CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY ENGUSH COLLECTION THE GIFT OF JAMES MORGAN HART PROFESSOR OF ENGUSH Cornell University Library PR 85.P18R4 Representative English 'jjeraj"™ ''^^^^ 3 1924 013 357 938 WW Cornell University Library The original of tiiis 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/details/cu31924013357938 ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. BEERS' A CENTURY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE. 1776- 1876. Selections from writers not living in 1876. t6mo. 435 pp. BOSWELL'S LIFE OF DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. Abridged. i2mo. 689 pp. BRIDGMAN AND DAVIS'S BRIEF DECLAMATIONS. Some zoo three-minute declamations, mostly good examples of current public speaking. i2mo. 381 pp. BRIGHT'S ANGLO-SAXON READER. Edited with notes and glossary, izmo. 393 pp. TEN BRINK'S HISTORY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. Vol.1. To Wiclif. Large izmo. 409 pp. Vol. II. Wyclif, Chaucer, Earliest Drama, Renaissance. Large izmo. 339 pp. CLARK'S PRACTICAL RHETORIC. For instruction in English Composition and Revision in Colleges and Intermediate Schools, i2mo. 395 pp. BRIEFER PRACTICAL RHETORIC, izmo. 318 pp. THE ART OF READING ALOUD. i6mo. 159 pp. CORSON'S HANDBOOK OF ANGLO-SAXON AND EARLY ENGLISH. Large izmo. 600 pp. JOHNSON'S CHIEF LIVES OF THE POETS. Edited by Matthew Arnold, to which are appended Macaulay's and Carlyle s Essays on Boswell's " Life 0/ Johnson." izmo. 493 pp. Macaulay's and Carlyle's Essays separate, izmo. Boards, 100 pp. LOUNSBURY'S HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, including a brief account of Anglo-Saxon and early English litera- ture. i6mo. 381 pp. TAINE'S HISTORY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. ic8i pp. Large izmo. The same in 2 vols. i2mo. Library edition. The same. Abridged, and edited by John Fiskb. Large i2mo. 502 pp. HENRY HOLT & CO., New York. REPRESENTATIVE ENGLISH LITERATURE FROM CHAUCER TO TENNYSON SELECTED AND SUPPLEMENTED WITH HISTORICAL CONNECTIONS AND A MAP BY HENRY S. PANCOAST Lecturer on English Literature in the American Society ^or the Extension of University Teachings Instructor in the De Lancey School^ Phila, NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1893 Copyright, 1S93, BY HENRY HOLT & CO. THE MEESHON COMPANY PSESS, BAHV.AY, N. J. TO ffU'S pupils, PAST AND PRESENT, AMONG WHOM IT IS MY PRIVILEGE TO COUNT MANY FRIENDS. PREFACE. " There are already so many text-books of English literature that it seems only proper to state why I have added another to the list. I have attempted to write a book which should answer the needs of those who are beginning to teach the subject accord- ing to new methods. In our schools the study of English literature is at present in an experimental and transition stage. In boys' schools especially its value is still practically ques- tioned ; its standing uncertain ; the methods of teaching it ill defined. Notwithstanding this confusion, there has been for some time a growing tendency to abandon the old plan of memorizing dry facts about authors and their works, and, in- stead, to bring the student into living contact with the litera- ture itself. The beginner is no longer put off with "elegant extracts" — those scraps and fragments from the banquet : — he now knows that Ha7nlet does not consist of the soliloquy, or Julius CcBsar of Mark Antony's oration. This study of the great classics in their entirety is an incal- culable gain ; but it should not be allowed to wholly super- sede the study of the historical development of the literature. In our anxiety to avoid studying the history of the literature without the literature, we are in danger of rushing into the opposite error, and of studying the literature torn from its liv- ing historic and human relations. That the second error is less serious than the first affords no sufficient justification ; it is serious enough to be avoided. That a great work must be interpreted in the light of its time ; that any serious study of literature involves the study of history — these and similar VI PREFACE. propositions have become axioms of literary study and criti- cism. But while generally recognized in the higher education, there is a disposition to ignore them in our schools ; a dispo- sition which the English admission requirements of our col- leges are admirably adapted to foster. Believing that some historical study of English literature should be pursued, with tact and under due restrictions, in the upper classes of our secondary schools, I have attempted to prepare a book which should put the student in direct con- tact with some representative masterpieces, without ignoring the study of literature from its historical side. I have tried to help the student to study these representative works of the great literary epochs in the light of the men and the time which produced them ; I have tried to make him feel, further, that every literary epoch is but an episode in a continuous and intelligible story of literary development. To accomplish this within any practicable limits compelled the omission of much that I should gladly have included. While I cannot venture to hope that I have always shown a right appreciation of rela- tive values, I believe the general principles of selection in such a case to be plain and indisputable, however difificult of application. I have endeavored to awaken an intei'est in a few great authors, and that I might treat of them at compara- tive length I have unhesitatingly passed over a host of other writers, believing that they could be safely left for more advanced work. The literary tables will give the student some idea of the great names of the respective periods. The manner in which the book should be used depends upon the needs of each particular class and must be left largely to the tact and judgment of the teacher. The teacher is more than any text-book, and I have tried to recognize this by making the present handbook as flexible as possible. Thus when the class is a comparatively elementary one, some of the historical matter might be omitted, and the time spent on the selected works with the biographical and other sections immediately related to them. If the class is an advanced one, free use of the reference lists and footnotes will enable it to PREFACE. vii pursue many subjects merely hinted at in the text. This should be done whenever possible, and the student encouraged in an intelligent use of books. The teacher can easily supplement the selections here given, or, if needs be, substitute others. In the case of shorter poems, Ward's English Poets will be found invaluable for this purpose. Many topics lightly touched on— as The Influence^ of Patriotism on the English Drama ; Wordsworth and Carlyle : their Points of Contact- may be used as subjects for essays, if the class is far enough advanced. Unless the class is a backward one I would insist upon its thoroughly mastering the first, or general, literary table, (pp. 7 and 8) ; the other tables are meant for reference. The greater number of authors demanding mention in the Modern Period forced me to omit biographical details. These can, however, be easily supplied. Poetry necessarily occupies a larger space than prose in the selections, as most prose master- pieces, otherwise desirable, proved too long for insertion. To partially remedy this I have treated of certain prose writers, particularly the recent novelists, at comparative length, and when time allows some of their works might profitably be read by the class. Lack of space