creatures of fancy: Joy, daughter of Zephyr and Aurora; Mel- ancholy, daughter of Vesta and Saturn ; Comus, son of Circe, ivy-crowned, god of echoing woods and turbulent excess. Now, Samson, despiser of giants, elect of the strong god, extermina- tor of idolaters, Satan and his peers, Christ and his angels, come and rise before our eyes like superhuman statues ; and their far removal, rendering vain our curious hands, will pre- serve our admiration and their majesty. Let us rise further and higher, to the origin of things, among eternal beings, to the commencement of thought and life, to the battles of God, in this unknown world where sentiments and existences, raised above the ken of man, elude his judgment and criticism to command his veneration and awe; let the sustained song of sol- emn verse unfold the actions of these shadowy figures : we shall experience the same emotion as in a cathedral, while the organ prolongs its reverberations among the arches, and through the dim light of the tapers the incense clouds envelope the colossal bulk of the columns. But if the heart remains unchanged, the genius is trans- MILTON. 223 formed. Manliness has supplanted youth. The richness has decreased, the severity has increased. Seventeen years of fight- ing and misfortune have steeped his soul in religious ideas. Mythology has yielded to theology j the habit of discussion has ended by subduing the lyric flight ; accumulated learning by choking the original genius. The poet no more sings sublime verse, he relates or harangues in grave verse. He no longer invents a personal style ; lie imitates antique tragedy or epic. In Samson he finds a cold and lofty tragedy, in Paradise Regained a cold and noble epic ; he composes an imperfect and sublime poem in Paradise Lost. Learning and reflection led Milton to a metaphysical poem which was not the natural offspring of the age, while inspiration and ignorance revealed to Bunyan the psychological narrative which suited the age, and the great man's genius was feebler than the tinker's simplicity. And why ? Milton's poem, suppressing lyrical illusion, admit- ted critical inquiry. Free from enthusiasm, we judge his char- acters ; we demand that they shall be living, real, complete, harmonious, like those of a novel or a drama. No longer hear- ing odes, we would see objects and souls r we ask that Adam and Eve should act in conformity with their primitive nature ; that God, Satan, and Mes.siah should act and feel in conformity with their superhuman nature. Shakspeare would barely have dis- charged the task ; Milton, the logician and reasoner, failed in it. He gives us correct solemn discourse, and gives us notliing more ; his characters are speeches, and in their sentiments we find only heaps of puerilities and contradictions. Adam and Eve, the first pair ! I approach, and it seems as though I discovered the Adam and Eve of Raphael Sanzio, imi- tated by Milton, so his biographers tell us, glorious, strong, voluptuous children, naked in the light of heaven, motionless and absorbed before grand landscapes, with bright vacant eyes, with no more thought than the bull or the horse on the grass beside them. I listen, and I hear an English household, two reasoners of the period— Colonel Hutchinson and his wife. What dialogues ! Dissertations capped by politeness, mutual sermons concluded by bows. What bows ! Philosophical com- pliments and moral smiles. This Adam entered Paradise via England. There he learned respectability, and there he studied moral speechifying. Adam is your true paterfamilias, with a 224 MILTON. vote, an M. P., an old Oxford man, consulted at need by his wife, dealing out to her with prudent measure the scientific explanations which she requires. This night, for instance, the poor lady had a bad dream, and Adam, in his trencher-cap, administers this learned psychological draught : " Know, that in the soul Are many lesser faculties that serve Reason as chief ; among these Fancy next Her office holds ; of all external things, Which the five watchful senses represent. She forms imaginations, aery shapes Which Reason, joining or disjoining, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion. . . . Oft in her absence mimic fancy wakes To imitate her ; but, raisjoining shapes. Wild work produces oft, and most in dreams ; 111 matching words and deeds long past or late."* Here was something to send Eve oflf to sleep again. Here, after the apple was eaten, interminable speeches come down on the reader, as numerous and cold as winter showers. The speeches of Parliament after Pride's Purge were hardly heavier. The serpent seduces Eve by a collection of arguments worthy of the punctilious Chillingworth, and then the syllogistic mist enters her poor brain : " His forbidding Commends thee more, while it infers the good By thee communicated, and our want : For good unknown sure is not had ; or, had And yet unknown, is as not had at all. . . . Such prohibitions bind not."f Eve is from Oxford too, has also learned law in the inns about the Temple, and wears, like her husband, the doctor's trencher- cap. The flow of dissertations never pauses ; from Paradise it gets into heaven. Milton's Jehovah is a grave king, who maintains a suitable state, something like Charles i. When we meet him for the first time, in Book m., he is holding council, and set- ting forth a matter of business. From the style we see his grand furred cloak, his pointed Vandyke beard, his velvet-cov- ered throne and golden dais. * Fdradise Lost, book v. v. 100-113. f IMi/., book viii. v. 753-760. MIL ton: 225, What a heaven ! It is enough to disgust one with Paradise ; one would rather enter Charles i.'s troop of lackeys, or Crom- well's Ironsides. We have orders of the day, a hierarchy, exact submission, extra duties, disputes, regulated ceremonials, pros- trations, etiquette, furbished arms, arsenals, depots of chari- ots, and ammunition. Was it worth while leaving earth to find in heaven carriage-works, buildings, artillery, a manual of tactics, the art of salutations, and the Almanac de Gotha ? Are these the things which " eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath entered into the heart to conceive ? " What a gap between this monarchical frippery and the visions of Dante, the souls floating like stars amid the harmonies, the mingled splendors, the mystic roses radiating and vanishing in the azure, the impalpable world in which all the laws of earthly life are dissolved, the unfathom- able abyss traversed by fleeting visions, like golden bees gliding in the rays of the deep central sun ! Is it not a sign of extin- guished imagination,, of the inroad of prose, of the birth of the practical genius, replacing metaphysics by morality ? But if the innate and inveterate habits of logical argument, joined with the literal theology of the time, prevented him from attaining to lyrical allusion or creating living souls, the splendor of his grand imagination, joined with the Puritan passions, fur- nished him with an heroic character, several sublime hymns, and scenery which no one has surpassed. The finest thing in connection vath this Paradise is hell ; and in this history of God, the chief part is taken by the devil. The ridiculous devil of the middle-age, a horned enchanter, a dirty jester, a petty and mischievous ape, band-leader to a rabble of old women, has become a giant and a hero. Like a conquered and vanished Cromwell, he remains admired and obeyed by those whom he has drawn into the abyss. If he continues master, it is be- cause he deserves it ; firmer, more enterprising, more scheming than the rest, it is always from him that deep counsels, unlooked- for resources, courageous deeds, proceed. Though defeated, he prevails, since he has won from the Monarch on high the third part of his angels, and almost all the sons of his Adam. Though wounded, he triuipphs, for the thunder which smote his bead, left his heart invincible. Though feebler in force, he re- mains superior in nobility, since he prefers suffering indepen- dence to happy servility, and welcomes his defeat and his tor- 15 r 226 MILTON. ments as a glory, a liberty, and a joy. These are the proud and sombre political passions of the constant though oppressed Puri- tans ; Milton had felt them in the vicissitudes of war, and the emigrants who had taken refuge among the panthers and sav- ages of America, found them strong and energetic in the depths of their heart. " Is this the region, this the soil, the clime. Said then the lost Archangel, this the seat That we must change for heaven ? this mournful gloom For that celestial light? Be it so, since he, Who now is Sovran, can dispose and bid What shall be right : fartliest from him is best. Whom reason has equal'd, force hath made supreme Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields. Where joy for ever dwells ! Hail, horrours ! hail, Infernal world ! and thou, profoundest hell. Receive thy new possessour ; one who brings A mind not to be changed by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. What matter where, if I be still the same, And what I should be : all but less than he Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free ; the Almighty hath not built Here for his envy ; will not drive us hence : Here we may reign secure ; and in my choice To reign is worth ambition, though in hell : Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven."* This sombre heroism, this harsh obstinacy, this biting irony, these proud stitf arms which clasp grief as a mistress, this con- centration of invincible courage which, cast on its own resources, finds everything in itself, this power of passion and sway over passion, — " The unconquerable will. And study of revenge, immortal hate. And courage never to submit or yield. And what is else not to be overcome,"f are features proper to the English character and to English litera- ture, and you will find them later on in Byron's Lara and Con- rad.- Around the fallen angel, as within him, all is great. Dante's * Paradise Lost, book i. v. 242-263. f Ibid. V. 106-iog. MILTON. 227 hell is but a hall of tortures, whose cells, one below another, descend to the deepest wells. Milton's hell is vast and vague : " A dungeon horrible on all sides round, As one great furnace, flamed ; yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Served only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades.* . . . Beyond this flood a frozen continent Lies, dark and wild, beat with perpetual storms Of whirlwind, and dire hail which on firm land Thaws not ; but gathers heap, and ruiu seems Of ancient pile."f The angels gather, innumerable legions : " As when heaven's fire Hath scathed the forest oaks or mountain pines, "With singed top their stately growth, though bare. Stands on the blasted heath." J Milton needs the grand and infinite ; he lavishes them. His eyes are only content in limitless space, and he produces colos- suses to fill it. Such is Satan wallowing on the surges of the livid sea : " In bulk as huge . . . as . . . that sea-beast Leviathan, which God of all his works Created hugest that swim the ocean stream : Him, haply slumbering on the Norway foam, The pilot of some small night-founder'd skiff. Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell. With fixed anchor in his scaly rind Moors by his side, under the lee, v,'liile night Invests the sea, and wished morn delays. "§ Spenser has discovered images just as fine, but he has not the tragic gravity which the idea of hell impresses on a Protes- tant. No poetic creation equals in horror and grandeur the spectacle that greeted Satan on leaving his dungeon : " At last appear Hell bounds, high reaching to the horrid roof. And thrice threefold the gates ; threefolds were brass. Three iron, three of adamantine rock, Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire, Yet unconsumed. Before the gates there sat * Paradise Lost, book i. v. 61-65. t Ibid, book ii. v. 587-591. \ Ibid, book i. v. 612-615. § Ibid. V. 196-208. 228 MILTON. On either side a formidable shape ; The one seem'd woman to the waist, and fair. But ended foul in many a scaly fold Voluminous and vast, a serpent arm'd With mortal sting : about her middle round A cry of hell hounds never ceasing bark'd With wide Cerberean mouths full loud, and rung A hideous peal : yet, when they list, would creep. If aught disturb'd their noise, into her womb, And kennel there ; yet there still bark'd and howl'd Within unseen. . . . The other shape. If shape it might be call'd, that shape had none Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb. Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd, For each seem'd either : black it stood as night. Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell. And shook a dreadful dart ; what seem'd his head The likeness of a kingly crown had on. Satan was now at hand, and from his seat The monster moving onward came as fast, With horrid strides ; hell trembled as he strode. T the fury of the passions which he depicts. She paints her friends as does Celimfene, but with what insults ! Novel, a cox- comb, says: "But, as I was saying, madam, I have been treated to-day with all the ceremony and kindness imaginable at my lady Autumn's. But the nauseous old woman at the up- per hand of her table " . . . Olivia: " Revives the old Grecian custom, of serving in a death's head with their banquets. . . . I detest her hollow cherry cheeks : she looks like an old coach new painted. . . . She is still most splendidly, gallantly ugly, and looks like an ill piece of daubing in a rich frame."* The scene is borrowed from Moli&re's Misanthrope and the Critique de VEcole des Femmes ; but how transformed ! Our modern nerves would not endure the portrait Olivia draws of Manly, her lover j he hears her unawares ; she forthwith stands before him, laughs at him to his face, declares herself to be married ; tells him she means to keep the diamonds which he has given her, and defies him. Fidelia says to her : * The Plain Dealer, ii. i. 242 THE RESTORA TION. " But, madam, what could make you dissemble love to him, when 'twas so hard a thing for you; and flatter his love to you?" Olivia. "That which makes all the world flatter and dissemble, 'twas his money : I had a real passion for that. ... As soon as I had his money, I hastened his de- parture like a wife, who when she has made the most of a dying husband's breath, pulls away his pillow."* This character, Manly, the " plain dealer," is so manifestly the author's favorite, that his contemporaries gave him the name of his hero for a surname. Manly is copied after Alceste, and the great difference between the two heroes shows the difference between the two societies and the two countries. Manly is not a courtier, but a ship-captain, with the bearing of a sailor of the time, his cloak stained with tar, and smelling of brandy,f ready with blows or foul oaths, calling those he came across dogs and slaves, and when they displeased him kicking them down stairs. And he speaks in this fashion to a lord with a voice like a mas- tiff. Then, when the poor nobleman tries to whisper something in his ear— " My lord, all that you have made me know by your whispering which I knew not before, is that you have a stinking breath ; there's a secret for your secret." When he is in Olivia's drawing-room, with " these fluttering par- rots of the town, these apes, these echoes of men," he bawls out as if he were on his quarter-deck, " Peace, you Bartholemew, fair buffoons ! " He seizes them by the collar, and says : " Why, you impudent, pitiful wretches, . . . you are in all things so like women, that you may think it in me a kind of cowardice to beat you. Be- gone, I say. . . . No chattering, baboons ; instantly begone, or " . . . Then he turns them out of the room. These are the manners of a plain-dealing man. All these actions then appeared natural. Wycherley took to himself in his dedication the title of his hero, Flain Dealer; he fancied he had drawn the portrait of a frank, honest man, and praised himself for having set the public a fine example ; he had only given them the model of an avowed and energetic brute. That was all that v/as left of manliness in this pitiable world. Wycherley deprived man of his ill-fitting * The Plain Dealer, iv. 2. \ Olivia says : " I shall not have again my alcove smell like a. cabin, my chamber perfumed with his tarpaulin Brandenburgh ; and hear voUies of brandy-sighs, enough to make a fog in one's room." — The Plain Dealer, ii. I. THE RESTORA TION. 243 French cloak, and displayed him with his framework of muscles, and in his naked shamelessness. And in their midst, a great poet, blind, and fallen, his soul saddened by the misery of the times, thus depicted the madness of the infernal rout : " Belial came last, than whom a spirit more lewd Fell not from heaven, or more gross to love Vice for itself . . . who more oft than he In temples and at altars, when the priest Turns atheist, as did Eli's sons, who fiU'd With lust and violence the house of God ? In courts and palaces he also reigns. And in luxurious cities where the noise Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers, An injury and outrage : and when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine."* I 24. — In the seventeenth century a new mode of life was in- augurated in Europe, the worldly, which soon took the lead of and shaped every other. In France especially, and in England, it appeared and gained ground, from the same causes and at the same time. In order to people the drawing-rooms, a certain political condition is necessary ; and this condition, which is the suprem- acy of the king in combination with a regular system of police, was established at the same period on both sides of the Chan- nel. A regular police brings about peace among men, draws them out of their feudal independence and provincial isolation, increases and facilitates intercommunication, confidence, union, conveniences, and pleasures. The kingly supremacy calls into existence a court, the centre of intercourse, from which all favors flow, and which calls for a display of pleasure and splen- dor. The aristocracy thus attracted to one another, and at- tracted to the throne by security, curiosity, amusement, and interest, meet together, and become at once men of the world and men of the court. They are no longer, like the barons of a preceding age, standing in their lofty halls, armed and stern, possessed by the idea that they might perhaps, when they quit their palace, cut each other to pieces, and that if they fall to blows in the precincts of the court, the executioner is ready to * Paradise Lost, book i. v. 490-502. 244 ^■^■^' R^^T'^^^ TION. cut off their hand and stop the bleeding with a red-hot iron ; knowing, moreover, that the king may probably have them be- headed to-morrow, and ready accordingly to cast themselves on their knees and break out into protestations of faithful submis- siveness, but counting under their breath the number of swords that will be mustered on their side, and the trusty men who keep sentinel behind the drawbridge of their castles. The rights, privileges, constraints, and attractions of feudal life have disappeared. There is no more need that the manor should be a fortress. These men can no longer experience the joy of reigning there as in a petty state. It has palled on them, and they quit it. Having no further cause for quarrelling with the king, they go to him. His court is a drawing-room, most agreeable to the sight, and most serviceable to those who fre- quent it. Here are festivities, splendid furniture, a decked and chosen company, news and tittle-tattle ; here they find pensions, titles, places for them and theirs; they receive both amusement and profit. It is all gain and all pleasure. The great object here is selfish amusement, and to put on appearances ; people strive to be men of fashion ; a coat gives glory. " A gentie- man," said Etheredge, " ought to dress well, dance well, fence well, have a talent for love-letters, a pleasant voice in a room, to be always very amorous, sufficiently discreet, but not too constant." These are already the court manners as they con- tinued in France up to the time of Louis xvi. With such man- ners, words take the place of deeds. Life is passed in visits and" conversations. The art of conversing became the chie_f ~ef all; of course, to converse agreeably, to employ an hour, twenty subjects in an hour," hinting always, without going deepi-rn--^ -sueh a fashion that conversation should not be a labor, but a promenade. It was followed up by letters written in the even- ing, by madrigals or epigrams to be read in the morning, by drawing-room tragedies, or caricatures of society. In this man- ner a new literature was produced, the work and the portrait of the world, which was at once its audience and its model, which sprung from it, and ended in it. The art of conversation being then a necessity, people set themselves to acquire it. A revolution was effected in mind as well as in manners. As soon as circumstances assume new aspects, thought assumes a new form. The Renaissance is ended, the Classic Age begins, and THE RESTORA TION. 245 the artist makes room for the author. When conversation be- comes the chief business of life, it modifies style after its own image, and according to its peculiar needs. It repudiates digres- sion, exgessive metaphor, impassioned exclamations, all loose and overstrained ways. We cannot bawl, gesticulate, dream aloud in a drawing-room ; we restrain ourselves ; we criticise and keep watch over ourselves ; we stand in need of concise expression, exact language, clear and connected reasoning ; otherwise we cannot fence or comprehend each other. Correct style, good language, conversation, are solfgenerated, and very quickly perfected ; for refinement is the aim of the man of the world : he studies to render everything more becoming and more serviceable, his chattels and his speech, his periods and his dress. Art and artifice are there the distinguishing mark. People pride themselves on being perfect in their mother tongue, never to miss the correct sense of any word, to avoid vulgar ex- pressions, to string together their antitheses, to develop their thoughts, to employ rhetoric. Nothing is more marked than the contrast of the conversations of Shakspeare and Fletcher with those of Wycherly and Congreve. In Shakspeare the dialogue resembles an assault of arms ; we could imagine men of skill fencing with words as it were in a fencing-school. They play the buffoon, sing, think aloud, burst out into a laugh, into puns, into fishwomen's talk and into poets' talk, into quaint whimsi- calities ; they have a taste for the ridiculous, the sparkling. Here, on the other hand, the characters are steady ; ratiocination is the basis of their style ; they are so perfect that the" thing is overdone, and we see through it all the author stringing his phrases. They arrange a tableau, multiply ingenious compar- isons, balance well-ordered periods. One character delivers a satire, another serves up a little essay on morality. We might draw from the comedies of the time a volume of sentences ; they are charged with literary morsels which foreshadow the Spectator.'' They hunt for clever and humorous expressions, they clothe indecent circumstances with decent words ; they skip nimbly over the fragile ice of decorum, and leave their mark without breaking it. I see gentlemen, seated in gilt arm- chairs, of quiet wit and studied speech, cool in observation, * Take, for example, Farquhar's Beaux Stratagem, ii. i. 246 THE RESTORA TION. eloquent skeptics, expert in the- fashions, lovers of elegance, dainty of fine talk as much from vanity as from taste, who, while conversing between a compliment and a reverence, will no more neglect their good style than their neat gloves or their hat. Among the best and most agreeable specimens of this new refinement, appears Sir William Temple, a diplomatist and man of the world, prudent, wise, and polite, gifted with tact in con- versation and in business, expert in the knowledge of the times, and in not compromising himself, who knew how to obtain the eulogies of man of letters, of savants, of politicians, of the people, to gain a European reputation, to win all the crowns appropria- ted to science, patriotism, virtue, genius, without having too much of science, patriotism, genius, or virtue. Such a life is the masterpiece of that age : fine externals on a foundation not so fine ; this is its abstract. His mode as an author agrees with his maxims as a politician. His principles and style are homo- geneous ; a genuine diplomatist, such as one meets in the draw- ing-rooms, having probed Europe and touched everywhere the bottom of things ; tired of everything, especially of enthusiasm, admirable in an arm-chair or at a levee, a good story-teller, wag- gish if need were, but in moderation, accomplished in the art of maintaining the dignity of his station and of enjoying himself. In his retreat at Sheen, afterwards at Moor Parii, he employs his leisure in writing ; and he writes as a man of his rank would speak, very well, that is to say, with dignity and facility, partic- ularly when he writes of the countries he has visited, of the inci- dents he has seen, the noble amusements which serve to pass his time.