has forced me to greatly restrict the notes to the selections, but, with a capable teacher and a few reference books, I believe this will prove rather an advantage than otherwise. Before attempting a book like the present the pupil should have some acquaintance with good writers. We can hardly begin too early to develop a literary taste. During his early years at school the pupil should be persist- ently familiarized with much that is excellent in our literature as a preparation for his after study. A large body of litera- ture is within his grasp, which he may be led to enjoy without regard to historical development. Such poems as " The Lady of the Lake," " Marmion," " Rokeby," " Evangeline," " Miles Standish," " The Vision of Sir Launfal," " The Lays of Ancient Rome " ; shorter pieces, some of which can be Vlll PREFACE. committed to memory, as " The Battle of the Baltic,'' " The Defense of Lucknow," " The Pied Piper of Hamelin," " The Wreck of the Hesperus," and a host of others ; certain plays of Shakespeare — Julius Ccesar and The Merchant of Venice are among the best for the purpose — all these can be used to educate the literary sense. In prose, the range of available classics is perhaps even wider : Rip van Winkle, and many of Irving's sketches, Hawthorne's Wonderbook. Mrs. Ewing's stories. Lanier's King Arthur and Mabino- geon and Bullfinch's Age of Chivalry will serve as an in- troduction to the Middle Ages ; Kingsley's Greek Heroes and Church's Stories from Homer, to classic times. Con- stant early association with such books will prepare a student to enter with intelligent enjoyment on the study of literature in some of its historical connections. In conclusion, I most sincerely thank my many helpers and well-wishers. My indebtedness to others cannot be repaid or over-estimated in a world where " everything is bought and sold " it is a wholesome and a beautiful thing to find that so much kindly help and good will can be "had for the asking." The admirable index is the work of Mr. Albert J. Edmunds. H. S. P. Germantown, December 7, 1892. CONTENTS. ITntrobuction. PAGE What Literature is i The Great Divisions of English Literature 4 General Table of its Four Periods 7 part If. THE PERIOD OF PREPARATION.— 670-1400. CHAPTER I. Race, Literature, and Language Before Chaucer. The Making of the Race 12 Literature Before the Norman Conquest 18 The Norman Conquest 20 The Making of the Language 22 Table of Early English Literature 25 General and Special Notes and References 26 CHAPTER II. Geoffrey Chaucer. Chaucer's Century 27 Chaucer's Life 3° Chaucer's Works 34 Language and Versification 3^ The Canterbury Tales 38 Introduction to The Nonne Preste's Tale 44 Geoffrey Chaucer. The Nonne Preste's Tale 47 Good Counseil 59 Notes and References 60 Table of Chaucer's Century 61 X CONTENTS. part mr. THE PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE.— 1400-1660. CHAPTER I. The Revival of Learning. PAGE The Coming of the New Learning to England 65 The Expression of the New Learning in Literature 69 Elizabethan England 72 Edmund Spenser 77 Prothalamion 82 The English Drama Before Shakespeare 87 William Shakespeare 96 Table of Shakespeare's Works 105 Introduction to The Merchant of Venice 106 The Merchant of Venice 1 14 Francis Bacon 187 Of Great Place 191 Elizabethan Songs 194 The Passionate Shepherd to His Love Marlowe 194 Good-morrow Thomas Heywood 195 The Noble Nature Ben Jonson 196 Song Shakespeare 196 Sonnet Shakespeare 197 Tables : The Revival of Learning. The Rise of the Drama. The Elizabethan Period 198-203 Notes and References 204 CHAPTER n. The Puritan in Literature. The England of Milton 205 Later Elizabethan Literature 209 The Seventeenth Century Lyrists 210 To Daffodils Herrick 213 To the Virgins Herrick 214 Veriue Herbert 214 Going to the Wars Lovelace 215 The Retreate VaughAN 215 John Milton t 216 L' Allegro 227 // Penseroso 232 Sonnets 238 Table of the Puritan Period 240 Notes and References 242 CONTENTS. XI part fllFir. THE PERIOD OF FRENCH INFLUENCE.— 1660- cir. 1750. AGE The England of the Restoration 245 John Dryden. Song for Si. Cecilia's Day 251 The Eighteenth Century Essays 253 Joseph Addison 258 Ned Softly the Poet. 260 Sir Roger at Church ^ 263 The Fine Lady's Journal 265 Alexander Pope 269 Introduction to The Rape of the Lock 275 The Rape of the Lock 280 Table of Period of French Influence 307 Notes and References 310 part 111^. THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. CHAPTER I. The Beginning of Modern Literature. The Reactionary Movement 313 Johnson and the Older Literature 3I7 Robert Burns 326 To a Mouse 328 Bruce's Address to His Army at Bannockbum 330 A Man's a Man for a' That 330 A Red, Red Rose 33^ The Era of Revolution 332 William Wordsworth 334 Ode to Duty 338 Milton 339 At the Grave of Burns, 1803 34° The Solitary Reaper 342 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1803 343 Written in London, September, 1802, 343 xu CONTENTS. PAGE S. T. Coleridge 344 Introduction to The Ancient Mariner 349 The Ancient Mariner 355 Sir Walter Scott 372 The Battle of Beal'an Duine 379 County Guy 385 Border Ballad 385 Charles Lamb 386 Chris fs Hospital Five-and- Thirty Years Ago 388 Byron, Shelley, and Keats ■. 399 Lord Byron. From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage 405 Sonnet on Chillon 407 P. B. Shelley. To a Skylark 407 John Keats. Ode on a Grecian Urn 412 On First Looking into Chapman's Homir. 413 CHAPTER II. Recent Writers, The New Era in Literature, History, and Science 414 Macaulay, Carlyle, Ruskin, and Recent Prose 416 The Growth of the Novel 420 Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot 421 Recent Poetry 427 The Poetry of Evasion 428 The Poetry of Doubt : Arnold and Clough 428 The Poetry of Faith and Hope 429 Tennyson and Robert Browning ' 429 Thomas Carlyle. On Robert Burns 435 T. B. Macaulay. On Samuel Johnson 441 Robert Browning. Evelyn Hope 472 Mulyikeh 474 My Last Duchess 478 Epilogue 479 Alfred Tennyson. Ode. On the Death of the Duke of Wellington 480 Tears, Idle Tears 487 CONTENTS. xiu PAGE Alfred Tennyson — Cent. Song of Arthur's Knights 488 Crossing the Bar '. 489 Table of Modern English Period 490 Notes and References 492 appen&ij. Literary Map of England. . . .■. 494 List of Authors to Accompany Map 495 Chaucer Glossary 497 Index 503 REPRESENTATIVE ENGLISH LITERATURE. IFntro&uctton. I. — What Literaturk is. The word literature is used in two distinct senses: (a) Its first and literal meaning is — something written, from the Latin, litera, a letter of the alphabet, an in- scription, a writing, a manuscript, a book, etc. In this general sense the literature of a nation includes all the books it has produced, without respect to subject or ex- cellence. (b) By literature, in its secondary and more restricted sense, we mean one especial kind of written composition, the character of which may be indicated but not strictly defined. Works of literature in this narrower sense aim to please, to awaken thought, feeling, or imagination, rather than to instruct ; they are addressed to no special class of readers, and they possess an excellence of expres- sion which entitles them to rank as works of art. Like painting, music, or sculpture, literature is concerned mainly with feelings, and, in this, is distinguished from the books of knowledge, or science, whose first object is to teach facts.* Much that is literature in the strictest sense does deal with facts, whether of history or of science, but * " To ascertain and communicate facts is the object of science ; to quicken our life into a higher consciousness through the feelings is the func- tion of art." — " The Scientific Movement and Literature," in "Studies in Literature," by Edward Dowden, p. 95. 2 INTRODUCTION. it uses these facts to arouse the feelings or to please the imagination. It takes them out of a special department of knowledge and makes them of universal interest, and.it expresses them in a form of permanent beauty or value. Shakespeare's historical plays, Carlyle's French Revolu- tion, or an essay of De Quincey or Macaulay, while they tell us facts, fulfill these conditions, and are strictly literature ; and, in general, poetry, histories, biographies, novels, essays, and the like, may be included in this class. It is in this stricter sense that we shall here- after use the word. Literature is occupied chiefly with the great elemen- tary feelings and passions which are a necessary part of human nature. Such feelings as worship, „love, hate, ThePerma- f^^*"' ambition, rcmorsc, jealousy, are com- Se?s"iify of Lul 1^01 to man, and, through them, men, sepa- erature. rated by education or surroundings, are able to sympathize with or understand each other. Literature, expressing and appealing to such feelings, shares in their permanence and universality. In the poetry of the Persian Omar Khayyam, of the Greek Anacreon, of the Roman Horace, and of the English Robert Herrick, we find the same familiar mood. Each is troubled by the pathetic shortness of human life ; each shrinks from the thought of death and tries to dispel it with the half-de- spairing resolve to enjoy life while it lasts. Neither time nor place prevents us from entering into the work of each of these poets, in many respects so widely sepa- rated, because they express alike a commori human feel- ing, which we can understand through imagination or experience. So the Antigone ■ of Sophocles and the King Lear of Shakespeare treat of the same elemen- tary feeling, the love between parent and child, and, while that feeling lasts, those immortal portrayals oi it will be admired and understood. WHAT LITERATURE IS. 3 Finally, works of literature have a beauty, power, and individuality of expression, which helps to make them bpth permanent and universal. Not only is there a value in the thought or feelings contained in a lit- erary masterpiece ; there is a distinct and ^'*""'' ^*y'^- added value in the special form in which thought and feel- ing have been embodied. Each great writer has his own style or manner, his characteristic way of addressing us. This style is the expression of his personal character ; we learn to know him by it, as we recognize a man by his gait or by the tones of his voice. This personal ele- ment is another distinguishing feature of literature, and further separates it from books of science. Through his books a great writer expresses a part of his inner self. He is impelled to give us, as best he can through written words, the most that he has gained by his experience. In the poet's verse, we read the lesson he has learned from living; it is English iiitera- warm and alive for all time with his sorrows, exaltations, hopes, or despairs. Literature is born of life, and it is in this sense that Milton calls a good book " the precious life-blood of a master-spirit embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life."* Thus we learn to look on the works of each great writer as an actual part of a human life, mysteriously pre- served and communicated to us. But we must go farther, and realize that each nation as well as each individual has a distinct character and a continuous inner life; that, in generation after generation, men and women have lived who have embodied in literature, not their own souls merely, but some deep thought or feeling of their time and nation. Often thousands feel dumbly what the great writer alone is able to express. Accordingly literature is not merely personal but national. The character of a nation manifested through action, we commonly call its * Milton's " Areopagitica." 4 INTRODUCTION. history ; the character of a nation written down in its books, or throbbing in its dramas, songs, and ballads, we call its literature. For more than twelve hundred years, the English people has been revealing its life, and its way of looking at life, through its books : to study English literature is, therefore, to study one great expres- sion of the character and historic development of the English race. II. — The Great Divisions of English Literature. When we look at this life of the English race as ex- pressed in literature through more than twelve centuries, we find that it possesses marked characteristics at cer- tain periods. For centuries the mind of England is stimulated and influenced by a foreign civilization. The nation and its literature, like the individual life, pass through moods of faith and passion, of frivolity and unbelief. English literature, reflecting or expressing these varied influences, or changing moods, naturally divides itself into the following four great periods of development : 1. The Period of Preparation ; 670 to about 1400. 2. The Period of Italian Influence; about \ ^00 to 1660. 3. The Period of French Influence ; 1660 to about iyi,o. 4. The Modern English Period ; since 1750. These divisions must be broadly laid down at the start, although their meaning will become plainer as we advance. I. — The Period of Preparation. From 670 to about 1400. During this period England made for her use a na- tional language. During this time also the various races and tribes whose intermixture makes the modern Eng- lish, became substantially one people. THE PERIOD OF PREPARATION. S In order to have a great national literature it is neces- sary to have a great national language. Such a language England did not always possess. The settlement of the island by different races or tribes, each having a different speech or dialect, made England for centuries a land of confusion of tongues. The Norman Conquest (1066) brought for a time another element of confusion by the introduction of French. During the fourteenth century the language spoken in and about London, a form of English largely mixed with French, asserted its suprem- acy. This English became more and more generally established, and from it the language we speak to-day, however enlarged or modified, is directly derived. The centuries during which England was forming her national speech stand by themselves in the history of her litera- ture. Like a child she struggles with the difficulties of language. Some write in one or another kind of Eng- lish, some in Latin, some in French. By the end of the fourteenth century this difficulty is conquered ; we pass out of the centuries of preparation into those of greater literary expression. II. — The Period of Italian Influence. From about 1400 to 1660. Late in the fourteenth century the mind of England became greatly stimulated and directed by an influence from without. England began to share in the Renais- sance, or the awakening of the mind of Europe to a new culture, a fresh delight in life and in beauty, a new enthu- siasm for freedom in thought and action. This great movement first took shape in Italy. Nation after nation kindled with the ardor of the new spirit, and England, like the rest, drew from Italy knowledge and inspiration. Education in England was transformed by men who learned in Florence or in Bologna what they taught at Oxford or at Cambridge, until the New Learning and 6 INTRODUCTION. the new spirit found their unrivaled literary expression in the reigns of Elizabeth and James (15 