* He has an income of fifteen hundred a year, and a nice sinecure in Ireland. He retired from public life during momentous struggles, siding neither with the king nor against him, resolved, as he tells us himself, not to set himself against the current when the current is irresistible. He lives peacefully in the country with his wife, his sister, his secretary, his.depend- ants, receiving the visits of strangers, who are anxious to see the negotiator of the Triple Alliance, and sometimes of the new King William, who, unable to obtain his services, comes occasionally * Consult especially, Ohsei-vations upon the United Provinces of t!ij Net/ierkntis; Of Ganli^ning. THE RESTORA TION. 247 to seek his counsel. He plants and gardens, in a fertile soil, in a country the climate of which agrees with him, among regular flower-beds, by the side of a very straight canal, bordered by a straight terrace; and he lauds himself in set terms, and with suitable discreetness, for the character he possesses and the part he has chosen : — " I have often wondered how such sharp and violent invectives come to be made so generally against Epicurus, by the ages that followed him, whose admirable wit, felicity of expression, excellence of nature, sweetness of con- versation, temperance of life and constancy of death, made him so beloved by his friends, admired bv his scholars, and honored by the Athenians."* He does well to defend Epicurus, because he has followed his precepts, avoiding every great disorder of the intelligence, and installing himself, like one of Lucretius' gods, in the interspace of worlds ; as he says : " Where factions were once entered and rooted in a state, they thought it madness for good men to meddle with public aifairs." And again : " The true service of the public is a business of so much labour and so much care, that though a good and wise man may not refuse it, if he be called to it by his Prince or his country, and thinks he may be of more than vulgar use, yet he will seldom or never seek it ; but leaves it commonly to men who under the disguise of public good, pursue their own designs of wealth, power and such bastard honors as usually attend them, not that which is the true, and only true, reward of virtue." This is how he reveals himself. Thus presented to us, he goes on to talk of the gardening which he practises, and first of the six grand Epicureans who have illustrated the doctrine of their master — Caesar, Atticus, Lucretius, Horace, Maecenas, Virgil; then of the various sorts of gardens which have a ^riame in the world, from the garden of Eden, and the garden of Alcinous, lo those of Holland and Italy ; and all this at some length, like a man who listens to himself and is listened to by others, who does rather profusely the honors of his house and of his wit to his guests, but does them with grace and dignity, not dogmatically nor haughtily, but in varied tones, aptly modulating his voice and gestures. -The ear, the mind even is charmed, captivated by the appropriateness of his diction, by the abundance of his ornate periods, by the dignity and fulness of a style which is * Temple's Works : Of Gardening, ii. 190. 248 THE RESTORATION. involuntarily regular, which, at first artificial, like good breed- ing, ends, like true good breeding, by being changed into a real necessity and a natural' talent. Unfortunately, this talent occasionally leads to blunders; when a man speaks well about everything, he thinks he has a right to speak of everything. He plays philosopher, critic, even man of learning ; and indeed becomes so actually, at least with the ladies. Such a man writes, like Temple, Essays on the Na- ture of Government, on Heroic Virtue^ on poetry ; that is, little treatises on society, on the beautiful, on the philosophy of history. He is the T^ocke, the Herder, the Bentley of the drawing-room, and nothing else. Now and then, doubtless, his mother wit leads him to fair original judgments. Temple was the first to discover a Pindaric glow in the old chant of Ragnar Lodbrog, and to place Don Quixote in the first rank of modern fictions , and moreover, when he handles a subject within his range, like the causes of the power and decline of the Turks, his reasonin'j is admirable. But otherwise, he is simply the scholar ; nay, in him the pedant crops out, and the worst of pedants, who, being ignorant, wishes to seem wise, who quotes the history of every land, hauling in Jupiter, Saturn, Osiris, Fo-hi, Confucius, Manco- Capac, Mahomet, and discourses on all these obscure and un- known civilizations, as if he had laboriously studied them, on his own behalf, at their source, and not at second hand, through the extracts of his secretary, or the books of others. One day he came to grief; having plunged into a hterary dispute, and claimed superiority for the ancients over the moderns, he imag- ined himself a Hellenist, an antiquarian, related the voyages of Pythagoras, the education of Orpheus, and remarked that the Greek sages " were commonly excellent poets, and great physicians : they were so learnei in natural philosophy, that they foretold not only eclipses in the heavens but earthquakes at land and storms at sea, great drought and great plagues, much plenty or much scarcity of certain sorts of fruits or grain ; not to men- tion the magical powers attributed to several of them, to allay storms, to raise gales, to appease commotions of people, to make plagues cease."f * Compare this essay with that of Carlyle, on Heroes and Hero-Worship, the title and subject are similar ; it is curious to note the difference of the two centuries. \ Temple's Works, ii. . An Essay upon the Ancient and Modem Learn- ing, 155. THE RESTORA TION. 249 Admirable faculties, which we no longer possess. He wished to enumerate the greatest modern writers, and forgot to men- tion in his catalogue, "among the Italians,* Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso ; in his list of French, Pascal, Bossuet, Mo- li6re, Corneille, Racine, and Boileau ; in his list of Spaniards, Lope and Calderon ; and in his list of English, Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton ; " though, by way of compensation, he inserted the names of Paolo Sarpi, Guevara, Sir Philip Sidney, Selden, Voiture, and Bussy-Rabutin, " author of the Amours de Gaul" To cap all, he declared the fables of ^sop,a dull Byz- antine compilation, and the letters of Phalaris— a wretched sophistical forgery — admirable and authentic : " It may perhaps be further affirmed, in favor of the ancients, that the oldest boolcs we have are still in their kind the best. The two most ancient that I know of in prose, among those we call profane authors, are jEsop's Fables and Phalaris' Epistles, both living near the same time, which was that of Cyrus and Pythagoras. As the first has been agreed by all ages since for the greatest master in his kind, and all others of that sort have been but imitations of his original; so I think the Epistles of Phalaris to have more grace, more spirit, more force of wit and genius, than any others I have ever seen, either ancient or modern." And then, in order to commit himself beyond remedy, he gravely remarked : " I know several learned men (or that usually pass for such, under the name of critics) have not esteemed them genuine, and Politian with some others have attributed them to Lucian ; but I think he must have little skill in painting that cannot find out this to be an original : such diversity of passions, upon such variety of actions and passages of life and government, such freedom of thought, such boldness of expression, such bounty to his friends, such scorn of his enemies, such honour of learned men, such esteem of good, such knowledge of life, such contempt of death, with such fierce- ness of nature and cruelty of revenge, could never be represented but by him that possessed them ; and I esteem Lucian to have been no more capable of writing than of acting what Phalaris did. In all one writ, you find the scholar or the sophist ; and in all the other, the tyrant and the comman- der."-!- Fine rhetoric truly ; it is sad that a passage so aptly turned should cover so many stupidities. All this appeared very tri- umphant ; and the universal applause with which this fine ora- * Macaulay's Works, vi. 319 : Essay on Sir William Temple. ■)■ An Essay upon- the Ancient and Modern Learning, 173. 250 THE RESTORA TION. torical bombast was greeted . demonstrates the taste and the culture, the hollowness and the politeness, of the elegant world of which Temple was the marvel, and which, like Temple, loved only the varnish of truth. In the front rank of the poets of this time is Edmund Wal- ler, who lived and wrote in this manner to his eighty-second year : a man of wit and fashion, well-bred, familiar from his youth with great people, endued with tact and foresight, quick at repartee, not easy to put out of countenance, but selfish, of indifferent feelings, having changed sides more than once, and bearing very well the memory of his tergiversations ; in short, a good model of the worlding and the courtier. It was he who, having once praised Cromwell, and afterward Charles ii., but the latter more feebly than the former, said by way of excuse: " Poets, your Majesty, succeed better in fiction than in truth.'' In this kind of existence, three-quarters of the poetry is written for the occasion ; it is the small change of conversation or flat- tery ; it resembles the little events or the little sentiments from which it sprang. One piece is written on tea, another on the queen's portrait; it is necessary to pay one's court ; moreover, " His Majesty has requested some verses." One lady makes him a present of a silver pen, straight he throws his gratitude into rhyme ; another has the power of sleeping at will, straight a sportive stanza ; a false report is spread that she has just had her portrait painted, straight a copy of verses on this grave affair. A little further on there are verses to the Countess of Carlisle on her chamber, condolences to my Lord of Northum- berland on the death of his wife, a pretty thing on a lady " pass- ing through a crowd of people," an answer, verse for verse, to some rhymes of Sir John Suckling. He seizes anything frivo- lous, new, or convenient, on the wing ; and his poetry is only a written conversation, — I mean the conversation which goes on at a ball, when people speak for the sake of speaking, lifting a lock of one's wig, or twisting about a glove. Gallantry, as he confesses, holds the chief place here, and one may be pretty certain that the love is not over-sincere. In fact. Waller sighs on purpose (Sacharissa had a fine dowry), or at least for the sake of good manners. His despairs bear the same flavor ; he pierces the groves of Penshurst with his cries, " reports his flame to the beeches," and the well-bved beeches " bow their THE RESTORA TION. 2 5 I heads, as if they felt the same."* It is probable that, in these mournful walks, his greatest care was lest he should wet the soles of his high-heeled shoes. It is not that these men cannot handle grave subjects ; but they handle them in their own fashion, without gravity or depth. What the courtier most lacks is the genuine sentiment of a dis- covered and personal idea. That which interests him most is the correctness of the adornment, and the perfection of external form. They care little for the foundation, much for the outer shape. One of them only (Dryden always excepted) rose to talent. Sir John Denham, Charles the First's secretary. He was employed in public affairs, and after a dissolute youth, turned to serious habits ; and leaving behind him satiric verse and party tricks, attained in riper years a lofty oratorical style. His best poem. Cooper's Hill, is the description of a hill and its surround- ings, blended with the historical ideas which the sight recalls, and the moral reflections which its appearance naturally sug- gests. All these subjects are in accordance with the nobility and the limitation of the classical spirit, and display his vigor ■without betraying his weaknesses ; the poet could show off his whole talent without forcing it. His fine language exhibits all its beauty, because it is sincere. Denham is not a mere court- ier, he is an Englishman ; that is, preoccup ied^by^moBdhemo::. lionsTj -e otten qiSitsTiir landscape to enter into some grave reflection ; pohtics, religion, come to disturb the enjoyment of * The Poets of Great Britain, ed. R. Anderson, 14 vols,, 1792, v.; Wal- ler, Epistle X., p. 452. " While in this park I sing, the list'ning deer Attend my passion, and forget to fear ; When to the beeches I report my flame. They bow their heads, as if they felt the same. To gods appealing, when I reach their bow'rs With loud complaints, they answer me in show'rs. To thee a wild and cruSl soul is giv'n. More deaf than trees and prouder than the heaVn. . . . The rock, That cloven rock, produc'd thee. . . . This last complaint th' indulgent ears did pierce Of just Apollo, president of verse ; Highly concerned that the Muse should bring Damage to one whom he had taught to sing." 2 5 2 THE RES TOR A TION. his eyes ; in reference to a hill or a forest, he meditates upon man ; externals lead him inward ; impressions of the senses to contemplations of the soul. When he sees the Thames throw itself into the sea, he compares it with " mortal life hasting to meet eternity." The face of a mountain, beaten- by storms, reminds him of "the common fate of all that's high or great." The course of the river suggests to him ideas of inner reforma- tion: " O could I flow like thee ! and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme ! Though deep, yet clear, though gentle yet not dull ; Strong without rage, without o'erflowing, full. But his proud head the airy mountain hides Among the clouds ; his shoulders and his sides A shady mantle clothes ; his curled brows Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows ; While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat, The common fate of all that's high or great."* There is in the English mind an indestructible stock of moral instincts, and grand melancholy; and it is the greatest confir- mation of this, that we can discover such a stock at the court of Charles ii. These are, however, but rare openings, and as it were level- lings of the original rock. The habits of the worldling are as a thick layer which cover it throughout. Manners, conversation, style, the stage, tas^e, all is French, or tries to be ; they imitate "Prance as they are able, and go there to77fnould~ themselves. Many cavaliers went, there, driven away by Cromwell. Denham, Waller, Roscommon, and Rochester resided there ; the Duch- ess of Newcastle, a poetess of the time, was married at Paris ; the Duke of Buckingham served a campaign under Turenne : Wycherley was sent to France by his father, who wished to res- cue him from the contagion of Puritan opinions ; Vanbrugh, one of the best comic playwrights, went thither to contract a polish. The two courts were allied almost always in fact, and always in heart, by a community of interests, and of religious and mon- archical ideas. Charles ii. accepted from Louis xiv. a pension, a mistress, counsels, and examples ; the nobility followed their * The Poets of Great Britain, v., Denham, 674. THE RESTORA TION. 253 prince, and France was the model of the English court. Her literature and manners, the finest of the classic age, led the fashion. We perceive in English writings that French authors are their masters, and that they were in the hands of all well- educated people. They consulted Bossuet, translated Corneille, imitated Moliere, respected Boileau. It went so far, that the greatest gallants of them tried to be altogether French, to mix some scraps of French in every phrase. " It is as ill-breeding now to speak good English," says Wycherley, " as to write good English, good sense, or a good hand." These Frenchified cox- combs* affect delicacy, they are fastidious; they find the Eng- lish coarse, gloomy, stiff; they try to be giddy and thoughtless, placing the glory of man in the perfection of his wig and his bows. The theatre, which ridicules these imitators, is an imita- tor after their fashion. French comedy, like French politeness, becomes their model. They copy both,, altering without equal- ling them ; for monarchical and classic France is, among all nations, the best fitted from its instincts and institutions for the modes of worldly life, and the works of an oratorical mind. England follows it in this course, being carried away by the universal current of the age, but at a distance, and drawn aside by its national peculiarities. It is this common direction and this particular deviation which the society and its poetry have proclaimed, and which the stage and its characters will display. Four principal writers established this comedy — Wycher- ley, Congi-eve, Vanbrugh, Farquhar : f the first gross, and in the first irruption of vice; the others more sedate, possessing more a taste for urbanity than debauchery ; yet all men of the world, and priding themselves on their good breeding, on pass- ing their days at court or in fine company, on having the tastes and bearing of gentlemen. " I am not a literary man," said Congreve to Voltaire, " I am a gentleman." I have said that Wycherley, under Charles ii., was one of the most fashionable courtiers. He served in the army for some time, as did also Vanbrugh and Farquhar. They all wrote comedies on the same worldly and classical model, made up of probable incidents such as we observe around us every day, of well-bred characters such * Etherege's Sir Fopling Flutter ; Wycherley's The Gentleman Dan- cing-master, 1. 2. f From 1672 to 1726. 254 l^IIE RESTORA TION. as we commonly meet in a drawing-room, correct and elegant conversations such as well-bred men can carry on. Congreve, Farquhar, Varjbrugh, are only men of wit, not thinkers. They slip over the surface of things, but do not penetrate. They play with their characters. They aim at success, at amusement. They sketch caricatures, they spin out in lively fashion a vain and railing conversation ; they make answers clash with one another, fling forth paradoxes ; their nimble fingers manipulate and juggle with the incidents in a hundred ingenious and unlooked-for ways. They have animation, they abound in ges- ture and repartee; the constant bustle of the stage and its lively spirit surround them with continual excitement. But the pleasure is only skin-deep ; you have seen nothing of the eter- nal foundation and the real nature of mankind ; you carry no thought away ; you have passed an hour, and that is all ; the amusement leaves you vacant, and serves only to fill up the evenings of coquettes and coxcombs. The English Restoration altogether was one of those great crises which, while warping the development of a society and a literature, show the inward spirit which they modify, but which contradicts them. Society did not lack vigor, nor literature tal- ent ; men of the world were polished, writers inventive. There was a court, drawing-rooms, conversation, worldly life, a taste for letters, the example of France, peace, leisure, the influence of the sciences, politics, theology, — in short, all the happy cir- cumstances which can elevate the intellect and civilize manners. There was the vigorous satire of Wycherley, the sparkling dia- logue and fine raillery of Congreve, the frank nature and anima- tion of Vanbrugh, the manifold inventions of Farquhar, in brief, all the resources which might nourish the comic element, and add a genuine theatre to the best constructions of human intel- ligence. Nothing came to a head ; all was abortive. The age has left nothing but the memory of corruption ; their comedy remains a repertory of viciousness ; society had only a soiled elegance, literature a frigid wit. Through disgust and reaction, a revolution was at hand in literary feeling and moral habits, as well as in general beliefs and political institutions. The same repugnance and the same experience was to detach him from every aspect of his old condition. The Englishman discovered that he was not monarchical. Papistical, nor skeptical, but lib- THE RESTORA TION. 255 eral, Protestant, and devout. He came to understand that he was not a roisterer nor a worldling, but reflective and intro- spective. He is content only in a serious and orderly life ; there he finds the natural groove and the necessary outlet of his pas- sions and his faculties. From this time he enters upon it, and this theatre itself exhibits the token. It remakes and trans- forms itself. Collier threw discredit upon it; Addison con- demned it. National sentiment awoke from the dream ; French manners are jeered at ; the prologues celebrate the defeats of Louis XIV.; the licence, elegance, religion of his court, are pre- sented under a ridiculous or odious light. Immorality gradually diminishes; we shall soon see Steele writing a moral treatise called The Christian Hero. Henceforth comedy declines, and literary talent flows into another channel. Essay, romance, pamphlet, dissertation, displace the drama; and the English classical spirit, abandoning the kinds of writing which are for- eign to its nature, enters upon the great works which are des- tined to immortalize it and give it expression. § 35. — Nevertheless, in this continuous decline of dramatic invention, and in the great change of literary vitality, some shoots strike out at distant intervals towards comedy ; for man- kind always seeks for entertainment, and the theatre is always a place of entertainment. Even when the great subjects are worn out, there is still room here and there for a happy idea. Let a wit, clever and experienced, take it in hand, he will catch up a few oddities on his way, he will introduce on the scene some vice or fault of his time ; the public will come in crowds, and ask no better than to recognize itself and laugh. There was one of these successes when Gay, in the Beggars' Opera, brought out the rascaldom of the great world, and avenged the public on Walpole and the court ; another, when Goldsmith, inventing a series of mistakes, led his hero and his audience through five acts of blunders.