58-1625). III. — The Period of French Influence. From 1660 to about 1750. After the new thoughts and mighty passions that came with the Renaissance had spent their force, England seemed for the time to have grown tired of great feelings either in poetry or in religion. She became scientific, intellectual, cold, and inclined to attach great importance to the style or manner of writing, thinking that great works were produced by study and art rather than by the inspiration of genius. This tendency was encour- aged, perhaps originated, by the example and influence of the French. This was during the brilliant reign of Louis XIV., when such writers as Moliere, Racine, Cor- neille, and Boileau, were making French literature and lit- erary standards fashionable in Europe. Charles II. ascended the throne in 1660, after his youth of exile on the Continent, bringing with him a liking for things French ; and for awhile some English writers tried to com- pose according to the prescription laid down by Boileau and his followers. IV. — The Modern English Period. Since about 1750. During this final period England outgrew her tempo- rary mood of unbelief, criticism, and shallowness, and with it her reliance on the literary style of France. She has again expressed in her literature new and deep feelings; a wider love for mankind and a belief in the brotherhood of all men ; a new power of entering into the life of nature. She has depended little for her inspiration on other nations, although to some extent influenced by Germany and Italy, and has produced literary works second only to those of the Elizabethan masters. These periods, in detail, form respectively the subjects of the Four Parts into which this book is divided. TABLES. Table I. — English Literature. (GENERAL TABLE OF THE FOUR PERIODS.) I. — The Formation of the Language, 670-1400. r. Before the Norman Conquest. THE BKITONS (CKLTS). THE ENGLISH. Early Bards, about 500-600. Llynarch Hen. Taleisin. Anev/rin. Merlin. a. The Northumbrian Writers, 670-800. Caedmon. Bede. Cynewulf. h. The Revival of Letters in Wessex, 880- 1066. King Alfred, 84^-901. Dunstan. Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, revised cir. 850-860. (See Table II, *'Early English.") 2. After the Norman Conquest (1066-1400). BRITONS (or welsh). Anglo-Saxon Chronicle to death of Stephen, 1154. Popular Songs and Ballads. "Robin Hood" Ballads. ' ' The Owl and the Night- ingale." ANGLO-NORMAN. ' Song of Roland." ' Romance of King Alex- ander." * The Romance of Sir Tris- trem," 1270 (?), Mabinogion. — Entrance of Celtic Literature into English. Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of Britain, 1147. Walter Map continues Arthurian Legends, 12th century. Layamon's Brut, 1205. Geoffrey Chaucer, and Union of English and Norman, (See Table III, " Chaucer's Century.") U. — The Period of Italian Influence, 1400-1660. 1. The Revival of Learning. a. In Education. b. In Literature. Wyatt and Surrey. (See Table IV, "Revival of Learning.") The Elizabethan Period, j (See Tables V and VI, " Rise of the Shakespeare. ( Drama," and "Elizabethan Period.") 2. The Expression of Reformation in Literature, Puritanism. \ Milton. [-(See Table VII, "Puritan England.") Bunyan. ) 8 INTRODUCTION^. III. — The Period of French Influence, i66o-cir. 1750. 1. Restoration to Death of Dryden, 1660-1700. 2. The Augustan Age (Critical School). Pope, Addison, Steele. (See Table VIII.) IV. — The Modern English Period, 1750. 1. The Reaction Against the Critical School (or Augustan Age). (t. The New Sympathy with Nature. Ramsey's Gentle Shepherd, 1725. b. The New Sympathy with Man ; Rise of Modern Democracy. c. German Influence in Coleridge and Carlyle. (See Table VIII, " Rise of the Modern Literature," and Table IX," Victorian Age.") 2. Recent Writers, 1830. Carlyle. Tennyson. Browning, (See Table IX, Victorian Age.") PART I. PERIOD OF PREPARATION. (670 to 1400.) PERIOD OF PREPARATION. 670 to 1400. Cbapter ir. Race, Literature, and Language Before Chaucer. It is not until the fourteenth century that the language of English literature becomes so like the English of to- day that we can understand it without special study. Before that time, while England had no national speech, we find many books written in Latin, some in Norman- French, and others in different varieties of an English which seems to us almost as strange as a foreign tongue. But while the literature of our modern English language may be said to begin in the comparatively modern English of some of the great writers of the fourteenth century, the literature of England stretches back for six hundred years before that time. Geoffrey Chaucer, who lived in the latter half of the fourteenth century, may be thought of as beginning this more modern period. The five centuries since his birth are bright with clusters of great writers, and at first may seem to us to contain all that is worth study in the literature of England. But if we look more closely, we see that England's great literary production during the latter period is directly con- nected with her slow centuries of preparation in the earlier; that her mental life, and the literature which is its most direct expression, have a continuous growth and history for more than twelve hundred years. We cannot now do more than indicate some main features 1 2 PERIOD OF PREPARA TION. of this preparatory period. Looking at it in outline, we see that the way was prepared for the later literature, 1. By the making of the Race. The modern English people, whose national character English Literature interprets and expresses, was formed during this time by the mixture of different race ele- ments. 2. By the Literature before the Norman Conquest. 3. By the Norman Conquest, with its far-reaching effects on race, literature, and language. 4. By the making of the Language out of the combina- tion of different tongues. THE MAKING OF THE RACE. The English settlers of Britain were Low-German tribes, resembling in language, and to some extent in character, their neighbors the Frisians, the modern Dutch, to whom they were "closely related by blood. The English. „ , , , —,■,., r Two of the three English tribes came from what are now the Schleswig-Holstein provinces of North- ern Germany, the country about the mouth of the river Elbe which lies to the north of Holland. The third tribe, the Jutes, held that peninsula yet farther northward which is now part of Denmark. This early home of the English, with its harshness, gloom, and privations, was a land to breed men. Fierce storms beat down upon it, and often in the spring and autumn the sea swept over its sunken, muddy coasts, flooding it far inland. Dismal curtains of fog settled over it ; its miles of tangled forests were soaked and dripping with frequent rains. The other home of the English was the sea. The eldest son suc- ceeded to his father's land ; as soon as the younger sons grew old enough they took to the war-ships to win fame and plunder by slaughter and pillage. Their high-prowed galleys were a menace and a terror to the richer coast THE MAKING OF THE RACE. i3 settlements far southward, and prayers were regularly- offered in some churches for a deliverance from their fury. Swift in pursuit, they were swift also in flight. One of their poets contrasts life on their wintry waters with the joy of home : " Knows not he who finds happiest Home upon earth, How I lived through long Winter In labor and care, On the icy-cold ocean An exile from joy. Cut off from dear kindred. Encompassed with ice ; Hail flew in hard showers. And nothing I heard But the wrath of the waters. The icy-cold way ; At times the swan'ssong; In the scream of the gannet I sought for my joy ; In the moan of the sea-whelp For laughter of men ; In the song of the sea-mew For drinking of mead." * These early English were fair-haired, blue-eyed men, big-boned and muscular, with the fearlessness and audacity oi the hero, and the rapacity and cruelty of the savage. A young race with stores of unwasted vigor; with an immense, if brutal, energy ; with an enormous and unspent capacity for life, for feeling, for thought, for action. Nor were they mere barbarians. They had that instinct for law and freedom which in the coming generations was to build Parliaments and create Re- publics ; they had no less that splendid seriousness, that reverence for life and death, that profoundly religious *"The Sea-farer." Morley's trans. " Eng. Writers," vol. ii. p. 21, The entire poem may be read with advantage. 14 PERIOD OF PREPARATION. spirit which animates and inspires the greatest produc- tions of English literature. In spite of all their delight in the joy of battle, in spite of their feasting and drunken revelry, there runs through their poetry the persistent undertone of a settled melancholy. They look death steadily in the face as " the necessary end "; * they are continually impressed by the sense of the power of Fate, against which the weapons of the warrior are idle. " One shall sharp hunger slay ; One shall the storms beat clown ; One shall be destroyed by darts ; One die in war ; One shall live losing The light of his eyes. Feel blindly with fingers ; And one, lame of foot, With sinew-wound wearily Wasteth away. Musing and mourning. With death in his mind." t In another poem we are forced to descend into the very grave and watch the dust return to dust.;]: Yet this haunting sense of the shortness of life did not produce in the early English the determination to enjoy to-day. Living in the rush of battle and tempest, it rather stimulated them to quit themselves as heroes. The English conscience speaks in such lines as these : " This is best laud from the living In last words spoken about him : — He worked ere he went his way. When on earth, against wiles of the foe. With brave deeds overcoming the devil." § * " Julius Caesar," act ii. sc. 2. t " The Fortunes of Man." Morley's trans. " Eng. Writers," vol. ii. p. 33. \ "The Grave," a characteristic poem. See Longfellow's trans, in " Poets and Poetry of Europe." § "The Sea-farer," supra. THE MAKING OF THE RACE. IS In these early English we recognize those great traits of mind and character which have continued to animate the race ; traits which in the centuries to come were to take shape in the deeds of heroes and in the songs of poets. In these half-savage pirate tribes, with their deep northern melancholy, is the germ of that masterful and aggressive nation which was to put a girdle of English round the world ; of their blood are the sea- men who chased the towering galleons of the Spanish Armada, the six hundred who charged to death at Bala- clava, or those other English, our own forefathers, who declared and maintained their inheritance of freedom. The spirit of this older England, enriched by time, is alive, too, in the words of Shakespeare, of Milton, and of Browning, as it is in the deeds of Raleigh, of Chatham, and of Gordon. When the English began to settle in Britain, about the middle" of the fifth century, the island was occupied by tribes of a people called Celts. In early times The Celts. this race held a great part of Western Eu- rope as well as the British Isles, until conquered or pushed aside by the Teutonic races, the group to which the Eng- lish belong. Scotland and Ireland were occupied by one great division of the Celts, the Gaels, and what is now Eng- land by an other, the Cymri, or, as we commonly call them, the Britons. The Celts were a very different race from the Teutons, and the Britons were as thoroughly Cel- tic in their disposition, as the English were Teutonic. For more than fourteen hundred years Celt and Teuton have dwelt together in England; for while the Britons were driven westward by the English, they were far from being exterminated, and in certain sections these two races have blended into one. This mixture of the races has been greatest in the North and West, for instance, in such counties as Devon, Somerset, Warwick, and 1 6 PERIOD OF PREPARATION. Cumberland. From the mixed race thus formed, a race which combined the genius of two dissimilar and gifted peoples, many of the greatest poets of Eng- land have sprung. Indeed it may be truly said, that English Literature is the expression and outcome, not of the English race and character alone, but of that character modified and enriched by the Celt. Not only has the Celtic blood thus mingled with the English : Celtic poetry and legend have furnished subject and in- spiration to English writers down to our own day. It is, therefore, important for us to gain some notion of the Celtic as well as of the early English spirit, for in the literature of England we recognize the presence of both. The Britons, like the English, were a huge, powerful race ; they had fierce gray or bluish eyes, and light or reddish hair. Wild as they seemed before they lost their native vigor under the Roman rule. The Britons. ,,,,,., < they had | a natural vem of poetry .and sentiment more pathetic and delicate than the somewhat prosaic and stolid English. They were quick-witted, un- stable, lacking the English capacity for dogged and per- sistent effort, easily depressed and easily exalted, quickly sensitive to romance, to beauty, to sadness. Beside the stern and massive literature of the early English, with its dark background of storm and forest, with its resolution and its fatalism, with the icy solitude of its northern ocean, stands that of the Celt, bright as fairy-land with gorgeous colors and the gleam of gold and precious stones, astir with the quick play of fancy, enlivened by an un-English vivacity and humor, and touched by an exquisite pathos. Here is the description from one of the Celtic Romances of a young knight going out to seek his fortune : " And the youth pricked forth upon a steed with head dap- pled gray, of four 'winters old, firm of limb, with shell-formed THE MAKl.YG OF THE RACE. 17 hoofs, having a bridle of linked gold on his head, and on him a saddle of costly gold. And in the youth's hand were two spears of silver, sharp, well-tempered, headed with steel, three ells in length, of an edge to wound the wind and cause blood to flow, and swifter than the fall of the dew-drop from the blade of reed-grass upon the earth when the dew of June is at the heaviest. A gold-hilted sword was upon his thigh, the blade of which was of gold, bearing a cross of inlaid gold of the hue of the lightning of heaven ; his war horn was of ivory. Before him were two brindled, white-breasted greyhounds, having strong collars of rubies about their necks, reaching from the shoulder to the ear. And the one that was on the left side bounded across to the right side, and the one on the right to the left, and like two sea-swallows sported round him. And the blade of grass bent not beneath him, so light was his step as he journeyed toward the gate of Arthur's palace." The familiar figure of the young man going forth to conquer the world in the strength of his youth is here emblazoned with all the glowing colors, the delicate fancy of the Celtic genius. Or take the following as an illustration of the Celtic sentiment and Celtic love of nature : "The maiden was clothed in a robe of