* The art of constructing plays is as capable of development as the art of clockmaking. The farce-writer of to-day sees that the catastrophe of half of Moli^re's plays is ridiculous ; nay, many of them can produce effects better than Molifere ; in the long run, they succeed in stripping the theatre of all awkwardness and circumlocution. * She Stoops to Conquer. 256 THE RESTORATION. A piquant style, and perfect machinery ; pungency in all the words, and animation in all the scenes ; a superabundance of wit, and marvels of ingenuity ; over all this, a true physical activity, and the secret pleasure of depicting and justifying one- self, of public self-glorification : here is the foundation of the School for Scandal, here the source of the talent and the success of Sheridan. He was the contemporary of Beaumarchais, and resembled him in his talent and in his life. The two epochs, the two schools of drama, the two characters, correspond. Like Beau- marchais, he was a lucky adventurer, clever, amiable, and gen- erous, reaching success through scandal. Nothing failed him ; he attained all at the first leap, without apparent effort, like a prince who need only show himself to win his place. All the most surpassing happiness, the most brilliant in art, the most exalted in worldly position, he took as his birthright. The poor unknown youth, wretched translator of an unreadable Greek sophist, who at twenty walked about Bath in a red waistcoat and a cocked hat, destitute of hope, and ever conscious of the emp- tiness of his pockets, had gained the heart of the most admired beauty and musician of her time, had carried her off from ten rich, elegant, titled adorers, had fought with the best-hoaxed of the ten, beaten him, had carried by storm the curiosity and attention of the public. Then, challenging glory and wealth, he placed successively on the stage the most diverse and the most applauded dramas, comedies, farce, opera, serious verse ; he bought and worked a large theatre without a farthing, inau- gurated a reign of successes and pecuniary advantages, and led a life of elegance amid the enjoyments of social and domestic joys, surrounded by universal admiration and wonder. Thence, aspiring yet higher, he conquered power, entered the House of Commons, showed himself a match for the first orators, opposed Pitt, accused Warren Hastings, supported Fox, jeered at Burke; sustained with hclat, disinterestedness, and constancy, a most difficult and generous part ; became one of the three or four most noted men in England, an equal of the greatest lords, the friend of a royal prince, in the end even Receiver-General of the Duchy of Cornwall, treasurer to the fleet. In every career he took the lead. As Byron said of him : " Whatsoever Sheridan has done or chosen to do has heen, par excellence THE SESTORA TION. 257 always the best of its kind. He has written the best comedy ( The School for Scandal), the best drama (in my mind far before that St. Giles lampoon The Beggars' Opera), the best farce ( The Critic — it is only too good for a farce), and the best Address {Monologue on Garrick), and, to crown all, de- livered the very best oration (the famous Begum Speech) ever conceived or heard in this country."* All ordinary rules were reversed in his favor. He was forty-four years old, debts began to shower down on him ; he had supped and drunk to excess ; his cheeks were purple, his nose red. In this state he met at the Duke of Devonshire's a charming young lady with whom he fell in love. At the first sight she exclaimed, " What an ugly man, a regular monster ! " He spoke to her ; she confessed that he was very ugly, but that he had a good deal of wit. He spoke again, and again, and she found him very amiable. He spoke yet again, and she loved him, and resolved at all hazard to marry him. The father, a prudent man, wishing to end the affair, gave out that his future son-in-law must provide a dowry of fifteen thousand pounds; the fifteen thousand pounds were deposited as by magic in the hands of a banker; the young couple set off into the country; and Sheridan, meeting his son, a fine strapping son, ill-disposed to the marriage, persuaded him that it was the most reasonable thing a father could do, and the most fortunate event that a son could rejoice over. Whatever the business, whoever the man, he persuaded ; none withstood him, every one fell under his charm. What is more difficult than for an ugly man to make a young girl forget his ugliness .' There is one thing more difficult, and that is to make a creditor forget you owe him money. There is something more difficult still, and that is, to borrow money of* a creditor who has come to demand it. One day one of his friends was arrested for debt; Sheridan sends for Mr. Henderson, the crabbed tradesman, coaxes him, interests him, moves him to tears, lifts him out of himself, hedges him in with general con- siderations and lofty eloquence, so that Mr. Henderson offers his purse, actually wants to lend two hundred pounds, insists, and finally, to his great joy, obtains permission to lend it. No one was ever more amiable, quicker to win confidence than Sheridan j rarely has the sympathetic, affectionate, and fascina- * The Works of Lord Byron, l8 vols., ed. Moore, 1832, ii. p. 303. I? 258 THE RESTORATION. ting character been more fully displayed j he was literally seduc- tive. In the morning, creditors and visitors filled the rooms in which he lived ; he came in smiling, with an easy manner, with so much loftiness and grace, that the people forgot their wants and their claims, and looked as if they had only come to see him. His animation was irresistible ; no one had a more daz- zling wit ; he had an inexhaustible fund of puns, contrivances, sallies, novel ideas. Lord Byron, who was a good judge, said that he had never heard nor conceived of a more extraordinary conversation. Men spent nights in listening to him ; no one equalled him during a supper ; even when drunk he retained his wit. One day he was picked up by the watch, and they asked him his name ; he gravely answered, " Wilberforce.'' Against such a necessity for launching out in unconsidered speech, of indulgence, of self-outpouring, a man had need be well on his guard ; life cannot be passed like a holiday. If you sup too often, you will end by not having wherewithal to dine upon ; when your pockets have holes in them, the shillings will fall out; nothing is more of a truism, but it is true. Sheridan's debts accumulated, his digestion failed. He lost his seat in Parliament, his theatre was burned ; sheriffs officer succeeded sheriffs officer, and they had long been in possession of his house. At last, a bailiff arrested the dying man in his bed, and was for taking him off in his blankets ; nor would he let him go until threatened with a lawsuit, the doctor having declared that the sick man would die on the road. A certain newspaper cried shame on the great lords who suffered such a man to end so miserably; they hastened to leave their cards at his door. In the funeral prodession two brothers of the king, dukes, earls, bishops, the first men in England, carried or followed the body. A singular contrast, picturing in abstract all his talent, and all his life : lords at his funeral, and bailiffs at his death-bed. His theatre was in accordance ; all was brilliant, but the metal was not all his own, nor was it of the best quality. His comedies were comedies of society, the most amusing ever writ- ten, but merely comedies of society. Imagine the exaggerated caricatures artists are wont to improvise, in a drawing-room where they are intimate, about eleven o'clock in the evening. His first play, The Rivals, and afterwards his Duenna, and The Critic, are loaded with these, and scarce anything else. There THE RESTORATION. 259 is Mrs. Malaprop, a silly pretentious woman, who uses grand words higgledy-piggledy, delighted with herself, in " a nice derangement of epitaphs" before her nouns, and declaring that her niece is " as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile." There is Mr. Acres, who suddenly becomes a hero, gets engaged in a duel, and being led on the ground, calculates the effect of the balls, thinks of his will, burial, embalmment, and wishes he were at home. There is another in the person of a clumsy and cowardly servant, of an irascible and brawling father, of a sentimental and romantic young lady, of a touchy Irish duellist. All this jogs and jostles on, without much order, amid the surprises of a twofold plot, by aid of expedients and rencontres, without the full and regular government of a domi- nating idea. But in vain one perceives it is a patchwork ; the high spirit carries off everything : we laugh heartily; every single scene has its facetious and rapid movement ; we forget that the clumsy valet makes remarks as witty as Sheridan himself,* and that the irascible gentleman speaks as well as the most elegant of writers-! The playwright is also a man of letters ; if, through mere animal and social spirit, he wished to amuse others and to amuse himself, he does not forget the interests of his talent and the care for his reputation. He has taste, he appreciates the refinements of style, the worth of a new image, of a striking contrast, of a witty and well-considered insinuation. He has, above all, wit, a wonderful conversational wit, the art of rousing and sustaining the attention, of being sharp, varied, of taking his hearers unawares, of throwing in a repartee, of setting folly in relief, of accumulating one after another witticisms and happy phrases. He brought himself to perfection subsequently to his first play, having acquired theatrical experience, writing and * Acres. Odds blades ! David, no gentleman will ever risk the loss of his honor ! David. I say, then, it would be but civil in honor never to risk the loss of a gentleman. — Look ye, master, this honor seems to me to be a mar vellous false friend ; ay, truly, a very courtier-like servant. — The Dramatic Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 1828 : The Rivals, iv. i, f Sir Anthony. — Nay, but Jack, such eyes ! so innocently wild ! so bash- fully irresolute ! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought of love ! Then, Jack, her cheeks ! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes ! Then, Jack, her lips ! O Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion ! and if not smiling, more sweetly pouting, more lovely in suUenness ! — The Rivals, iii. i. 26o THE RESTORA TION. erasing ; trying various scenes, recasting, arranging ; his desire was that nothing should arrest the interest, no improbability shock the spectator ; that his comedy might ghde on with the precision, certainty, uniformity of a good machine. He invents jests, replaces them by better ones ; he whets his jokes, binds them up like a sheaf of arrows, and writes at the bottom of the last page, " Finished, thank God.- ^Ame n^' He is right, for the work costs him some pains ; he will not write a second. This kind of writing, artificial and condensed as the satires of La Bruyfere, is like a cut phial, into which the author has dis- tilled without reservation all his reflections, his reading, his understanding. What is there in this celebrated School for Scandal? And what is there, that has cast upon English comedy, which day by day was being more and more forgotten, the radiance of a last success? Sheridan took two characters from Fielding — Blifil and Tom Jones ; two plays of Moli^re — Le Misanthrope and Tar- tufe; and from these puissant materials, condensed with ad- mirable cleverness, he has constructed the most brilliant fire- work imaginable. Moli^re represents the malice of the world without exaggeration ; but here they are rather caricatured than depicted. " Ladies, your servant," says Sir Peter ; " mer- cy upon me ! the whole set — a character dead at every sen- tence."* In fact they are ferocious : it is a regular quarry ; they even befoul one another, to deepen the outrage. Their animosity is so bitter that they descend to the part of buffoons. The most elegant person in the room. Lady Teazle, shows her teeth to ape a ridiculous lady, draws her mouth on one side, and makes faces. There is no pause, no softening ; sarcasms fly like pistol-shots. The author had laid in a stock, he had to use them up. It is he speaking through the mouth of each of his characters, he gives them all the same wit, that is his own, his irony, his harshness, his picturesque vigor ; whatever they are, clowns, fops, old women, girls, no matter, the author's main business is to break out into twenty explosions in a minute : " Mrs. Candour. Well, I will never join in the ridicule of a friend ; so I tell my cousin Ogle, and ye all know what pretensions she has to beauty. Crab. She has the oddest countenance — a collection of features from all the corners of the globe. * The School for Scandal, ii, 2. THE RESTORATION. 26 1 Sir Benjamin. She has, indeed, an Irish front. Crab. Caledonian locks. Sir B. Dutch nose. Crab. Austrian lips. Sir B. The complexion of a Spaniard. Crab. And teeth a la Chinoise. Sir B. In short, her face resembles a table d!hSte at Spa, where no two guests are of a nation. Crab. Or a congress at the close of a general war, where every member seems to have a different interest, and the nose and chin are the only parties likely to join issue."* Or again : " Sir B. Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you, but depend on't your brother is utterly undone. Crab. Oh ! undone as ever man was — can't raise a guinea. Sir B. Everything is sold, I am told, that was moveable. Crab. Not a moveable left, except some old bottles and some pictures and they seem to be framed in the wainscot, egad. Sir B. I am sorty to hear also some bad stories of him. Crab, Oh ! he has done many mean things, that's certain. Sir B. But, however, he's your brother. Crab. Ay ! as he is your brother — we'll tell you more another oppor tunity."f In this manner has he pointed, multiplied, thrust to the quiclc, the measured epigrams of Mohbre. And yet is it possible to grow weary of such a well-sustained discharge of malice and witticisms ? Observe also the change which the hypocrite undergoes un- der his treatment. Doubtless all the grandeur disappears from the part. Joseph Surface does not uphold, hke Tartufe, the in- terest of the comedy ; he does not possess, like his ancestor, the nature of a cabman, the boldness of a man of action, the man- ners of a beadle, the neck and shoulders of a monk. He is merely selfish and cautious ; if he is engaged in an intrigue, it is ratheragainst his will ; he is only half-hearted in the matter, like a correct young man, well dressed, with a fair income, tim- orous and fastidious by nature, discreet in manners, and without violent passions. There is nothing on which to construct a drama in this commonplace person ; and the fine situations which Sheridan takes from Molifere lose half their force through * The School for Scandal, ii. 2. -j- Ibid. 262 THE RESTORA TION. depending on such pitiful support. But how this insufficiency is covered by the quickness, abundance, naturalness of the in- cidents ! how skill makes up for everything ! how it seems capable of supplying everything, even genius ! how the specta- tor laughs to see Joseph caught in his sanctuary like a fox in his hole ; obliged to hide the wife, then to conceal the husband ; forced to run from one to the other ; busy in hiding the one be- hind his screen, and the other in his closet ; reduced in casting himself into his own snares, in justifying those whom he wishes to ruin, the husband in the eyes of the wife, the nephew in the eyes of the uncle ; to ruin the only man whom he wished to jus- tify, namely the precious and immaculate Joseph Surface ; to turn out in the end ridiculous, odious, baffled, confounded, in spite of his adroitness, even by reason of his adroitness, step by step, without quarter or remedy ; to sneak off, poor fox, with his tail between his legs, his skin spoiled, amid hootings and laugh- ter ! And how, at the same time, side by side with this, the naggings of Sir Peter and his wife, the suppers, songs, the pic- ture sale at the spendthrift's house, weave a comedy in a com- edy, and renew the interest by renewing the attention ! We cease to think of the meagreness of the characters, as we cease to think of the variation from truth ; we are willingly carried away by the vivacity of the action, dazzled by the brilliancy of the dialogue ; we are charmed, applaud ; admit that, after all, next to great inventive faculty, animation and wit are the most agreeable gifts in the world : we appreciate them in their season, and find that they also have their place in the literary banquet ; and that if they are not worth as much as the substantial joints, the natural and generous wines of the first course, at least they furnish the dessert. The dessert over, we must leave the table. After Sheridan, we leave it forthwith. Henceforth comedy languishes, fails ; there is nothing left but farce, such as Townley's High Life Be- low Stairs, the burlesques of George Colman, a tutor, an old maid, countrymen and their dialect; caricature succeeds paint- ing ; Punch raises a laugh when the days of Reynolds and Gainsborough are over. There is nowhere in Europe, at the present time, a more barren stage ; good company abandons it to the people. The form of society, and the spirit which had called it into being, have disappeared. Vivacity, and the sub- THE RESTORA TION. 263 ject of original conceptions, had peopled the stage of the Ren- aissance in England, — a surfeit which, unable to display itself in systematic argument, or to express itself in philosophical ideas, found its natural outlet only in mimic action and talking characters. The wants of polished society had nourished the English comedy of the seventeenth century, — a society which, accustomed to the representations of the court and the displays of the world, sought on the stage the copy of its intercourse and its drawing-rooms. With the decadence of the court and the check of mimic invention, the genuine drama and the gen- uine comedy disappeared ; they passed from the stage into books. The reason of it is, that people no longer live in pub- lic, like the embroidered dukes of Louis xiv. and Charles 11., but in their family, or at the study table ; the novel replaces the theatre at the same time as citizen life replaces the life of the court. CHAPTER XI. DRYDEN. ^ 36.— Comedy has led us a long way ; we must return and consider other kind of writings. A higher spirit moves amidst the great current. In the history of this talent we shall find the history of the Enghsh classical spirit, its structure, its gaps and its powers, its formation and its development. The subject is a young man. Lord Hastings, who died of smallpox at the age of nineteen : " His body was an orb, his sublime soul Did move on virtue's and on learning's pole ; . . . Come, learned Ptolemy, and trial make If thou this hero's altitude canst take. . . . Blisters with pride swell'd, which through 's flesh did sprout Like rose-buds, stuck i' the lily skin about. Each little pimple had a tear in it, To wail the fault its rising did commit. . . . Or were these gems sent to adorn his skin, The cabinet of a richer soul within ? No comet need foretel his change drew on Whose corpse might seem a constellation." * With such a fine specimen, Dryden, the greatest poet of the classical age, made his appearance. Such enormities indicate the close of a literary age. Excess of folly in poetry, like excess of injustice in political matters, lead up to and foretell revolutions. The Renaissance, un- checked and original, abandoned the minds of men to the fire and caprices of imagination, the oddities, curiosities, out- breaks of an inspiration which cares only to content itself, * Dryden's Works, ed. Sir Walter Scott, 2d ed., 18 vols., 1821, xi. 94. DRYDEN. 205 breaks out into singularities, has need of novelties, and loves audacity and extravagance, as reason loves justice and truth. After the extinction of genius folly remained ; after the re- moval of inspiration nothing was left but absurdity. Formerly the internal disorder and dash produced and excused concetti and wild flights ; thenceforth men threw them out in cold blood, by calculation and without excuse. Formerly they expressed the state of the mind, now they belie it. So are literary revo- lutions accomplished. The form, no longer original or sponta- neous, but imitated and passed from hand to hand, outlives the old spirit which had created it, and is in opposition to the new spirit which destroys it. This preliminary strife and progressive transformation make up the life of Dryden, and account for his impotence and his falls, his talent and his success. Dryden's beginnings are in striking contrast with those of the poets of the Renaissance, actors, vagabonds, soldiers, who were tossed about from the first in all the contrasts and miseries of active life. He was born in 1631, of a good family; his grandfather and uncle were baronets ; Sir Gilbert Pickering, his relative, was a knight, member of Parliament, one of Crom- well's council of twenty-one, one of the great office-holders of the new court. Dryden was brought up in an excellent school, under Dr. Busby, then in high repute ; after which he passed four years at Cambridge. Having inherited by his father's death a small estate, he used his liberty and fortune only to maintain him in his studious life, and continued in seclusion at the University for three years more.