flame-colored silk, and about her neck was a collar of ruddy gold, on which were precious emeralds and rubies. More yellow was her head than the flower of the broom, and her skin was whiter than the foam of the wave, and fairer were her hands and her fingers than the blossoms of the wood anemone amidst the spray of the meadow-fountain. The eye of the trained hawk, the glance of the three mewed falcon, was not brighter than hers. " Whoso beheld her was filled with her love ; four white trefoils sprung up where'er she trod." And finally, as an example of the Celtic humor, add the picture of another maiden as a study of the grotesque : 1 8 PERIOD OF PREPARATION. "And thereupon they saw a black curly-headed maiden enter, riding upon a yellow mule, with jagged thongs in her hand to urge it on ; and having a rough and hideous aspect. Blacker were her face and her hands than the blackest iron covered with pitch ; and her hue was not more frightful than her form. High cheeks had she and a face lengthened downward and a short nose with distended nostrils. And one eye was of a piercing mottled gray, and the other was black as jet deep sunk in her head. And her teeth were long and yellow, more yellow were they than the flower of the broom . . . and her figure was very thin and spare except her feet, which were of huge size."* While the early English had certain great traits of character which were lacking in the Celt — the genius for governing, steadfastness, earnestness — the Celt was strong where the English were deficient. The mingling of these races, therefore, during the long period before the outburst of literature in the fourteenth century, was an important element in the unconscious preparation for the latter time. We can better understand this by remembering that William Shakespeare, the greatest genius of the modern world, stands as the highest example of this union of Celt and Teuton. " It is not without significance that the highest type of the race, the one Englishman who has combined in the largest measure the mobility and fancy of the Celt with the depth and energy of the Teutonic temper, was born on the old Welsh and English border-land in the forest "of Arden."f LITERATURE BEFORE THE NORMAN CONQUEST. To this preparation by the making of the race must be added the education which came to the Christianity. „ ,. , , heathen English through contact with the religion and learning of Christian Europe. Christianity * " Story of Pereder," Mabinogion 114, Guest's ed. tj. R. Green, quoted in Art. on "Shakespeare," Encycl. Brit., gth edition, which consult on this subject. LITERATURE BEFORE THE NORMAN CONQUEST. ig came as a new and mighty force to the serious-minded and naturally religious English ; to it the beginning of English literature in England is directly due. Intro- duced in the north by St. Columba, and in the south by St. Augustine, it not only built churches, but founded great monastic schools, through which the culture of Italy was brought to Englishmen. It is within the walls of a monastery, the Abbey of Whitby, on the Yorkshire coast, that we find the beginning of English poetry. There Caedmon, the herdsman, sings his song of the creation, a paraphrase of the book of Genesis and other parts of the Bible. In form, his rude verse resembles that chanted for centuries by the gleeman, or harper, in the old home of his race; but it is Christianity that inspires him, and puts a new song in his mouth. It is the monastery at Jarrow, in Northum- bria, that gives England her first great prose writer, Bceda, or Bede, the teacher and monk-scholar (673-735). During Bede's lifetime the scholarship of , .. ° ^ Literary G'eat- Northumbria was superior to that of any na- ""? °^ North- ^ •' umbna, 670 to tion of Western Europe. We gain an idea of ^''°"* ^°°- the intellectual power of the English by remembering that, about a century before Bede and Caedmon, North- umbria was an illiterate and heathen kingdom. The literary greatness of Northumbria was interrupted by repeated invasions of the Danes, barbarous and heathen tribes, who at last gained possession of the North of England, under the treaty of Wed- Revival of more, 879. But learning, thus driven from south'under ai- the North, was fostered in the South by the " ' °'^'' energy and enthusiasm of Alfred the Great (880-goi), who established schools, improved the education of the clergy, made his court a center of learning, and even himself translated from the monkish Latin into English for the benefit of his people, Bede's History of the Eng- lish Church, aad other works. 20 PERIOD OF PREPARATION. After the death of Alfred, the country was continually worried by the Danes ; learning declined, and there were but few scholars of note in England from the beginning of the tenth century to the Norman Conquest. In the five centuries between the first settlement of the English and this great event, we thus see the mind of the nation refined and developed by the influence of Christianity, and by the Latin learning and the older civilization of Southern Europe, which enter through the monastic schools. THE NORMAN CONQUEST. The conquest of England by the Normans, in 1066, brought a new and powerful influence into English life and literature. The Normans, or Northmen, were originally a mixed horde of piratical adventurers from Scandinavia and Denmark, who had won for themselves a country in the North of France. Enterprising, quick- witted, open to new ideas, this race of born rulers did more than seize upon some of the fairest lands of South- ern Europe ; wherever it went, it appropriated much that was best in the civilization of those it subdued. The fur-clad and half-savage Northmen, whose black, square- sailed ships crowded up the Seine after Rollo, were heathen freebooters. The Normans who conquered England a century and a half later, were the most courtly, cultured, art-loving, and capable race in Europe. In origin, they were Teutonic, like the English ; yet so completely had they adopted and, in some respects, im- proved the civilization of the Gaul and the Roman, that scarcely an outward trace of their origin remained. After establishing themselves in Normandy, they had rapidly acquired the corrupt Latin of the region, and trans- formed it into a literary language. " They found it a barbarous jargon, they fixed it in writing, and they em- THE NORMAN CONQUEST. 21 ployed it in legislation, in poetry, in romance.* They became Christians, and eagerly absorbed the learning which the Church brought .with it, encouraging such Italian scholars as Anselm and Lanfranc to settle among them. They built splendid cathedrals and castles ; they were foremost in instituting chivalry. Their poets, or trouveres, chanted long knightly songs of battle, love, and heroism,- — Chansons de Gestes,\ as they are called, — that, in style and spirit, were not Scandinavian, but French and Southern. Yet the followers of William the Conqueror were far from being pure Teutons, even in race. In France the invading Northmen had intermar- ried with the native population, which was largely Celtic, and the two races mixed, as the English and Celt did in parts of England.;]: " The indomitable vigor of the Scan- dinavian, joined to the buoyant vivacity of the Gaul, produced the conquering and ruling race of Europe. "§ With William, too, was a motley following of adventurers from many parts of France, so that, through the Conquest, the Celtic blood, this time mixed with that of other races, mingled a second timejWith that of the English. But more important than the strain of Celtic blood that thus came with the Norman, is the fact that the civilization brought in by them was French and Latin, rather than that of the Teutonic North. The great scholars who came into England after the Conquest always wrote in Latin, while the tronvire wandered from castle to castle, singing the chanson of Norman chivalry in the Norman-French of the * Macaulay's "History of England," vol. i. pp. 21-22. f " Chansons de Gestes, songs of families, as tlie term literally means, are poems describing the history and achievements of the great men of France in early times. Geste has three senses— (r) The deeds {gesta) of a hero ; (2) the poem illustrating those deeds ; (3) the family of the hero, and the set of poems celebrating it."