^ Here you see the regular habits of an 'honorable and well-to-do family, the discipline of a connected and solid education, the taste for classical and exact studies. Such circumstances announce and prepare, not an artist, but a man of letters. I find the same inclination and the same signs in the re- mainder of his life, private or pubUc. He regularly spends his mornings in writing or reading, then dines with his family. His reading was that of a man of culture and a critical mind, who does not think of amusing or exciting himself, but who learns and judges. Virgil, Ovid, Horace, Juvenal, and Persius were his favorite authors ; he translated several ; their names were always on his pen ; he discusses their opinions and their merits, feeding himself on this reasonmg which oratorical customs had 266 DRYDEiV. imprinted on all the works of the Roman mind. He is fa- miliar with the new French literature, the heir of the Latin, with Corneille and Racine, Boileau, Rapin, and Bossu;* he reasons with them, often in their spirit, writes reflectively, sel- dom fails to arrange some good theory to justify each of his new works. He knew very well the literature of his own coun- try, though sometimes not very accurately, gave to authors their due rank, classified the different kinds of writing, went back as far as old Chaucer, whom he transcribed and put into a modern dress. His mind thus filled, he would go in the after- noon to Will's coffeehouse, the great literary rendezvous ; young poets, students fresh from the University, literary dilet- tanti crowded round his chair, carefully placed in summer near the balcony, in winter by the fireside, thinking themselves for- tunate to get in a word, or a pinch of snuff respectfully ex- tracted from his learned snuff-box. For indeed he was the monarch of taste and the umpire of letters ; he criticised nov- elties — Racine's last tragedy, Blackmore's heavy epic. Swift's first poems ; slightly vain, praising his own writings, to the ex- tent of saying that " no one had ever composed or will ever compose a finer ode " than his on Alexander's Feast ; but gos- sipy, fond of that interchange of ideas which discussion never fails to produce, capable of enduring contradiction, and ad- mitting his adversary to be in the right. These manners show that literature had become a matter of study rather than of in- spiration, an employment for the taste rather than for the en- thusiasm, a source of distraction rather than of emotion. His audience, his friendships, his actions, his strifes, had the same tendency. He lived amongst great men and courti- ers, in a society of artificial manners and measured language. He had married the daughter of Thomas Earl of Berkshire ; he was historiographer, then poet-laureate. He often saw the king and the princes. He dedicated each of his works to some lord, in a laudatory, flunkeyish preface, bearing witness to his intimate acquaintance with the great. He received a purse of gold for each dedication, went to return thanks ; introduces * Rapin (1621-1687), a French Jesuit, a modern Latin poet and literaiy critic. Bossu, or properly Lebossu (1631-1680), wrote a Traite du Poime e'fique, which had a great success in its day. Both critics are now com- pletely forgotten. — Tr. DRYDEN. 267 some of these lords under pseudonyms in his Essay on the Dramatic Art ; wrote introductions for the works of others, called them Maecenas, Tibullus, or Pollio ; discussed with them literary works and opinions. The re-establishment of the court had brought back the art of conversation, vanity, the ne- cessity for appearing to be a man of letters and of possessing good taste, all the company-manners which are the source of classical literature, and which teach men the art of speaking well.* On the other hand, literature, brought under the influ- ence of society, entered into society's interests, and first of all in petty private quarrels. Whilst men of letters learned eti- quette, courtiers learned how to write. They soon became jumbled together, and naturally fell to blows. The Duke of Buckingham wrote a parody on Dryden, The Rehearsal, and took infinite pains to teach the chief actor Dryden's tone and gestures. Later, Rochester took up the cudgels against the poet, supported Settle against him, and hired a band of ruf- fians to beat him. Besides this, Dryden had quarrels with Shadwell and a crowd of others, and finally with Blackmore and Jeremy Collier. To crown all, he entered into the strife of political parties and religious sects, fought for the Tories and Anglicans, then for the Roman Catholics ; wrote I'he Medal, Absalom and Achitophel, against the Whigs ; Religio Laid against Dissenters and Papists ; then The Hind and Pan- ther for James 11., with the logic of controversy and the bitter- ness of party. It is a long way from this combative and argu- mentative existence to the reveries and seclusion of the true poet. Such circumstances teach the art of writing clearly and soundly, methodical and connected discussion, strong and ex- act style, banter and refutation,, eloquence and satire : these gifts are necessary to make a man of letters heard or believed, and the mind enters compulsorily upon a track when it is the only one that can conduct it to its goal. Dryden entered upon it spontaneously. In his second production,! the abundance of well-ordered ideas, the oratorical energy and harmony, the * In- his Defence of the Epilogue of the Second Part of the Conquest of Granada, iv. 226, Dryden says : " Now, if they ask me, whence it is that our conversation is so much refined ? I must freely, and without flattery, ascribe it to the court." f Heroic stanzas to the memory of Oliver Cromwell. 268 DRYDEN. simplicity, the gravity, the heroic and Roman spirit, announce a classic genius, the relative not of Shakspeare, but of Cor- neille, capable not of dramas, but of discussions. And yet, at first, he devoted himself to the drama : he wrote twenty-seven pieces, and signed an agreement with the actors of the King's Theatre to supply them with three every year. The theatre, forbidden under the Commonwealth, had just re- opened with extraordinary magnificence and success. The rich scenes made moveable, the women's parts no longer played by boys, but by women, the novel and splendid wax- lights, the machinery, the recent popularity of actors who had become heroes of fashion, the scandalous importance of the actresses, who were mistresses of the aristocracy and of the king, the example of the court and the imitation of France, drew spectators in crowds. The thirst for pleasure, long re- pressed, knew no bounds. Men indemnified themselves for the long abstinence imposed by fanatical Puritans. They wished to enjoy life, and that in a new fashion; for a new world, that of the courtiers and the idle, had been formed. The abolition of Feudal tenures, the vast increase of com- merce and wealth, the concourse of landed proprietors, who let their lands and came to London to enjoy the pleasures of the town and to court the favors of the king, had installed on the summit of society, in England as in France, rank, authority, the manners and tastes of the world of fashion, of the idle, the drawing-room frequenters, lovers of pleasure, conversation, wit, and "breeding, occupied with the piece in vogue, less to amuse themselves than to criticise it. Thus was Dryden's drama built up ; the poet, greedy of glory and pressed for money, found here both money and glory, and was half an in- novator,with a large reinforcement of theories and prefaces, di- verging from the old English drama, approaching the new French tragedy, attempting a compromise between classical elo- quence and romantic truth, accommodating himself as well as he could to the new public, which paid and applauded him. There is a vigor and art in Dryden's tragedy, All for Love. " He has informed us, that this was the only play written to please himself." * And he has really composed it learnedly, * See the introductory notice, by Sir Walter Scott, of All for Love, v. 290. DRYD£N. 269 according to history and logic. And what is better still, he wrote it in a manly style. In the preface he says : — " The fabric of the play is regular enough, as to the inferior parts of it; and the unities of time, place, and action, more exactly observed, than per- haps the English theatre requires. Particularly, the action is so much one, that it is the only of the kind without episode, or underplot ; every scene in the tragedy conducing to the main design, and every act concluding with a turn of it." He did more ; he abandoned the French ornaments, and re- turned to national tradition ; — " In my style I have professed to imitate the divine Shakspeare ; which that I might perform more freely, I have disincumbered myself from rhyme. . . . Yet, I hope, I may affirm, and without vanity, that, by imitating him, I have excelled myself throughout the play; and particularly, that I prefer the scene betwixt Antony and Ventidius in the first act, to anything which I have written in this kind." Dryden was right. Ventidius, the old general, who comes to rescue Antony from his illusion and servitude, is worthy to speak in behalf of honor. Doubtless he was a plebeian, a rude and plain-speaking soldier, with the frankness and jests of his profession, sometimes clumsy, who, out of simplicity of soul, from the coarseness of his training, unsuspectingly brings Antony back to the meshes, which he seemed to be breaking through. Falling into a trap, he tells Antony that he has seen Cleopatra with Dolabella : — "Antony. My Cleopatra? Ventidkcs. Your Cleopatra. Dolabella's Cleopatra. Every man's Cleopatra. Antony. Thou liest. Ventidius. I do not lie my lord. Is this so strange ? Should mistresses be left, And not provide against a time of change ? " * It was just the way to make Antony jealous, and bring him back furious to Cleopatra. But what a noble heart has this Ventidius, and how we catch, when he is alone with Antony, the man's voice, the deep tones which had been heard on the battle-field ! He loves his general like a good dog, and asks no better than to die, so it be at his master's feet. He growls * All for Love, 4. i. 2/0 DRYDEN. ominously on seeing him cast down, crouches round him, and suddenly weeps : — "Ventidius. Look, emperor, this is no common dew. I liave not wept ttiese forty years ; but now My mother comes afresh into my eyes, I cannot help her softness. Antony. By Heaven, he weeps ! poor, good old man, he weeps ! The big round drops course one another down The furrows of his cheeks. — Stop them, Ventidius, Or I shall blush to death ; they set my shame. That caused them, full before me, Ventidius. I'll do my best. Antony. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends : See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not For my own griefs, but thine. Nay, father. * As we hear these terrible sobs, we think of Tacitus' veterans, who, escaping from the marshes of Germany, with scarred breasts, white heads, limbs stiff with service, kissed the hands of Drusus, carried his fingers to their gums, that he might feel their worn and loosened teeth, incapable to bite the wretched bread which was given to them : " No ; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy. Up, up, for honor's sake ; twelve legions wait you. And long to call you chief : By painful journies, I led them, patient both of heat and hunger, Down from the Parthian marshes to the Nile. 'Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces, Their scarr'd cheeks, and chopt hands ; there's virtue in them. They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates Than yon trim bands can buy." f And when all is lost, when the Egyptians have turned traitors, and there is nothing left but to die well, Ventidius says : — "There yet remain Three legions in the town. The last assault Lopt off the rest ; if death be your design, — As I must wish it now, — these are sufficient To make a heap about us of dead foes, An honest pile for burial. . . . Chuse your death; For, I have seen him in such various shapes, I care not which I take ; I'm only troubled. * Ibid. I. I. •)• Ibid. DRYDEN. 2/1 The life I bear is worn to such a rag, 'Tis scarce worth givmg. I could wish, indeed, We threw it from us with a better grace ; That, like two lions taken in the toils. We might at least thrust out our paws, and wound The hunters that enclose us." * Antony begs him to go, but he refuses : — " Antony. Do not deny me twice. Ventidius. By Heaven I will not. Let it not be to outlive you. Antony. Kill me first. And then die thou ; for 'tis but just thou serve Thy friend, before thyself. Ventidius. Give me your hand. We soon shall meet again. Now, farewell, emperor ! ... I will not make a business of a trifle : And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you. Pray, turn your face. Antony. I do : strike home, be sure. Ventidius. Home, as my sword will reach." \ And with one blow he kills himself. These are the tragic, stoical manners of a military monarchy, the great profusion of murders and sacrifices wherewith the men of this overturned and shattered society killed and died. This Antony, for whom so much has been done, is not undeserving of their love ; he has been one of Caesar's heroes, the first soldier of the van ; kindness and generosity breathe from him to the last ; if he is weak against a woman, he is strong against men ; he has the muscles and heart, the wrath and passions of a soldier ; it is this heat of blood, this too quick sentiment of honor, which has caused his ruin ; he cannot forgive his own crime ; he possesses not that lofty genius which, dwelling in a region superior to ordinary rules, emancipates a man from hesitation, from discouragement and remorse ; he is only a soldier, he cannot forget that he has not executed the orders given to him : Ventidius. Emperor ! Antony. Emperor .' Why, that's the style of victory ; The conquering soldier, red with unfelt wounds, Salutes his general so ; but never more Shall that sound reach my ears. All for Love, 5, j. | ibid. 272 DRYDEN. Ventidius, I warrant you. Antony. Actiiim, Actium ! Oh Ventidius. It sits too near you. Antony. Here, here it lies ; a lump of lead by day ;. And in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, The hag that rides my dreams. . . . Ventidius. That's my royal master ; And shall we fight ? Antony. I warrant thee, old soldier. Thou shalt behold me once again in iron ; And at the head of our old troops, that beat The Parthians, cry aloud, " Come, follow me." '* He fancies himself on the battle-field, and already passion car- ries him away. Such a man is not one to govern men ; we can- not master fortune until we have mastered ourselves ; this man is only made to belie and destroy himself, and to be veered round alternately by every passion. As soon as he believes Cleopatra faithful, honor, reputation, empires, everything van- ishes ; " Ventidius. And what's this toy. In balance with your fortune, honor, fame ? Antony. What is"t, Ventidius .' it outweighs them all. Why, we have more than conquer'd Csesar now. My queen's not only innocent, but loves me. . . . Down on thy linees, blasphemer as thou art, And ask forgiveness of wrong'd innocence ! Ventidiits. I'll rather die than take it. Will you go ? Antony Go ! Whither .'' Go from all that's excellent ! . . . Give, you gods, Give to your boy, your Cffisar, This rattle of a globe to play withal. This gewgaw world ; and put him cheaply off : I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra."f Dejection follows excess ; these souls are only tempered against fear ; their courage is but tliat of the bull and the lion ; to be fully themselves, they need bodily action, visible danger ; their temperament sustains them ; before great moral sufferings they give way. When Antony thinks himseli" deceived, he de- spairs, and has nothing left but to die : " Let him (Caesar) walk Alone upon't. I'm weary of my part. * All for Love, I. I. f Ibi.l. i. i, end. DRYDEN. 273 My torch is out ; and the world stands before me, Like a black desert at the approach of night ; I'll lay me down, and stray no farther on."* Such verses remind us of Othello's gloomy dreams, of Mac- beth, of Hamlet's even ; beyond the pile of swelling tirades and characters of painted cardboard, it is as though the poet had touched the ancient drama, and brought its emotion away with him. By his side another also has felt it, a young man, a poor ad- venturer, by turns a student, actor, officer, always wild and always poor, who lived madly and sadly in excess and misery, like the old dramatists, with their inspiration, their fire, and who died at the age of thirty-four, according to some, of a fe- ver caused by fatigue, according to others, of a prolonged fast, at the end of which he swallowed too quickly a morsel of bread bestowed on him in charity. Through the pompous cloak of the new rhetoric, Thomas Otway now and then reached the passions of the other age. It is plain that the times he lived in marred him ; that the oratorical style, the literary phrases, the classical declamation, the well-poised anitheses, buzzed about him, and drowned his note in their sustained and mo- notonous hum. Had he but been born a hundred years earli- er ! In his Orphan and Venice Preserved we encounter the sombre imaginations of Webster, Ford, and Shakspeare, their gloomy idea of life, their atrocities, murders, pictures of irre- sistible passions, which riot bhndly Hke a herd of savage beasts, and make a chaos of the battlefield, with their yells and tu- mult, leaving behind them but devastation and heaps of dead. Like Shakspeare, his events are human transports and furies ; like Shakspeare, he has found poignant and living words, which lay bare the depths of humanity, the strange noise of a machine which is getting out of order, the tension of the will stretched to breaking-point, the simpHcity of real sacrifice, the humihty of exasperated and craving passion, which longs to the end and against all hope for its fuel and its gratification. Like Shakspeare, he has conceived genuine women, — Monimia, above all Belvidera, who, like Imogen, has given herself wholly, - and is lost as in an abyss of adoration for him whom she has * All for Love, 5. i. 12* 274 - ^m^DS i V : chosen, who can but love, obey, weep, suffer, and who dies like a flower plucked from the stalk, when her arms are torn from the neck around which she has locked them. Like Shakspeare again, he has found, at least once, the large bitter buffoonery, the crude sentiment of human baseness ; and he has introduced into his most painful tragedy, an obscene caricature, an old Senator, who unbends from his official gravity in order to play at his mistress' house the clown or the valet. These, however, are but gleams : for the most part Otway is a poet of his time, dull and forced in color ; buried, like the rest, in the heavy, grey, clouded atmosphere, half EngUsh, half French, in which the bright lights brought over from France, are snuffed out by the insular fogs. He is a man of his time ; like the rest, he writes obscene comedies, The Soldier's For- tune, The Atheist, Friendship in Fashion. He depicts coarse and vicious cavaliers, rogues on principle, as harsh and cor- rupt as those of Wycherley. Truly this society sickens us. They thought to cover all their filth with fine correct meta- phors, neatly ended poetical periods, a garment of harmonious phrases and noble expressions. They thought to equal Ra- cine by counterfeiting his style. They did not know that in this style visible elegance conceals an admirable justness; that if it is a masterpiece of art, it is also a picture of manners ; that it paints a civilization, as Shakspeare's does ; and not, it is true, wild and entire, as in Shakspeare, but pared down and refined by courtly life ; that this is a spectacle as unique as the other ; that nature perfectly polished is as complex and as difficult to understand as nature perfectly intact ; that as for them, they were as far below the one as abo\-e the other. Let us then leave this drama in the obscurity which it deserves, and seek elsewhere, in studied writings, for a happier employ- ment of a fuller talent. This is the true domain of Dryden and of classical reason ; pamphlets and dissertations in verse, letters, satires, transla- tions and imitations, this is the field on which logical facul- ties and the art of writing find their best occupation. Dryden was an excellent reasoner, accustomed to discrim- inate his ideas, armed with good long-meditated proofs, strong in discussion, asserting principles, establishing his sub-divis- ions, citing authorities, drawing inferences ; so that if we read DRYDEN. 275 his prefaces without reading his dramas, we might take him for one of the masters of the dramatic art. Jig^jgaturally at;;_ tains a definite prose style ; his ideas are unfolded with l3feaHtE'an3"cIearness ; his style is well moulded, exact and simple,-fr-ee fr-om the affectations and ornaments with which '-Pope-aftervrardS'burdeite^ his own ;~his expression fs, Tike that of CorneiTle, ample and periodic, by.vijtue simply of the inter- ' iral"afgumentativeness which unfolds aii^d sustains it. We can see fliaf he thinks, and that on his own behalf;" that he com- bines and verifies his thoughts ; that beyond all this, he nat- urally has a just perception, and that with his method he has good sense. He has the tastes and the weaknesses which, suit his cast of intellect. He holds in the highest estimation " the admirable Boileau, whose numbers are excellent, whose ex- pressions are noble, whose thoughts are just, whose language is pure, whose satire is pointed, and whose sense is closer What he borrows from the ancients, he repays with usury of his own, in coin as good, and almost as universally valuable."* He has the stiffness of the logician poets, too strict and argu- mentative, blaming Ariosto, "who neither designed justly, nor observed any unity of action, or compass of time, or modera- tion in the vastness of his draught ; his style is luxurious, with- ous majesty or decency, and his adventures without the com- pass of nature and possibility. He understands delicacy no better than fancy. Speaking of Horace, he finds that " his wit is faint and his salt almost insipid. Juvenal is of a more vig- orous and masculine wit ; he gives me as much pleasure as I can bear." For the same reason he depreciates the French style : " Their language is not strung with sinews, like our English ; it has the nimbleness of a greyhound, but not the bulk and body of a mastiff. . . .They have set up purity for the standard of their language ; and a masculine vigor is that of ours."t Two or three such words" depict a man ; Dryden has just affirmed, unwittingly, the measure and quality of his mind. This mind, as we may imagine, is heavy, and especially in flattery. Flattery is the chief art in a monarchical age. Dry- den is hardly skilful in it, any more than his contemporaries. * Essay on Satire, dedicated to the Earl of Dorset, xiii. 84. t Dedication of the yP.ne'is, xiv. 204. 276 DRYDEN. His dedications are as a rule nauseous. He says to the Duch- ess of Monmouth : " To receive the blessings and prayers of mankind, you need only be seen together. We are ready to conclude, that you are a pair of angels sent below to make virtue amiable in your persons, or to sit to poets when they would pleasantly instruct the age, by drawing goodness in the most perfect and alluring shape of nature. . . . No part of Europe can afford a parallel to your noble Lord in masculine beauty and in goodliness of shape." * Elsewhere he says to the Duke of Monmouth : " You have all the advantages of mind and body, and an illustrious birth, conspiring to render you an extraordinary person. The Achilles and the Rinaldo are present in you, even above their originals ; you only want a Homer or a Tasso to make you equal to them. Youth, beauty, and courage (all which you possess in the height of their perfection), are the most desira- ble gifts of Heaven." \ But the man of spirit was often manifest ; in spite of several falls and many slips, he shows a mind constantly upright, bending rather from conventionality than from nature, with a dash and afflatus, occupied with grave thoughts, and subject- ing his conduct to his convictions. He was converted loyally and by conviction to the Roman Catholic creed, persevered in it after the fall of James II., lost his post of historiographer and poet-laureate, and though poor, burdened with a family, and infirm, refused to dedicate his Virgil to King William. He wrote to his sons : " Dissembling, though lawful in some cases, is not my talent ; yet, for your sake, I will struggle with the plain openness of my nature. ... In the meantime, I flatter not myself with any manner of hopes, but do my duty, and suffer for God's sake. . . . You know the profits (of Virgil) might have been more ; but neither my conscience nor ray honor would suffer me to take them ; but I can never repent of my constancy, since I am thoroughly persuaded of the justice of the cause for which I suffer." % One of his sons having been expelled from school, he wrote to the master. Dr. Busby, his own old teacher, with extreme gravity and nobleness, asking without humiliation, disagreeing without giving offence, in a sustained and proud style, which is calculated to please, seeking again his favor, if not as a debt * Dedication of The Indian Emperor^ ii. 261. f Dedication of Tyrannic Love, iii. 347. % Letter 23, " to his sons at Rome," xviU. 133. DRY D EX. 277 to the father, at least as a gift to the son, and concluding, " I have done something, so far to conquer my own spirit as to ask it." He was a good father to his children, as well as liberal, and sometimes even generous, to the tenant of his little estate.* He says : — " More libels have been written against me than almost any man now living. ... I have seldom answered any scurrilous lampoon, . . and, be- ing naturally vindictive, have suffered in silence, and possessed my soul in quiet." f Insulted by Collier as a corrupter of morals, he endured this coarse reproof, and nobly confessed the faults of his youth : — " I shall say the less of Mr. Collier, because in many things he has taxed me justly ; and I have pleaded guilty to all thoughts and expressions of mine which can be truly argued of obscenity, profaneness, or immorality, and retract them. If he be my enemy, let him triumph ; if he be my friend, as I have given him no personal occasion to be otherwise, he will be glad of my reperitance." % There is some wit in what follows : — " He (Collier) is too much given to horseplay in his raillery, and comes to battle like a dictator from the plough. I will not say " the zeal of God's house has eaten him up," but I am sure it has devoured some part of his good manners and civility." § Such a repentance raises a man ; to humble oneself thus, one must be a great man. He was so, in mind and in heart, full of solid arguments and individual opinions, above the petty mannerism of rhetoric and affectations of style, a master of verse, a slave to his idea, with that abundance of thoughts which is the sign of true genius : — " Thoughts, such as they are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to chuse or to reject, to run them into verses, or to give them the other harmony of prose : I have so long studied and practised both, that they are grown into a habit, and become familiar to me." | With these powers he entered upon his second career; the English constitution and genius opened it to him. " A man," says La Bruyere, " born a Frenchman and a Christian, finds himself constrained in satire; great subjects * Scott's Life of Dryden, i. 449. f Essay on Satire, xiii. 80. X Preface to the Fables, xi. 238. § Ibid. \IUd. xi.zog. 27S DRYDEN. are forbidden to liim ; he essays them sometimes, and then turns aside to small things, which he elevates by the beauty of his genius and his style." It was not so in England. Great subjects were given up to vehement discussion ; politics and religion, like two arenas, invited to boldness and to battle, every talent and every passion. The king, at first popular, had roused opposition by his vices and errors, and bent before public discontent as before the intrigue of parties. It was known that he had sold the interests of England to France ; it was believed that he would deliver up the consciences of Protestants to the Papists. The lies of Oates, the murder of the magistrate Godfrey, his corpse solemnly paraded in the streets of London, had inflamed the imagination and preju- dices of the people ; the judges, blind or intimidated, sent in- nocent Roman Catholics to the scaffold, and the mob received with insults and curses their protestations of innocence. The king's brother had been excluded from his offices ; it was en- deavored to exclude him from the throne. The pulpit, the theatres, the press, the hustings, resounded with discussions and recriminations. The names of Whigs and Tories arose, and the deepest debates of political philosophy were carried on, nursed by sentiments of present and practical' interests, embittered by the rancor of old as well as of freshly roused passions. Dryden plunged in ; and his poem of Absalom and Achitophel was a political pamphlet. " They who can criticise so weakly," he says in the preface, " as to imagine that I have done my worst, may be convinced at their own cost that I can write severely with more ease than I can gently." A biblical allegory, suited to the taste of the time, hardly concealed the names, and did not hide the men. He describes the tranquil old age and incontestable right of King David ; * the charm, pliant humor, popularity of his natural son Absalom ; \ the genius and treachery of Achitophel,J who stirs up the son * Charles II. \ The Duke of Monmouth. X The Earl of Shaftesbury : " Of these the false Achitophel was first, A name to all succeeding ages curst : For close designs and crooked counsels fit, Sagacious, bold and turbulent of wit — Restless, unfixed in principles and place, In power unpleased. imoatient of disgrace ; DKYDEN. 279 against the father, unites the clashing ambitions, and reani- mates the conquered factions. There is hardly any wit here ; there is no time to be witty in such contests ; think of the roused people who listened, men in prison or exile who heard him ; fortune, liberty, Kfe was at stake. The thing is to strike the nail on the head and hard, not gracefully. The public must recognize the characters, shout their names as they recog- nize the portraits, applaud the attacks which are made upon them, rail at them, hurl them from the high rank which they covet. Dryden passes them all in review : — " In the first rank of these did Zimri* stand, A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome : Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts and nothing long ; But in the course of one revolving moon Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon; Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking. Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ With something new to wish or to enjoy ! Railing and praising were his usual themes ; And both, to show his judgment, in extremes ; So over-violent, or over-civil, That every man with him was God or devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art ; Nothing went unrewarded but desert. A fiery soul, which working out its way, Fretted the pigmy body to decay And o'er-informed the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity. Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high, He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit. Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit. Great wits are sure to madness near allied And thin partitions do their bounds divide : Else, why should he, with wealth and honor blest, Refuse his age the needful hours of rest ? Punish a body which he could not please. Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease ? And all to leave what with his toil he won. To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son, Got, while his soul did huddled notions try, And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy. In friendship false, implacable in hate, Resolved to ruin or to rule the state." 280 DKYDEM. Beggared by fools whom still he found too late. He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laugh'd himself from Court ; then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief: For spite of him, the weight of business fell On Absalom and wise Achitophel ; Thus wicked but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left. . . . Shimei,* whose youth did early promise bring Of zeal to God and hatred to his King ; Did wisely from expensive sins refrain And never broke the Sabbath but for gain : Nor ever was he known an oath to vent, Or curse, unless against the government." Against these attacks their cliief Shaftesbury made a stand : when accused of high treason he was declared guiltless by the grand jury, in spite of all the efforts of the court, amidst- the applause of a vast multitude ; and his partisans caused a medal to be struck, bearing his face, and boldly showing on the re- verse the Tower obscured by a cloud. Dryden replied by his poem of the Medal, and the violent diatribe overwhelmed the open provocation : " Oh, could the style that copied every grace And plow'd such furrows for an eunuch face. Could it have formed his ever-changing will. The various piece had tired the graver's skill ! A martial hero first, with early care, Blown, like a pigmy by the winds, to war ; A beardless chief, a rebel ere a man. So young his hatred to his Prince began. Next this, (how wildly will ambition steer !) A vermin wriggling in the usurper's ear ; Bartering his venal wit for sums of gold, He cast himself into the saint-like mould. Groaned, sighed, and prayed, while godliness was gain, The loudest bag-pipe of the squeaking train." The same bitterness envenomed religious controversy. Dis- putes on dogma, for a moment cast into the shade by de- bauched and sceptical manners, had broken out again, inflamed by the bigoted Catholicism of the prince, and by the just fears of the nation. The poet who in Religio Laid was still an * Slingsby Betliel. DRYDEiV. 2S1 Anglican, though lukewarm and hesitating, drawn on gradually by his absolutist inclinations, had become a convert to Roman- ism, and in his poem of The Hind and the Panther fought for his new creed. " The nation," he says in the preface, "is in too high a ferment for me to expect either fair war, or even so much as fair quarter, from a reader of the opposite party.'' And then, making use of the medieeval allegories, he represents all the heretical sects as beasts of prey, worrying a white hind of heavenly origin ; he spares neither coarse comparisons, nor gross sarcasms, nor open objurgations. The argument is close and theological throughout. His hearers were not wits, who cared to see how a dry subject could be adorned, theologians accidentally and for a moment, with mistrust and reserve, like Boileau in his Amour de Dieu. They were oppressed men, barely recovered from a secular persecution, attached to their faith by their sufferings, ill at ease under the visible menaces and ominous hatred of their restrained foes. Their poet must be a dialectician and a schoolman ; he needs all the sternness of logic ; he is immeshed in it, like a recent convert, saturated with the proofs which have separated him from the national faith, and which support him against public reprobation, fertile in distinctions, putting his finger on the weakness of an argu- ment, subdividing replies, bringing back his adversary to the question, thorny and unpleasing to a modern reader, but the more praised and loved in his own time. In all English minds there is a basis of gravity and vehemence ; hate rises tragic, with a gloomy outbreak, like the breakers in the North Sea. In the midst of his public strife Dryden attacks a private enemy, Shadwell, and overwhelms him with immortal scorn.* A great epic style and solemn rhyme gave weight to his sar- casm, and the unlucky rhymester was drawn in a ridicijlous tri- umph on the poetic car, whereon the muse sets the heroes and the gods, Dryden represented the Irishman Mac Flecknoe, an old king of folly, deliberating on the choice of a worthy successor, and choosing Shadwell as an heir to his gabble, a propagator of nonsense, a boastful conqueror of common sense. From all sides, through the streets littered with paper, the nations assembled to look upon the young hero, standing * Mac Flecknoe. 202 DRYDEN. near the throne of his father, his brow surrounded with fogs, the vacant smile of satisfied imbecility floating over his coun- tenance : " The hoary prince in majesty appear'd, High on a throne of his own labors rear'd. At his right hand our young Ascanius sate, Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state ; His brows thick fogs intead of glories grace, And lambent dulness play'd around his face. As Hannibal did to the altars come, Sworn by his sire, a mortal foe to Rome ; So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, That he, till death, true dulness would maintain ; And, in his father's right and realm's defence. Ne'er to have peace with wit nor truce with sense. The king himself the sacred unction made. As king by office and as priest by trade. In his sinister hand, instead of ball, He placed a mighty mug of potent ale." His father blesses him : " ' Heavens bless my son ! from Ireland let him reign To far Barbadoes on the western main ; Of his dominion may no end be known. And greater than his father's be his throne ; Beyond love's Kingdom let him stretch his pen ! ' He paused, and all the people cried Amen. Then thus continued he : ' My son, advance Still in new impudence, new ignorance. Success let others teach, learn thou from me, Pangs without birth and fruitless industry. Let Virtuosos in five years be writ ; Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. . . . Let them be all by thy own model made Of dulness and desire no foreign aid, That they to future ages may be known, Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own : Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same, All full of thee and differing but in name. . . . Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep ; Thy tragic Muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep. With whate'er gall thou set'st thyself to write. Thy inoffensive satires never bite ; In thy felonious heart though venom lies, It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keer TnwiT-.;/.Q Knf ,-nil<-l AnQcn-ni-n _ _ DRYDEN. 283 Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command Some peaceful province in Acrostic land. There thou may'st wings display, and altars raise. And torture one poor word ten thousand ways ; Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit, Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute.' He said, but his last words were scarcely heard. For Bruce and LongviUe had a trap prepared, And down they sent the yet declaiming bard. Sinking he left his drugget robe behind. Borne upwards by a subterranean wind. The mantle fell to the young prophet's part, "With double portion of his father's art." Thus the insulting masquerade goes on, not studied and pol- ished like Boileau's LiUrin, but rude and pompous, inspired by a coarse and poetical afflatus, as you may see a great ship en- ter the muddy Thames, with spread canvas, cleaving the waters. In these poems, the art of writing, the mark and the source of classical literature, appeared for the first time. A new spirit was born and renewed this art, like everything else ; thence- forth, and for a century to come, ideas sprang up arid fell into their place after another law than that which had hitherto shaped them. "Under Spenser and Shakspeare, living words, like cries or music, betrayed the internal imagination which gave them forth. A kind of vision possessed the artist; land- scapes and events were unfolded in his mind as in nature ; he concentrated in a glance all the details and all the forces which make up a being, and this image acted and was developed within him like the external object. Dryden, on the other hand, develops, defines, concludes ; he declares his thought, then takes it up again, that his reader may receive it prepared, and having received, may retain it. He contrasts ideas with ideas, phrases with phrases, that the reader, guided by the contrast, may not deviate from the route marked out for him. You may imagine the possible beauty of such a work. This poesy is but a stronger prose. Closer ideas, more marked contrasts, bolder images, only add weight to the argument. Metre and rhyme transform the judgments into sentences. The mind, held on the stretch by the rhythm, studies itself more, and by means of reflection arrives at a noble conclusion. The judgments are embossed in abbrevia- 284 DRYDEN. tive images, or symmetrical lines, which give them the solidity and popular form of a dogma. General truths acquire the definite form which transmits them to posterity, and propagates them in the human race. Such is the merit of these poems ; they please by their good expressions ; and in truth they have scarcely any other literary merit. If Dryden is a skilled poli- tician, a trained controversialist, well armed with arguments, versed in the history of men and parties, this pamphleteering aptitude, practical and English, confines him to the low region of everyday and personal combats, far from the lofty philoso- phy and speculative freedom which give endurance and great- ness to the classical style of his French contemporaries. In this age, in England, all discussion was fundamentally narrow. Except the terrible Hobbes, they all lack grand originality. Dry- den, like the rest, is confined to the arguments and insults of sect and fashion. This is why the subject matter fell below the art of writing. Dryden had no personal philosophy to devel- op ; he does but versify themes given to him by others. In this sterility, art is soon reduced to the clothing of foreign ideas, and the writer becomes an antiquarian or a translator. In fact, the greatest part of Dryden's poems are imitations, adaptations, or copies. He translated Persius, Virgil, part of Horace, Theocritus, Juvenal, Lucretius, and Homer, and put into modern English several tales of Boccaccio and Chaucer. These translations then appeared to be as great works as orig- inal compositions. When he took the ^neid'va hand, the nation, as Johnson tells us, appeared to think its honor interested in the issue. Addison furnished him with the arguments of every book, and an essay on the Georgics ; others supplied him with editions and notes ; great lords vied with one another in offer- ing him hospitality ; subscriptions flowed in. They said that the English Virgil was to give England the Virgil of Rome. This work was long considered his highest glory. Even so at Rome, under Cicero, in the early dearth of national poetry, the translators of Greek works were as highly praised as the original authors. This sterility of invention alters or depresses the taste. For taste is an instinctive system, and leads us by internal maxims, which we ignore. The mind, guided by it, perceives connections, shuns discordances, enjoys or suffers, chooses or DRYDEN. 2SS rejects, according to general conceptions wliich master it, but are not visible. These removed, we see the tact, which they engendered, disappear ; the writer is clumsy, because philoso- phy fails him. Such is the imperfection of the stories han- dled by Dryden, from Boccaccio and Chaucer. Dryden does not see that fairy tales or tales of chivalry only suit a poetry in its infancy ; that ingenious subjects require an artless style ; that the talk of Renard and Chanticleer, the adventures of Palamon and Arcite, the transformations, tournaments, appari- tions, need the astonished carelessness and the graceful gossip of old Chaucer. Vigorous periods, reflective antitheses, here oppress these amiable ghosts ; classical phrases embarrass them in their too stringent embrace ; they are lost to our sight ; to find them again, we must go to their first parent, quit the too harsh Ught of a learned and manly age ; we cannot pursue them fairly except in their first style in the dawn of credulous thought, under the mist which plays about their vague forms, with all the blushes and smile of morning. Moreover, when Dryden comes on the scene, he crushes the delicacies of his mas- ter, hauling in tirades or reasonings, blotting out sincere and self- abandoning tenderness. What a difference between his ac- count of Arcite's death and Chaucer's ! How wretched are all his fine words, his gallantry, his symmetrical phrases, his cold regrets, compared to the cries of sorrow, the true outpouring, the deep love in Chaucer ! But the worst fault is that almost everywhere he is a copyist, and retains the faults like a literal translator, with eyes glued on the work, powerless to compre- hend and recast it, more a rhymester than a poet. When La Fontaine put ^sop or Boccaccio into verse, he breathed a new spirit into them ; he took their matter only : the new soul, which constitutes the value of his work, is his, and only his ; and this soul befits the work. In place of the Ciceronian periods of Boccaccio, we find slim, little lines, full of delicate raillery, dainty voluptuousness, feigned frankness, which relish the for- bidden fruit because it is fruit, and because it is forbidden. The tragic departs, the rehcs of the middle-ages are a thousand leagues away ; there remains nothing but the jeering gayety, Gallic and racy, as of a critic and an epicurean. In Dryden, incongruities abound ; and our author is so little shocked by them, that he imports them elsewhere, in his theological poems, 286 DRYDEN. representing the Roman Catholic Church, for instance, as a hind, and the heresies by various animals, who dispute at as great length and as learnedly as Oxford graduates.