— Saintsbury's " Primer of French Lit.," p. 3. I P. 15 supra. § Freeman's " Norman Conquest," vol. i. p. 170. 22 PERIOD OF PREPARATION. conquering race. The Son£- of Roland, the famous Pala- din of Charlemagne, was sung by a Norman minstrel on the battlefield of Hastings,,and the language of the Nor- man court became blended with the English of the peo- ple. Besides this, many French romances were translated into English, bringing home to the popular imagination a new store of poetic fancies, the flavor of a foreign chiv- alry. The great results of this establishing of a new litera- ture in England will be better seen when we come to study Chaucer ; before this, we must glance at the effect of the Conquest on the making of the language. THE MAKING OF THE LANGUAGE. After the Conquest, French was the language of the court and of the ruling classes in England, and, with a few exceptions, it became that of literature. Use of French. ^ ' English was despised by the polished Nor- man as the barbarous tongue of a conquered people. The mass of English still used it ; but as it almost ceased to be a written or literary language, many words not used in ordinary speech were lost from its vocabulary. For a time, Norman-French and Eng- lish in its various dialects continued in use side by side as distinct languages, but it cannot have been very long before the Normans, who had permanently settled in England, began to learn the native speech. The two races drew closer together, and, by the loss of Normandy in 1204, the connection with a foreign and French speaking power was broken. Parisian French had indeed come with the Plantagenet kings ; during the reigns of John (1199-1216) and Henry III. (1216-1272) it was the fashion at court, and for some time later it con- tinued to be the language of state documents, of society, education, and the* courts of law. Yet, in spite of this, English began to be more generally employed by the THE MAKING OF THE LANGUAGE. 23 French speaking people outside of court circles. A writer of the latter part of the thirteenth century declares, " For unless a man knows French people regard him little; but the low men hold to English and to their own speech still."* By the fourteenth century this stubborn " holding to English " had made the triumph of that language cer- tain. The Hundred Years' War agfainst _, . . , o Triumph of France, begun in Edward III.'s reign (1327 English. -1377), may have helped to bring French into disfavor, and hastened, but not caused, the more general use of English. By 1339, English instead of French was em- ployed in nearly all the schools as the medium of instruc- tion. In 1362, Parliament passed an act providing that the pleadings in the law courts should henceforth be in English " because the Ikws, customs, and statutes of this realm, for that they be pleaded, showed, and judged in the French tongue, which is much unknown in the said realm." But while French was being thus given up, there was as yet no one national English established and under- stood throughout the whole of England. One kind of English was spoken in the North, another in the middle districts, and a third in the South ; and even Midland these three forms were split up into further English, dialects. These three dialects are commonly known as the Northern, Midland, and Southern English. Dur- ing the latter part of the fourteenth century the East Midland English, or that spoken in and about London, which was in the Eastern part of the Midland district, asserted itself above the confusion, and gradually be- came accepted as the national speech. Midland English had an importance as the language of Oxford and Cambridge, as well as that of the capital and the court, * Robert of Gloucester's " Rhyming Chronicle" (1272), 24 PERIOD OF PREPARA TION. but its supremacy was rather due to its being made the language of literature. The language of Wyclif's trans- lation of the Bible (1380), a variety of this Midland form, is plainly the parent of the noble Bible-English of our later versions. The poet John Gower (i 330-1408) gave up the use of French and Latin to write in the Kings or Court English, and, more than all, it was in , this same East Midland English of the court that Geof- frey Chaucer wrote the poems which became so widely read. These works gave to East Midland English a su- premacy which it never lost. Now this East Midland dialect was not a pure English. When during the early half of the fourteenth century the use of French began to be generally given up in Infusion of ^^^o'' °f English, those who began to speak French. English naturally retained and introduced into it a large number of French words. This infusion of French was greatest in the East Midland dialect, because London had a larger foreign population, and had long been the seat of a French speaking court. A mixed tongue was thus formed there, in its foundations of grammar and construction substantially English, in its vocabulary nearly one-half French. By the establishment of this special variety of English, the influence of the Norman Conquest on language was made lasting, and the effect of the French rule in England remains deeply stamped on the English we speak and write to-day. Castle, chivalry, royal, robe, coronation, debonair, courtesy, such stately words, our homelier English owes to the French and Latin. Just as the English race was improved during the preparatory period by its mixture first with the Celt, and then with the partially Celtic followers of the Conqueror, so, by its mixture with French, the Eng- lish language was made more rich and flexible. Many elements had thus combined in this composite TABLE AND REFERENCES. 25 England, and the way was made clear for a great poet who could lay the foundations of a truly national litera- ture and language. That poet was Geoffrey Chaucer. Table II. — Early English Literature. (CAEDMON TO NORMAN CONQUEST.) Northumbrian School of Writers. School of Wes- sex. LITERATURE. [670- 680. Caedmon. ' ' Paraphrases of Genesis and Exodus." Bede, 673-735. " Ecclesiastical History of England." Anonymous. " Battle of Finnesburg," written about 700. Cynewuir, about "20. " Vision of the Cross," " Christ's De- scent into Hell," "Guthlac." Alcuin, about 735-800. " Lives of Various Saints," Poems, Hymns. Anglo-Saxon Chronicle began to be written as a history. Aldhelm, 656-709. " Poetical Enigmas." Alfred, 849-901. Translation of Bede's History, and Boethius' "Consolations of Philos- ophy." " Life of Alfred." HISTORICAL EVENTS. Conversion of Edwin, King of Northum- bria, to Christian- ity, 627. The Danes first land in Englajid, 787. They conquer Northumbria, 867. Wessex rises into power under Eg- bert, 800, and in- creases under Al- fred, King of the South of England, 871. Treaty with the Danes, called Peace of Wedmore, 879. GENERAL NOTES AND REFERENCES. As the following works maybe used with advantage through- out the entire course, they will not be repeated in other tables: 1. History.