* I like him no better in his Epistles ; as a rule, they are but flatteries, al- most always awkward, often mythological, interspersed with somewhat vulgar sentences. " I have studied Horace," he says,t " and hope the style of his Epistles is not ill imitated here." Do not imagine it to be true. Horace's Epistles, though in verse, are genuine letters, brisk, unequal in move- ment, always unstudied, natural. Nothing is further from Dry- den than this original and sociable spirit, the most refined and the most nervous of epicureans, a kinsman (at eighteen centu- ries' distance) of Alfred de Musset and Voltaire. Like Horace, an author must be a thinker and a man of the world to write agreeable morality ; and Dryden was, no more than his contem- poraries, a thinker or a man of the world. But other no less English characteristics sustain him. Sud- denly, in the midst of the yawns which these Epistles excited, our eyes are arrested. A true accent, new ideas, are brought out. Dryden, writing to his cousin, a country gentleman, has lighted on an English original subject. He depicts the life of a rural squire, the referee of his neighbors, who shuns lawsuits and town doctors, who keeps himself in health by hunting and exercise. Here is his portrait : " How bless'd is he, who leads a country life, Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife ! . . . With crowds attended of your ancient race, You seek the champaign sports, or sylvan chase ; With well-breathed beagles you surround the wood, Even then industrious of the common good ; And often have you brought the wily fox To suffer for the firstlings of the flocks ; Chased even amid the folds, and made to bleed. Like felons, where they did the murderous deed. This fiery game your active youth maintained ; Not yet by years extinguish'd though restrain'd : . . . A patriot both the king and country serves ; Prerogative and privilege preserves : * Though Huguenots contemn our ordination, succession, ministerial vo- cation, etc. (The Hind and the Panther, Part ii. v. 139), such are the harsh words we often find in his books. f Preface to the Religio Laid. DRYDEN. 2S7 Of each our laws the certain limit show ; One must not ebb, nor t'other overflow : Betwixt the prince and parliainent we stand, The barriers of the state on either hand ; May neither overflow, for then they drown the land. When both are full, they feed our bless'd abode ; Like those that water'd once the paradise of God. Some overpoise of sway, by turns they share ; In peace the people, and the prince in war : Consuls of moderate power in calms were made ; When the Gauls came, one sole dictator sway'd. Patriots, in peace, assert the people's right, With noble stubbornness resisting might ; No lawless mandates from the court receive. Nor lend by force, but in a body give." * This serious converse shows a political mind, fed on the spec- tacle of affairs, having in the matter of public and practical debates the superiority which the French have in speculative discussions and social conversation. So, amidst the dryness of polemics break forth sudden splendors, a poetic fount, a prayer from the heart's depths ; the English well of concen- trated passion is on a sudden opened again with a flow and a dash which Dryden does not elsewhere exhibit : " Dim as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars To lonely, weary, wand'ring travellers. Is reason to the soul : and as on high Those rolling fires discover but the sky, Not light us here ; so Reason's glimm'ring ray Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, But guide us upward to a better day. And as those nightly tapers disappear When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere, So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight. So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light."f " But, gracious God ! how well dost thou provide For erring judgments an unerring guide ! Thy throne is darkness in th' abyss of light, A blaze of glory that forbids the sight. O teach me to believe Thee thus conceal'd. And search no farther than Thy self reveal'd ; But her alone for my director take. Whom Thou hast promised never to forsake ! * Epistle IS, xi. 75. f Beginning of Religio Laid. 288 DRYDEN. My thoughtless youth was wing'd with vain desires ; My manhood, long misled by wandering fires, FoUow'd false lights ; and when their glimpse was gone. My pride struck out new sparkles of her own. Such was I, such by nature still I am ; Be Thine the glory and be mine the shame ! Good life be now my task ; my doubts are done."* Such IS the poetry of these serious minds. After having strayed in the debaucheries and pomps of the Restoration, Dryden found his way to grave emotions of inner hfe ; though a Romanist, he felt like a Protestant the wretchedness of man and the presence of grace : he was capable of enthusiasm. Here and there a manly and effective verse discloses, in the midst of his reasonings, the power of conception and the in- spiration of desire. When the tragic is met with, he takes to it as to his own domain ; at need, he deals in the horrible. He has described the infernal chase, and the torture of the young girl worried by dogs, with the savage energy of Milton.f As a contrast, he loved nature : this taste always endures in Eng- land ; the sombre, reflective passions are unstrung in the wide peace and harmony of the fields. Landscapes are to be met with amidst theological disputation : " New blossoms flourish and new flowers arise. As God had been abroad, and walking there Had left his footsteps and reformed the year. The sunny hills from far were seeii to glow With glittering beams, and in the meads below The burnished brooks appeared with liquid gold to flow. As last they heard the foolish Cuckoo sing, Whose note proclaimed the holy-day of spring.":]: Under his regular versification the artist's soul is brought to light ; though contracted by habits of classical argument, though stiffened by controversy and polemics, though unable to create souls or to depict artless and delicate sentiments, he is a gen- uine poet ; he is troubled, raised by beautiful sounds and forms ; he writes boldly under the pressure of vehement ideas ; he surrounds himself willingly with splendid images ; he is moved by the buzzing of their swarms, the glitter of their * The Hind and the Panther, Part i. u. 64-75. f Theodore and Honoria, xi. I T!ie Hind and the Panther, Part iii. u. 553-560. DRYDEN. 289 splendors ; Le is, when he wishes it, a musician and a painter ; he writes stirring airs, which shake all the senses, even if they do not sink deep into the heart. Such is his Alexander's Feast, an ode in honor of St. Cecilia's day, an admirable trum- pet-blast, in which metre and sound impress upon the nerves the emotions of the mind, a masterpiece of rapture and of art. Alexander is on his throne in the Palace of Persepolis ; the lovely Thais sate by his side ; before him, in a vast hall, his glorious captains. And Timotheus sings : "The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung ; Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young. The jolly God in triumph comes ; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ; Flush'd with a purple grace. He shews his honest face. Now, give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes. Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. Drinking is the soldier's pleasure ; Rich the treasure. Sweet the pleasure. Sweet is pleasure after pain." And at the stirring sounds the king is troubled ; his cheeks are glowing ; his battles return to his memory ; he defies heaven and earth. Then a sad song depresses him. Timo- theus mourns the death of the betrayed Darius. Then a ten- der song softens him ; Timotheus lauds the dazzling beauty of Thais. Suddenly he strikes the lyre again : — " A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunderj And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark ! the horrid sound Has raised up his head ; As awaked from the dead. And amazed, he stares around. Revenge, revenge ! Timotheus cries. See the furies arise ; See the snakes that they rear. How they hiss in their hair ! And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand ! 13 290 DRYDEN. Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain, And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain : Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew. Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods. — The princes applaud, with a furious joy. And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; Thais led the way. To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy." Thus already music softened, exalted, mastered men ; Dry- den's verses acquire power in describing it. TKis was one of his last works; brilliant and poetical, it was born amidst the greater sadness. The king for whom he had written was deposed and in exile ; the religion which he had embraced was despised and oppressed ; a Roinan Catholic and a royalist, he was bound to a conquered party, which the nation resentfully and mistrustfully considered as the natural enemy of liberty and reason. He had lost the two places which were his support ; he lived wretchedly, burdened with a family, obliged to support his son abroad ; treated as a hire- ling by a coarse publisher, and persecuted with pamphlets by his enemies. He had long been in ill-health, crippled, con- strained to write much, reduced to exaggerate flattery in order to earn from the great the indispensable money which the pub- lishers would not give him : — * " What Virgil wrote in the vigor of his age, in plenty and at ease, I have undertaken to translate in my declining years ; struggling with wants, op- pressed with sickness, curbed in my genius, liable to be misconstrued in all I write; and my judges, if they are not very equitable, already prejudiced against me, by the lying character which has been given them of my morals." f Although well meant for his own part, he knew that his con- duct had not always been worthy, and that all his writings would not endure. Born between two epochs, he had oscil- lated between two forms of life and two forms of thought, * He was paid two hundred and fifty guineas for ten thousand lines, t Postscript of Virgi l' DRYDEN. 291 having reached the perfection of neitlier, having kept the faults of both ; laaving found in surrounding manners no sup- port worthy of liis character, and in surrounding ideas no sub- ject worthy of liis talent. If he had founded criticism and good style, this criticism had only found scope in pedantic treatises or unconnected prefaces ; this good style continued out of the track in inflated tragedies, dispersed over multiplied translations, scattered in occasional pieces, in odes written to order, in party poems, meeting only here and there an afflatus capable of employing it, and a subject capable of sustaining it. What efforts for such a moderate result ! For a long time gravel and gout left him no peace ; erysipelas seized one of his legs. In April, 1700, he tried to go out ; " a slight inflam- mation in one of his toes became, from neglect, a gangrene ;" the doctor would have tried amputation, but he decided that what remained him of health and happiness was not worth the pain. He died at the age of sixty-nine. CHAPTER XII. ADDISON. § 37. — In the vast transformation of the minds which occu- pies the whole eighteentli century, and gives England its po- litical and moral standing, two superior men appear in poli- tics and morality, both accomplished writers ; both masters in the art. of persuasion and conviction ; both limited in philoso- phy and art, incapable of considering sentiments in a disinter- ested fashion ; otherwise diifering, and even in contrast with one another : one happy, kind, loved ; the other hated, hating and most unfortunate ; the one a partisan of liberty and the noblest hopes of man; the other an advocate of a retrograde party, and an eager detractor of humanity : the one measured, delicate, furnishing a model of the most solid English quali- ties, perfected by continental culture ; the other unbridled and formidable, showing an example of the harshest English in- stincts, luxuriating without Umit or rule in every kind of de- vastation and amid every degree of despair. To penetrate to the interior of this civilization and this people, there are no means better than to pause and dwell upon Swift and Addison. ^ 38. — "I have often reflected," says Steele, "after a night spent with him (Addison), apart from all the world, that I had had the pleasure of conversing with an intimate acquaintance of Terence and Catullus, who had all their wit and nature heightened with humor, more exquisite and delightful than any other man ever possessed," And Pope, a rival of Addi- son, and a bitter rival, adds : " His conversation had some- thing in it more charming than I have found in any other man." These sayings express the whole talent of Addison : ,his writings are conversations, masterpieces of English urban- ity and reason ; nearly all the details of his character and life ADDJSON. 293 have contributed to nourish this urbanity and tliis reasonable- ness. At the age of seventeen we find him at Oxford, studious and peaceful, loving solitary walks under the elm avenues, and amongst the beautiful meadows on the banks of the Cherwell. From the thorny brake of school education he chose the only flower — a withered one, doubtless Latin verse — but one which, compared to the erudition, to the theology, to the logic of the time, is still a flower. He celebrates, in strophes or hexame- ters, the peace of Ryswick, or the system of Dr. Burnett ; he composes little ingenious poems on a puppet-show, on the battle of the pigmies and cranes ; he learns to praise and jest — in Latin, it is true — but with such success, that his verses recommend him for the rewards of the ministry, and even reach Boileau. At the same time he imbues himself with the • Latin poets ; he knows them by heart, even the most affected, Claudian and Prudentius ; presently in Italy quotations will rain from his pen ; from top to bottom, in all its nooks and under all its aspects, his memory is stuffed with Latin verses. We see that he loves them, scans them with delight, that a fine caesura charms him, that every delicacy touches him, that no hue of art or emotion escapes him, that his literary tact is refined, and prepared to relish all the beauties of thought and expression. This inclination, too long retained, is a sign of a little mind, I allow ; a man ought not to spend so much time in inventing cantos. Addison would have done better to en- large his knowledge — to study Latin prose-writers, Greek liter- - ature, Christian antiquity, modern Italy, which he hardly knew. But this limited culture, leaving him weaker, made him more refined. He formed his art by studying only the ' monuments of Latin urbanity ; he acquired a taste for the elegance and refinements, the triumphs and.artifices of style ; he became self-contemplative, correct, capable of knowing and perfecting his own tongue. In the designed- reminiscences, the happy allusions, the discreet tone of Ms own little poems, I find beforehand many traits of the Spedckor. Leaving the university, he travelled long in the two most polished countries in the world, France and Italy. He lived at Paris, in the house of the ambassador, in the regular and bril- liant society which gave fashion to Europe. Thus was tlie fin- 294 ished writer perfected by contact with ancient and modern, for- eign and national urbanity, by the sight of the fine arts, by expe- rience of the world and study of style, by continuous and delicate choice of all that is agreeable in things and men, in life and art. His poUteness received from his character a singular bent and charm. It was not external, simply voluntary and official ; it came from the heart. He was gentle and kind, of a refined sensibility, so timid even as to remain quiet and seem dull in a numerous company or before strangers, only recovering his spirits before intimate friends, and confessing that he could not talk well to more than one. He could not endure a sharp discussion ; when the opponent was intractable, he pretended to approve, and for punishment, plunged him discreetly into his own folly. He withdrew by preference from political argu- ments ; being invited to deal with them in the Spectator, he contented himself with inoffensive and general subjects, which could interest all whilst shocking none. He would have suf- fered in making others suffer. Though a very decided and faithful Whig, he continued moderate in polemics ; and in a time when conquerors legally attempted to assassinate or ruin the conquered, he confined himself to show the faults of argu- ment made by the Tories, or to rail courteously at their preju- dices. At DubUn he went first of all to shake the hand of y Swift, his great and fallen adversary. Insulted bitterly by Dennis and Pope, he refused to employ against them his influ- ;^nce or his wit, and praised Pope to the end. What could be more touching, when we have read his life, than his essay on kindness ? we perceive that he is unconsciously speaking of himself: " There is no society or conversation to be kept up in the world without good-nature, or something which must bear its appearance, and supply its place. For this reason mankind have been forced to invent a kind of arti- ficial humanity, which is what we express by the word good-breeding. . . . The greatest wits I have conversed with are men eminent for their humanity. . . . Good-nature is generally born with us ; health, prosperity and kind treatment from the world are great cherishers of it where they find it." * It SO happens that he is involuntarily describing his own charm and his own success. It is himself that he is unveiling ; he was very prosperous, and his good fortune spread itself * Spectator, No. 169, 295 around him in affectionate sentiments, in constant discretion, in calm cheerfulness. At college he was distinguished ; his Latin verses made him a fellow at Oxford ; he spent ten years there in grave amusements and the studies which pleased him. From the age of twenty-two, Dryden, the prince of literature, praised him splendidly. When he left Oxford, the ministers gave him a pension of three hundred pounds to finish his education, and prepare him for public service. On his return from his travels, his poem on Blenheim placed him in the first rank of the AVhigs. He became a member of Parliament, twice Secretary for Ireland, Under-Secretary of State, Secre- tary of State. Party hatred spared him ; amid the almost universal defeat of the Whigs, he was reelected ; in the furious ■ war of Whigs and Tories, both united to applaud his tragedy of Cato ; the most cruel pamphleteers respected him ; his up- rightness, his talent, seemed exalted by common consent above discussion. He lived in abundance, activity, and honors, wisely and usefully, amid the assiduous admiration and con- stant affection of learned and distinguished friends, who could never have too much of his conversation ; amid the applause of all the good men and all the cultivated minds of England. If twice the fall of his party seemed to destroy or retard his fortune, he maintained his position without much effort, by reflection and coolness, prepared for all that might happen, accepting mediocrity, confirmed in a natural and acquired calmness, accommodating himself without yielding to men, re- spectful to the great without degrading himself, free from secret revolt or internal suffering. These are the sources of his talent ; could any be purer or finer ? could anything be more engaging than worldly polish and elegance, without the factitious ardor and the compfimentary falseness of the world ? And will you look for a more amiable conversation than that of a good and happy man, whose knowledge, taste and wit are only employed to give you pleasure ? This pleasure will be useful to you. Your interlocutor is as grave as he is polite ; he would and can instruct as well as amuse you. " The great and only end of these speculations," says Addison, in a number of the Spectator, " is to banish vice and ignorance out of the territories of Great Britain." His papers are wholly moral — advice to families, reprimands to 296 ADDISON. thoughtless women, a portrait of an honest man, remedies for the passions, reflections on God, the future life. I hardly know, or rather I know very well, what success a newspaper full of sermons would have in France. In England it was ex- traordinary, equal to that of the most fortunate modern novel- ists. In the general disaster of the reviews, ruined by the Stamp Act, the Spectator doubled its price, and held its ground. This was because it offered to Englishmen the picture of Eng- lish reason : the talent and the teaching were in harmony with the needs of the age and of the country. Of course the writer sets himself against licence without artlessness and the systematic debauchery which was the taste and the shame of the Restoration. He wrote whole articles against young fash- ionable men ; he severely jeers at women who expose them- selves to temptations ; he fights like a preacher against the fashion of low dresses, and gravely demands the tucker and modesty of old times. You will find, further on, lectures on the masquerades, which end with a rendezvous ; precepts on the number of glasses people might drink, and the dishes of which they might eat ; condemnations of licentious professors of irreligion and immorality ; all maxims now somewhat stale, but then new and useful, because Wycherley and Rochester had put the opposite maxims into use and credit. Debauchery passed for French and fashionable : this is why Addison pro- scribes in addition all French frivolities. He laughs at women who receive visitors in their dressing-rooms, and speak aloud at the theatre : — " There is nothing which exposes a woman to greater dangers, than that gaiety and airiness of temper, which are natural to most of the sex. It should be, therefore, the concern of every wise and virtuous woman to keep this sprightliness from degenerating into levity. On the contrary, the whole discourse and behavior of the French is to make the sex more fantastical, or (as they are pleased to term it), more awakened, than is consistent either with virtue or discretion." * You see already in these strictures the portrait of the sensible housewife, the modest English wife, domestic and grave, taken up with her husband and children. Addison returns a score of times to the artifices, the petty affected babyisms, the * Spectator, No. 45. ADDISON. 297 coquetry, the futilities of women. He cannot suffer languish- ing or lazy habits. He is full of epigrams, written against flirtations, extravagant toilets, useless visits.* He writes a satirical journal of a man who goes to his club, learns the news, yawns, studies the barometer, and thinks his time well occupied. He considers that our time is a capital, our business a duty, and our life a task. Only a task. If he holds himself superior to sensual life, he is inferior to philosophical life. His morality, thoroughly English, always crawls among commonplaces, discovering no principles, making no deductions. The fine and lofty aspects of the mind are wanting. He gives inimitable advice, a clear watchword, justified by what happened yesterday, useful for to-morrow. He observes that fathers must not be inflexible, and that they often repent driving their children to despair. He finds that bad' books are pernicious, because their endur- ance carries their poison to future ages. He consoles a woman who has lost her sweetheart, by showing her the mis- fortunes of so many other people who are suffering the greatest evils at the same time. His Spectator, is only an honest man's manual, and is often like the Complete Lawyer. It is practical, its aim being not to amuse, but to correct us. The conscien- tious Protestant, nourished with dissertations and morality, demands an effectual monitor and guide ; he would like his reading to influence his conduct, and his newspaper to suggest a resolution. To this end Addison seeks motives everywhere. He thinks of the future life, but does not forget the present ; he rests virtue on interest, rightly understood. He strains no principle to its limits ; he accepts them all, as they are to be met with in the human domain, according to their manifest goodness, tracing only the primary consequences, shunning the powerful logical pressure which spoils all by expressing too much. See him establishing a maxim, recommending con- stancy for instance ; his motives are mixed and incongruous ; first, inconstancy exposes us to scorn ; next, it puts us in con- tinual distraction ; again, it hinders us as a rule from attaining our end ; moreover, it is the great feature of every human and mortal being ; finally, it is most opposed to the inflexible nature * Ibid. Nos. 317 and 323. 13 298 ADDISON. of God, who ought to be our model. The whole is illustrated at the close by a quotation from Dryden and a verse from Hor- ace. This medley and jumble describe the ordinary mind which remains on the level of its audience, and the practical mind, which knows how to dominate over its audience. Addi- son persuades the pubUc, because he draws from the public sources of belief. He is powerful because he is vulgar, and useful because he is narrow. Picture now this mind, so characteristically mediocre, limit- ed to the discovery of good motives of action. What a reflec- tive man, always equal and dignified ! What a store he has of resolutions and maxims ! All rapture, instinct, inspiration, and caprice, are abolished or disciplined. No case surprises or car- ries him away. He is always ready and protected ; so much so, that he is like an automaton. Argument has frozen and in- vaded him. See, for instance, how he puts us on our guard against involuntary hypocrisy, announcing, explaining, distin- guishing the ordinary and extraordinary modes, dragging on with exordiums, preparations, methods, allusions to Scripture.* After six lines of this morality, a Frenchman would go out for a mouthful of fresh air. What in the name of heaven would he do, if, in order to move him to piety, he was toldf that God's omniscience and omnipresence furnished us with three kinds of motives, and then subdivided these motives into first, sec- ond, and third ? To put calculation at every stage ; to come with weight and figures into the thick of human passions, to ticket them, classify them like bales, to tell the public that the inventory is complete ; to lead them, with the reckoning in their hand, and by the mere virtue of statistics, to honor and duty, — such is the morality of Addison and of England. It is a sort of commercial common sense applied to the interests of the soul ; a preacher here is only an economist in a white tie, who treats conscience like food, and refutes vice as a set of prohib- itions. There is nothing sublime or chimerical in the end which he sets before us ; all is practical, that is, business-like and sensi- ble : the question is. How " to be easy here and happy after- wards." To be easy is a word which has no French equiva- * Spcctalor, No. SQy. \ Ibid. No. 571. ADDISOA". 299 lent, meaning that comfortable state of the mind, a means of calm satisfaction, approved action and serene conscience. Ad- dison makes it consist in labor and manly functions, carefully and regularly discharged. We must see with what complacency he paints in the Freeholder and Sir Roger the grave pleasures of a citizen and proprietor : " I have rather chosen this title (the Freeliolder) than any other, because it is what I most gloi7 in, and what most effectually calls to ray mind the happiness of that government under which I live. As a British freeholder, I should not scruple taking place of a French marquis ; and when I see one of my countrymen amusing himself in his little cabbage-garden, I naturally look upon him as a greater person than the owner of the richest vineyard in Champagne. . . . There is an unspeakable pleasure in calling anything one's own. A freehold, though it be but in ice and snow, will make the owner pleased in the possession, and stout in the defence of it. ... I consider my- self as one who give my consent to every law which passes. ... A free- holder is but one remove from a legislator, and for that reason ought to stand up in the defence of those laws which are in some degree of his own making."* These are all English feelings, made up of calculation and pride, energetic and austere ; and this portrait is capped by that of the married man : " Nothing is more gi'atifying to the mind of man than power or dominion ; and this I think myself amply possessed of, as I am the father of a family. I am perpetually taken up giving out orders, in prescribing duties, in hearing parties, in administering justice, and in distributing rewards and punish- ments. ... I look upon my family as a patriarchal sovereignty, in which I am myself both king and priest. . . . When I see my little troop before me, I rejoice in the additions I have made to my species, to my country, and to my religion, in having produced such a number of reasonable creatures, citi- zens, and Christians. I am pleased to see myself thus perpetuated ; and as there is no production comparable to that of a human creature, I am more proud of having been the occasion of ten such glorious productions, than if I had built a hundred pyramids at my own expense, or published as many volumes of the finest wit and learning. "•!■ If now you take the man away from his estate and his household, alone with himself, in moments of idleness or reverie, you will find him just as positive. He observes, that he may cultivate his own reasoning power, and that of others ; he stores himself with morality ; he wishes to make the most of himself and of existence. The northern races willingly direct their thoughts * Freeholder, No. I. | Spectator, No. 500, 300 ADDISON. to final dissolution and the dark future. Addison often chose for his promenade gloomy Westminster Abbey, with its many tombs : " Upon my going into the churcii I entertained myself with the digging of a grave ; and saw in every shovel-fuU of it that was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull intermixt with a kind of fresh mouldering earth that some time or other had a place in the composition of an human body. ... I con- sider that great day when we shalLall of us be contemporaries and make our appearance together."* And suddenly his emotion is transformed into profitable medi- tations. Under his morality is a balance which weighs the quantities of happiness. He stirs himself by mathematical comparisons to prefer the future to the present. He tries to realize, amidst an assemblage of dates, the disproportion of our short life to infinity. Thus arises this religion, a product of melancholic temperament and acquired logic, in which man, a sort of calculating Hamlet, aspires to the ideal by making a good business of it, and maintains his poetical sentiments by financial additions. In such a subject these habits are offensive. We ought not to try and over-define or prove God ; religion is rather a mat- ter of feeling than of science ; we compromise it by exacting too rigorous demonstrations, and too precise dogmas. It is the heart which sees heaven ; if you would make me believe in it, as you make me believe in the Antipodes, by geographical ac- counts and probabilities, I shall barely or not at all beheve. Ad- dison has little more than his college arguments or edification, very like those of the Abbe Pluche,t which let in objections at every cleft, and which we can only regard as dialectical essays, or sources of emotion. Add the motives of interest and cal- culations of prudence, which can make recruits, but not con- verts ; these are his proofs. There is an element of coarse- ness in this fashion of treating divine things, and we like still less the exactness with which he explains God, reducing him to a mere magnified man. This preciseness and this narrowness go so far as to describe heaven : " Though the Deity be thus essentially present through all the immensity * Spectator, Nos. 26 and 575. t The Abb^ Pluche (1688-1761) was the author of 3. Systime de la Nature and several otiier works. — Tr. ADDISON. 301 of space, there is one part of it in which he discovers himself in a most trans- cendent and visible glory. . . . It is here where the glorified body of our Saviour resides, and where all the celestial hierarchies, and the innumerable hosts of angels, are represented as perpetually surrounding the seat of God with hallelujahs and hymns of praise. . . . With how much skill must the throne of God be erected ! . . . How great must be the majesty of that place, where the whole art of creation has been employed, and where God has chosen to show himself in the most magnificent manner ! What must be the architecture of infinite power under the direction of infinite wisdom ? "* Moreover, the place must be very grand, and they have music there : it is a noble palace ; perhaps there are antechambers. Enough ; I will not continue. The same dull and literal pre- cision makes him inquire what sort of happiness the elect have, t They will be admitted into the councils of Providence, and will understand all its proceedings : " There is, doubtless, a faculty in spirits by which they apprehend one another as our senses do material objects ; and there is no question but our souls, when they are disembodied, or placed in glorified bodies, will by this faculty, in whatever part of space they reside, be always sensible of the Di- vine Presence.^ This grovelling philosophy repels you. One word of Addison will justify it, and make you understand it : " The business of mankind in this life is rather to act than to know." Now, such a philosophy is as useful in action as flat in science. All its faults of speculation become merits in practice. It follows in a prosy manner positive religion.^ What support does it not attain from the authority of an ancient tradition, a national in- stitution, an established priesthood, visible ceremonies, every- day customs ! It employs as arguments public utility, the ex- ample of great minds, heavy logic, hteral interpretation, and unmistakeable texts. What better means of governing the crowd, than to degrade proofs to the vulgarity of its intelli- gence and needs ? It humanizes the Divinity : is it not the only way to make men understand him ? It defines almost ob- viously a future life : is it not the only way to cause it to be wished for ? The poetry of high philosophical deductions is weak beside the inner persuasion, rooted by so many positive and detailed descriptions. In this way an active piety is born ; * Spectator, No. 580 ; see also No. 531. f Spectator, Nos. 237, 571, 600. \ Ibid. Nos. 571 ; see also Nos. 237, 600. § Tatler, No. 257. 302 ADDISON. and religion thus constructed doubles the force of the moral spring. Addison's is admirable, because it is so strong. En- ergy of feeling rescues wretchedness of dogma. Beneath his dissertations we feel that he is moved ; minutiaa, pedantry dis- appear. We see in him now only a soul deeply penetrated with adoration and respect ; no more a preacher classifying God's attributes, and pursuing his trade as a good logician ; but a man who naturally, and of his own bent, returns to a lofty spectacle, goes with awe into all its aspects, and leaves it only with a renewed or overwhelmed heart. The sincerity of his emotions makes us respect even his catechetical prescriptions. He demands fixed days of devotion and meditation to recall us regularly to the thought of our Creator and of our faith. He inserts prayers in his paper. He forbids oaths, and re- commends to keep always before us the idea of a sovereign Master : " Such an habitual homage to the Supreme Being would, in a particular manner, banish from among us that prevailing impiety of using his name on the most trivial occasions. . . . What can we then think of those who make use of so tremendous a name in the ordinary expressions of their anger, mirth, and most impertinent passions ? of those who admit it into the most familiar questions and assertions, ludicrous phrases, and works of humor .' not to mention those who violate it by solemn perjuries } It would be an affront to reason to endeayor to set forth the horror and profaneness of such a prac- tice." * A Frenchman, at the first word, hearing himself forbidden to swear, would probably laugh ; in his eyes that is a matter of good taste, not of morality. But if he had heard Addison him- self pronouncing what I have written, he would laugh no more. It is no small thing to make morality fashionable. Addi- son did it, and it remained in fashion. Formerly honest men were not polished, and polislred men were not honest ; piety was fanatical, and urbanity depraved ; in manners, as in letters, one could meet only Puritans or libertines. For the first time Addison reconciled virtue with elegance, taught duty in an ac- complished style, and made pleasure subservient to reason : " It was said of Socrates that he brought Philosophy down from heaven to inhabit among men ; and I shall be ambitious to have it said of me, that I have brought Philosophy out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, * Spectator, No. 531. ADDISON. 305 to dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffee-houses. I woi'Jd therefore, in a very particular manner, recommend these my speculations to all well-regulated families, and set apart an hour in every morning for tea and bread and butter ; and would earnestly advise them for their good to order this paper to be punctually served up, and to be looked upon as a pait of the tea-equipage.* In this you may detect an inclination to smile ; it is the tone of a polished man, who, at the first sign of ennui, turns round, delicately laughs at himself, and tries to please. It is Addi- son's general tone. What an art it is to please ! First, the art of making one- self understood, at once, always, completely, without difficulty to the reader, without reflection, without attention. Figure to yourself men of the world reading a page between two mouth- fuls of " bohea rolls,'*" ladies interrupting a phrase to ask when the ball begins : three special or learned words would make them throw the paper down. They only desire clear terms, in common use, into which wit enters all at once, as it enters or- dinary converse ; in fact, for them reading is only a conversa- tion, and a better one than usual. For the select world refines language. It does not suffer the risks and approximations of extempore and inexperienced speaking. It requires a knowl- edge of style, like a knowledge of external forms. It will have exact words to express the fine shades of thought, and meas- ured words to preclude shocking or extreme impressions. It wishes for developed phrases, which, presenting the same idea, under several aspects, may impress it easily upon its desultory mind. It demands harmonies of words, which, presenting a a known idea in a smart form, may introduce it in a lively man- ner to its desultory imagination. Addison gives it all that it desires; his writings are the pure source 'of classical style; men never spoke in England better. Ornaments abound, and rhetoric has no part in them. Throughout we have just con- trasts, which serve only for clearness, and are not too much prolonged ; happy expressions, easily discovered, which give things a new and ingenious turn; harmonious periods, in which the sounds flow into one another with the diversity and sweetness of a quiet stream ; a fertile vein of inventions and * Spectator, No. lo. 304 ADDISON: images, through which runs the most amiable irony. We trust one example will suffice : " He is not obliged to attend her (Nature) in the slow advances which she makes from one season to another, or to observe her conduct in the suc- cessive production of plants and flowers. He may draw into his description all the beauties of the spring and autumn, and make the whole year contrib- ute something to render it the more agreeable. His rose-trees, woodbines, and jessamines may flower together, and his beds be covered at the same time with lilies, violets, and amaranths. His soil is not restrained to any particular set of plants, but is proper either for oaks or myrtles, and adapts itself to the products of every climate. Oranges may grow wild in it ; myrrh may be met with in every hedge ; and if he thinks it proper to have a grove of spices, he can quickly command sun enough to raise it. If all this will not furnish out any- agreeable scene, he can make several new species of flowers, with richer scents and higher colors, than any that grow in the gar- dens of nature. His concerts of birds may be as full and harmonious, and his woods as thick and gloomy as he pleases. He is at no more expense in a long vista than in a short one, and can as easily throw his cascades from a precipice half a mile high as from one of twenty yards. He has his choice of the winds, and can turn the course of his rivers in all the variety of me- anders that are most delightful to the reader's imagination." * I find here that Addison profits by the rights which he accords, and is amused in explaining to us how we may amuse ourselves. Such is the charming tone of society. Reading this book, we fancy it still more amiable than it is : no pretension j no efforts ; endless contrivances employed unconsciously, and obtained without asking ; the gift of being lively and agreeable ; a refined banter, raillery without bitterness, a sustained gaiety ; the art of finding in everything the most blooming and the freshest flow- er, and to smell it without bruising or sullying it ; science, pol- itics, experience, morality, bearing their finest fruits, adorning them, offering them at ' a chosen moment, ready to withdraw them as soon as conversation has received the flavor, and be- fore it is tired of them ; such is the familiar spectacle in which the writer has formed and delighted himself. So many advantages are not without their inconveniences. The compliments of society, which attenuate expressions, blunt the style; by regulating what is instinctive and moderating what is vehement, they make speech threadbare and uniform. We must not always seek to please, above all, the ear. Mon- sieur Chateaubriand boasted of not admitting a single elision * Spectaiovy No. 418. ADDISON. 305 into the song of Cymodocke ; so much the worse for Cymodock. So the commentators who have noted in Addison the balance of his periods, do him an injustice. * They explain why he sUghtly wearies us. The rotundity of his phrases is a scanty merit, and mars the rest. To calculate longs and shorts, to be always thinking of sounds, of final cadences, — all these classic- al researches spoil a writer. Every idea has its accent, and all our labor ought to be to make it free and simple on paper, as it is in our mind. We ought to copy and mark our thought with the flow of emotions and images, which raise it, caring for nothing but its exactness and clearness. One true phrase is worth a hundred periods : the first is a document which fixes forever a movement of the heart or the senses ; the other is a toy to amuse the empty heads of verse-makers. I would give twenty pages of Fl^chierfor three lines of Saint-Simon. Regu- lar rhythm mutilates the impetus of natural invention ; the shades of inner vision vanish ; we see no more a soul which thinks or feels, but fingers which scan. The continuous period is like the shears of La Quintinie, \ which crop all the trees round, under pretence of beautifying. This is why there is a coldness and monotony in Addison's style. He seems to be listening to himself. He is too measured and correct. His most touch- ing stories, like that of Theodosius and Constantia touch us only partially. ^Vho could feel inclined to weep over such periods as these ? " Constantia, who knew that nothing but the report of her marriage could have driven him to such extremities, was not to be comforted ; she now accused herself for having so tamely given an ear to the proposal of a husband, and looked upon the new lover as the murderer of Theodosius : in short, she resolved to suffer the utmost effects of her father's displeasure rather than to comply with a marriage which appeared to her so full of guilt and horror." % Is this the way to paint horror and guilt? Where are the mo- tions of passion which Addison pretends to paint? The story is related, not seen. ■I See, in the notes of No. 409 of the Spectator, the pretty minute analysis of Hurd, the decomposition of the period, the proportion of long and short syllables, the study of the finals. A musician could not have done better. % La Quintinie (i626-i688)was a celebrated gardener under Louis XIV., and planned the gardens of Versailles. X spectator, No. 164. 3o6 ADDISON. The classic simply cannot see. Always measured and ra- tional, his first care is to proportion and arrange. He has his rules in his pocket, and brings them out for everything. He does not rise to the source of the beautiful at once, Hke genu- ine artists, by force and lucidity of natural inspiration; he lingers in the middle regions, amid precepts, subject to taste and cominon sense. This is why Addison's criticism is so solid and so poor. They who seek ideas will do well not to read his Essays on Imagination* so much praised, so well written, but so scant of philosophy, and so commonplace, dragged down by the intervention of final causes. His celebrated commentary on Paradise Los is little better than the disserta- tions of Batteux and Bossu. In one place he compares, al- most in a line. Homer, Virgil, and Ovid. The fine arrangement of a poem is with him the best merit. The pure classics enjoy better arrangement and good order than artless truth and strong originality. They have always their poetic manual in their hands : if you agree with the pattern of to-day, you have genius ; if not, not. Addison, in praise of Milton, establishes' that, according to the rule of epic poetry, the action of Para- dise Lost is one, complete and great ; that its characters are varied and of universal interest, and its sentiments natural, appropriate, and elevated; the style clear, diversified, and ; sublime ; now you may admire Milton ; he has a testimonial from Aristotle. Listen, for instance, to cold details of classical dissertation : " Had I followed Monsieur Bossu's method in my first paper on Milton, I should have dated the action of Paradise Lost from the beginning of Ra- phael's speech in this book." f " But, notwithstanding the fineness of this allegoiy (Sin and Death) may atone for it (the defect in the subject of his poem) in some measure, I can- not think that persons of such a chimerical existence are proper actors in an epic poem." % Further on he defines poetical machines, the conditions of their structures, the advantage of their use. He seems to me a carpenter verifying the construction of a staircase. Do not suppose that artificiality shocks him; he rather admires it. He finds the violent declamations of the Miltonic divinity and * See Spectator, No. 411— N0.432, f Ibid. No. 327. \ Ibid No. 273 ADDISON. 307 the royal compliments, indulged in by the persons of the Trinity, sublime. The campaigns of the angels, their bearing in chapel and barrack, their scholastic disputes, their bitter puritanical or pious royalistic style, do not strike him as false or disagreeable. Adam's pedantry and household lectures appear to him suitable to the state of innocence. In fact, the classics of the last two centuries never looked upon the human mind, except in its cultivated state. The, child, the artist, the barbarian, the inspired man, escaped them ; so, of course, did all who were beyond humanity ; their world was limited to the earth, and to the earth of the study and drawing-rooms ; they •rose neither to God nor nature, or if they did, it was to trans- form nature into a narrow garden, and God into a moral scrutator. They reduced genius to eloquence, poetry to dis- course, the drama to a dialogue. They regarded beauty as if it were reason, a sort of middle faculty, not apt for invention, potent in rules, balancing imagination like conduct, and making taste the arbiter of letters, as it made morality the arbiter of actions. They dispensed with the play on words, the sensual grossuess, the flights of imagination, the atrocities, and all the bad accompaniments of Shakspeare ; * but they only half imitated him in the deep intuitions by which he pierced the human heart, and discovered therein the God and the animal. They wanted to be moved, but not overwhelmed ; they allowed themselves to be impressed, but demanded to be pleased. To please rationally was the object of their literature. Such is Addison's criticism, which resembles his art ; born, like his art, of classical urbanity ; fit, like his art, for the life of the world, having the same solidity and the same limits, because it had the same sotirces, to wit, rule and gratification. But we must consider that we are in England, and that we find there many things not agreeable to a Frenchman. In France, the classical age attained perfection ; so that, com- pared to it, other countries lack somewhat of finish. Addison, elegant at home, is not quite so in France. Compared with Tillotson, he is the most charming man possible ; compared to Montesquieu, he is only half polished. His converse is hardly sparkling enough ; the quick movement, the easy change of * Spectator, 39, 40, 58. 308 ADDISON. tone, the facile smile, readily dropt and readily resumed, are hardly visible. He drags on in long and too uniform phrases ; his periods are too square ; we might cull a load of useless words. He tells us what he is going to say ; he marks divisions and subdivisions ; he quotes Latin, even Greek ; he displays and protracts without end the serviceable and sticky plaster of his morality. He has no fear of being wearisome. That is not a point of fear amongst Englishmen. Men who love long demonstrative sermons of three hours are not difficult to amuse. Remember that here the women like to go to meeting, and are entertained by listening for half a day to discourses on drunkenness, or on the sliding scale for taxes j these patient creatures require nothing more than that the conversation should be lively and piquant. Consequently they can put up with a less refined politeness and less disguised compliments. When Addison bows to them, which happens often, it is gravely, and his reverence is always accompanied by a warning. Take the following on the gaudy dresses : — " I looked with as much pleasure upon this little party-colored assembly, as upon a bed of tulips, and did not know at first whether it might not be an embassy of Indian queens ; but upon my going about into the pit, and taking them in front, I was immediately undeceived, and saw so much beauty in every face, that I found them all to be English. Such eyes and lips, cheeks and foreheads, could be the growth of no other country. The com- plexion of their faces hindered me from observing any further the color of their hoods, though I could easily perceive, by that unspeakable satisfaction which appeared in their looks, that their own thoughts were wholly taken up on those pretty ornaments they wore upon their heads." f In this discreet raillery, modified by an almost official admira- tion, you perceive the English mode of treating women : man, by her side, is always a lay preacher ; they are for him charm- ing children or useful housewives, never queens of the draw- ing room, or equals, as amongst the French. When Addison wishes to bring back the Jacobite ladies to the Protestant party, he treats them almost like little girls, to whom we promise, if they will be good, to restore their doll or their cake : — " They should first reflect on the great sufferings and persecutions to which they expose themselves by the obstinacy of their behavior. They lose their elections in every club where they are set up for toasts. They are obliged by their principles to stick a patch on the most imbecoming side of f Spectator, No. 265. ADDISON. 309 their foreheads. They forego the advantage of birthday suits. . . . They receive no benefit from the army, and arc never the better lor all the young fellows that virear hats and feathers. They are forced to live in the country and feed their chickens ; at the same time that they might show themselves at court, and appear in brocade, if they behaved themselves well. In short, what must go to the heart of every fine woman, they throw themselves quite out of the fashion. ... A man is startled when he sees a pretty bosom heaving with such party-rage, as is disagreeable even in that sex which is of a more coarse and rugged make. And yet such is our misfortune, that we sometimes see a pair of stays ready to burst with sedition ; and hear the most masculine passions expressed in the sweetest voices. . . . Where a great number of flowers grow, the ground at distance seems entirely covered with them, and we must walk into it, before we can distinguish the several weeds that spring up in such a beautiful mass of colors." * This gallantry is too deliberate ; we are somewhat shocked to see a woman touched by such thoughtful hands. It is the urbanity of a moralist ; albeit he is well bred, he is not quite amiable ; and if a Frenchman can receive from him lessons of pedagogy and conduct, he must come over to France to find models of manners and conversation. If the first care of a Frenchman in society is to be amiable, that of an Englishman is to be dignified ; their mood leads them to immobility, as ours to gestures; and their pleasantry is as grave as ours is gay. Laughter with them is inward ; they shun giving themselves up to it ; they are amused silently. Make up your mind to understand this kind of temper, it will end by pleasing you. When phlegm is united to gentleness, as in Addison, it is as agreeable as it is piquant. We are charmed to meet a lively man who is yet master of himself. We are astonished to see these contrary qualities together. Each heightens and modifies the other. We are not repelled by venomous bitterness, as in Swift, or by continuous buffoonery, as in Voltaire. We rejoice altogether in the rare union, which for the first time combines serious bearing and good humor. Read this little satire against the bad taste of the stage and the public : " There is nothing that of late years has afforded matter of greater amuse- ment to the town than Signer Nicolini's combat with a lion in the Haymar- ket, which has been very often exhibited to the general satisfaction of most of the nobility and gentry in the kingdom of Great Britain. . . . The first lion was a candle-snuffer, who bemg a fellow of a testy, choleric temper, * Freeholder, No. 26. 3IO ADDISON. overdid his part, and would not sufifer himself to be killed so easily as he ought to have done. . . . The second lion was a tailor by trade, who be- longed to the playhouse, and had the character of a mild and peaceable man in his profession. If the former was too furious, this was too sheepish for his part ; insomuch that, after a short modest walk upon the stage, he wonld fall at the first touch of Hydaspes, without grappling with him, and giving him an opportunity of shewing his variety of Italian trips. It is said, indeed, that he once gave him a rip in his flesh-colored doublet ; but this was only to make work for himself, in his private character of a tailor, . . . The acting lion at present is, as I am informed, a country gentleman, who does it for his diversion, but desires his name may be concealed. He says, very handsomely, in his own excuse, that he does not act for gain, that he indulges an innocent pleasure in it ; and that it is better to pass away an evening in this manner than in gaming and drinking. . . . This gentleman's temper is made up of such a happy mixture of the mild and the choleric, that he outdoes both his predecessors, and has drawn together greater au- diences than have been known in the memory of man. . . . In the mean- time, I have related this combat of the lion, to show what are at present the reigning entertainments of the politer part of Great Britain." * There is much originality in this grave gayety. As a rule, sin- gularity is in accordance with the taste of the nation ; they like to be struck strongly by contrasts. Our literature seems to them threadbare ; we again find them not delicate. A number of the Spectator which seemed pleasant to London ladies would have shocked people in Paris. Thus, Addison relates in the form of a dream the dissection of a beau's brain : " The pineal gland, which many of our modern philosophers suppose to be the seat of the soul, smelt very strong of essence and orange-flower water, and was encompassed with a kind of horny substance, ciit into a thousand little faces or mirrors, which were imperceptible to the naked eye; insomuch that the soul, if there had been any here, must have been always taken up in contemplating her own beauties. We observed a large antrum or cavity in the sinciput, that was filled with ribbons, lace, and embroidery. . . . We did not find anything very remarkable in the eye, saving only, that the musaili amatorii, or, as we may translate it into English, the ogling muscles, were very much worn, and decayed with use ; whereas, on the contrary, the elevator, or the muscle which turns the eye towards heaven, did not appear to have been used at aU."f These anatomical details, which would disgust us, amused a pos- itive mind ; crudity is for him only exactness ; accustomed to precise images, he finds no objectionable odor in the medical style. Addison does not share our repugnance. To rail at a * Spectator, No. 13. f Jbid. No. 275. ADDISON. 3 I I vice, he becomes a mathematician, an economist, a pedant, an apothecary. Special terms amuse him. He sets up a court to judge crinolines, and condemns petticoats in technical formu- las. He teaches how to handle a fan as if he were teaching to prime and load muskets. He draws up a list of men dead or injured by love, and the ridiculous causes which have reduced them to such a condition : " Will Simple, smitten at the Opera by the glance of an eye that was aimed at one who stood by him. " Sir Christopher Crazy, Bart., hurt by the brush of a whalebone petti- coat. " Ned Courtly, presenting Flavia with her glove (which she had dropped on purpose), she received it and took away his life with a curtsey. " John Gosselin, having received a slight hurt from a pair of blue eyes, as he was making his escape, was dispatched with a smile."* Other statistics, with recapitulations and tables of numbers, re- late the history of the Leucadian leap : " Aridseus, a beautiful youth of Epirus, in love with Praxinoe, the wife of iTiespis, escaped without damage, saving only that two of his foreteeth were struck out, and his nose a little flatted. "Hipparchus, being passionately fond of his own wife, who was- enam- ored of Bathyllus, leaped and died of his fall ; upon which his wife married her gallant, "f , You see this strange mode of painting human folly : in Eng- land it is called humor. It contains an incisive good sense, the habit of restraint, business habits, but above all a fundamental energy of invention. The race is less refined, but stronger ; and the pleasures which content its mind and taste are like the liquors which suit its palate and its stomach. This potent Germanic spirit breaks even in Addison through his classical and Latin exterior. Albeit he relishes art, he still loves nature. His education, which has loaded him with maxims, has not destroyed his virgin sentiment of truth. In his travels in France he preferred the wildness of Fontainebleau to the correctness of "Versailles. He shakes off worldly refine- ments to praise the simplicity of the old national ballads. He explains to his public the sublime images, the vast passions, the deep religion of Paradise Lost. It is curious to see him, com- pass in hand, kept back by Bossu, fettered in endless arguments and academical phrases, attaining with one spring, by strength * Spectator, No. 377. | il/id. No. 233. 312 ADDISON. of natural emotion, the high unexplored regions to which Mil- ton rose by the inspiration of faith and genius. He would not say, with Voltaire, that the allegory of Sin and Death is enough to make people sick. He has a foundation of grand imagina- tion, which makes him indifferent to the little refinements of social civilization. He sojourns wilUngly amid the grandeur and marvels of the other world. He is penetrated by the pres- ence of the Invisible, he must escape from the interests and hopes ■ of the petty life in which we crawl.* This source of faith gushes from him ever}rwhere ;• in vain is it enclosed in the regular channel of official dogma ; the tests and arguments with which it is covered do not hide its true origin. It springs from the grave and fertile imagination which can only be satisfied with a sight of what is beyond. Genuine imagination naturally ends in the invention of characters. For, if you clearly represent to yourself a situa- tion or an action, you will see at the same* time the whole net- work of its connection ; the passion and faculties, all the ges- tures and tones of voice, all details of dress, dwelling, society, which flow from it, will bring their precedents and their conse- quences ; and this multitude of ideas, slowly organized, will at last be concentrated in a single sentiment, from which, as from a deep spring, will break forth the portrait and the history of a complete character. There are several such in Addison ; the quiet observer Will Honeycomb, the country Tory Sir Rog- er de Coverley, which are not satirical theses, like those of La Bruyfere, but genuine individuals, like, and sometimes equal to, the characters of the great contemporary novels. In fact, he invents the novel, without suspecting it, at the same time and in the same way as his most illustrious neighbors. His charac- ters are taken from life, from the manners and conditions of the time, described at length and minutely in all the parts of their education and surroundings, with the precision and posi- tive observation, marvellously real and English. A master- piece as well as an historical record is Sir Roger de Coverley, the country gentleman, loyal servant of constitution and church, justice of the peace, patron of the church, whose es- tate shows on a small scale the structure of the English nation. * See the last thirty numbers of the Spectator. ADDISON. 313 This domain is a little state, paternally governed, but still gov- erned. Sir Roger rates his tenants, passes them in review in church, knows their affairs, gives them advice, assistance, com- mands ; he is respected, obeyed, loved, because he lives with them, because the simplicity of his tastes and education puts him almost on a level with them ; because in his position as magistrate, old landholder, rich man, benefactor, and neighbor, he exercises a moral and legal, a useful and respected author- ity. Addison at the same time shows in him the solid and pe- culiar EngUsh character, built of heart of oak, with all the knots of the primitive bark, which can neither be softened nor planed down, a great fund of kindness which extends to ani- mals, love of country and bodily exercises, a disposition to command and discipline, the feeling of subordination and res- pect, much common sense and little finesse, the habit of dis- playing and establishing in public his singularities and oddities, careless of ridicule, without thought of bravado, solely because these men acknowledge no judge but themselves. A hundred traits depict the times ; a lack of reading, a remnant of belief in witchcraft, peasant and hunting manners, the ignorances of an artless or backward mind. Sir Roger gives the children, who answer their catechism well, a Bible for themselves, and a quarter of bacon for their mothers. When a verse pleases him he sings it for half a minute after the congregation has finished. He kills eight fat pigs at Christmas, and sends a pudding and a pack of cards to each poor family in the parish. When he goes to the theatre, he supplies his servants with cudgels to protect themselves from the thieves which, he says, infest Lon- don. Addison returns a score of times to the old knight, al- ways discovering some new aspect of his character, a disinter- ested observer of humanity, curiously assiduous and discern- ing, a true creator, having but a step to go to enter, like Rich- ardson and Fielding, upon the great work of modern literature, the novel of manners and customs. Beyond this, all is poetry. It has flowed through his prose a thousand times more sincere and beautiful than in his verses. Rich oriental fancies are displayed, not with a shower of sparks as in Voltaire, but under a calm and abundant light, which makes the regular folds of their purple and gold undulate. The music of the long cadenced and tranquil phrases leads the 14 314 ADD ISO iV. mind sweetly amidst romantic splendors and enchantments, and the deep sentiment of ever young nature recalls the happy quietude of Spenser.* Through gentle railleries or moral es- says we feel that his imagination is happy, delighted in the con- templation of the sway of the forests which clothe the moun- tains, the eternal verdure of the valleys, invigorated by fresh springs, and the wide horizons undulating to the border of the distant sky. Great and simple sentiments come naturally to unite these noble images, and their measured harmony creates a unique spectacle, worthy to fascinate the heart of an honest man by its gravity and sweetness. Such are the Visions of Mirza, which I will give almost entire : « " ' On the fifth day of the moon, which according to tlie custom of my forefathers I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a. profound contemplation on the vanity of human life ; and passing from one thought to another : Surely, said I, man is but a shadow and life a dream. Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding'sweet, and wrought into a va- riety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from any thing I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arriv- al in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures. . . . " ' He (the genius) then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it. Cast thy eyes eastward, said he, and tell me what thou seest. I see, said I, a liuge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it. The valley that thou seest, said he, is the Vale of Mis- ery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of eterni- ty.' What is the reason, said I, that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other ? What thou seest, said he, is that portion ot eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consumma- tion. Examine now, said he, this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it. I see a bridge, said I, stand- ing in the midst of the tide. The bridge thou seest, said he, is human life ; consider it attentively. Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it * Story of Abdallah and of Hilpa. ADDISON. 3 1 5 consisted of thr,ee-score and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hun- dred. As 1 was counting the arclies, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches : but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. But tell me further, said he, what thou discoverest on it. I see multitudes of people passing over it, said 1, and a black cloud hanging on each end of it. As I looked more attentively I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it ; and upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people nojftoner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer togethei towards the end of the arches that were entire. " ' There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. " ' I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several droj^ping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing that stood by them to save them- selves. Some were looking up towards heaven in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes and danced before them ; but often when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sunk. In this confusion of ob- jects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands, and others with urinals, who ran to and fro on the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them. . . . " ' I here fetched a deep sigh. Alas, said I, man was made in vain ! How is he given away to misery and mortality ! tortured in life, and swallowed up ill death !— The genius, being moved with compassion towards me, bid me