— Grten's "History of the English People " will be found invaluable. Teachers are recommended to use this book freely, and to read, with the class, passages relating to Ht- erature or to social conditions. Knight's " Pictorial History of England"; Craik and Macfarlane's " History of England. ' 2. Literahire.—'&to^iorA Brooke's " Primer of English Lit- erature"; Taine's "English Literature " is a classic, and is brilliant and suggestive ; it should be used, however, with due 26 PERIOD OF PREPARA TION. allowance for its author's peculiar theories, and for critical shortcomings. Howitt's " Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets," Hutton's " Literary Landmarks o/ London," Hare's " Walks About London." For selections. Ward's " English Poets," Cook's " Selections from English Prose," Chambers's " Cyclopedia of English Literature." For reference, Ryland's " Chronological Outlines of English Litera- ture," Phillips's "Popular Manual of English Literature," Adams's " Dictionary of English Literature," Brewer's^ "Readers' Handbook," Brewer's " Dictionary of Phrase and Fable," Ploetz's " Epitome of Universal History." NOTES AND REFERENCES. — CHAPTER I. History. — Green's " Making of England," Green's " Con- quest of England." On extent of admixture of English and Celt, a question much discussed, consult Matthew Arnold's "Celtic Literature," Huxley's article on " Some Fixed Points in British Ethnology," in "Critiques and Addresses," p. 177 ; Isaac Taylor's " Words and Places "; Henry Morley's article on "The Celtic Element in English Literature" in "Clement Marot and Other Essays." Literature. — For good collection of Anglo-Saxon poems to use in class, see translations in Longfellow's " Poets and Poetry of Europe"; see also Morley's "English Writers," vols, i., ii., and Conybeare's " Illustrations of A.-S. Literature." For Beowulf : " The Deeds of Beowulf," John Earle, Claren- don Press (prose translation), and " Beowulf " metrical line for line translation, by J. M. Garnett (Ginn & Co.). For Caed- mon, Thorpe's " Metrical Paraphrase " gives translation with text. Extracts from Celtic poetry in Arnold, supra, and Mor- ley's " English Writers "; see also Guest's translation of " Mab- inogion," and Lanier's "Boy's Mabinogion." Stories from the latter may be read with class. Histories of Literature, and Criticism. — Earle's "A.-S. Litera- ture," Azarias's " Development of Literature, Old English Period," Ten Brinck's "Early English Literature." "The Englishman and the Scandinavian," by Frederic Metcalf, com- pares the Early English and Norse Literatures. CHAUCER'S CENTURY. 27 Cbapter 1111. Geoffrey Chaucer. 1340 (?) to 1400. CHAUCER'S CENTURY. To enter into the poetry of Chaucer and to understand how vast an influence he had on the development of our language and literature, we must try to imagine ourselves back in his time. Chaucer lived in a century full of in- terest and change, when England, along with the rest of Europe, was growing impatient of the cramped life and restricted thought of the Middle Ages, and was throb- bing with that new life which was to find expression in the Renaissance. The old mediaeval world yet remained, but everywhere in the midst of its most characteristic in- stitutions we can see the beginning of the new order destined to take -its place. Thus chivalry, by which in the Middle Ages the mere barbarian fighter of earlier times became the knight, was at the height of its splendor. Our first ° '■ . Chivalry. great poet lived and breathed in the very air of knightly romance ; he knew in his youth the dazzling and luxurious court of the third Edward, a king who de- lighted in the display of tournaments and who founded the Order of the Garter. As we read of Sir John Chandos and of Bertrand du Guesclin in Froissart's Chronicles of the Hundred Years' War* this brilliant and lavish reign .seems crowded with knightly feats. Yet medie- val as this world of Chaucer seems to us, as we imagine the gray turrets of its moated castles, the streaming plumes, the shining armor, and all the picturesque pageantry of its real or mimic war, agencies were at work undermining the whole fabric of its chivalry. Gun- * " The Hundred Years' War " (1338-1453), a war between France and England. 28 PERIOD OF PREPARATION. powder, first used in Europe at the battle of Cr6cy in 1346, was destined to revolutionize the mode of warfare, and to help make castle and armor things of the past. In England new forces were active in the mass of the people, which threatened to change the whole order of society. In 1349, England was desolated by a loathsome and deadly plague, the Black Death, through ociaism. ^jjich about half the entire population miserably perished. The farms were untilled, the crops scanty, and famine followed pestilence. The country was filled with vagrants driven by idleness and starvation to beggary or theft. The organization of labor was un- settled, and iron laws were passed which made matters worse. Then came bitter denunciations and riotous up- risings against all those class distinctions which had been accepted almost as part of the divinely arranged order. John Ball, the " mad priest of Kent," thundered against those who " are clothed in rich stuffs, ornamented with ermine, who dwell in fine houses while we must brave the wind and rain in our labors in the fields." Our dream of fourteenth century chivalry is thus broken by the stormy complaint of the poor, the prelude of modern democracy. In religion, too, the century is full of signs of a coming change. The Church no longer inspired that devotion which characterized the days of the earlier The Church. ■' crusader. In 1305 the Pope removed from Rome to Avignon, and the reverence and divinity which had hedged him about as the declared " Vicar of Christ on Earth " was greatly lessened when men saw him the creature of the growing power of France. The multiply- ing corruptions in the Church itself, the sordidness and lack of spirituality in its clergy, moved earnest men to scorn and satire. In all this we see signs of the coming Reformation. CHAUCER'S CENTURY. 29 The old scholastic learning of the Middle Ages yet lingered in Chaucer's England. The Oxford Clerk, in The Canterbury Tales, delights in Aristotle, an The New author of first importance in the old educa- beaming, tion of the monastic schools. Yet a New Learning has already arisen in Italy, and in the work of Chaucer him- self has entered English literature. Twenty years before the birth of Chaucer, Dante — the first supremely great poet since the classic writers — had died in exile in Ravenna, leaving for all time the expression of the soul of mediaeval Christendom in the "Divine Comedy!' When Chaucer was a year old, Petrarch, the sojineteer of Laura, a poet and scholar who was a great leader in the new way of feeling and thinking, was crowned with laurel at Rome. Boccaccio was pouring out, in the prose tales of his Decamerone, the world's new delight in the beauty and good things of this life. This threefold change, which marked the breaking up of the mediaeval and the beginning of the modern world, expressed itself in England in the works of three great writers. The Social movement found its mouthpiece in William Langland, 1332-1400 ; the new Religious spirit in Wyclif, while the New Learning of Italy enters into the verse of GEOFFREY Chaucer (cir. 1 340-1400). The well-nigh hopeless cry of the people against the social evils and a corrupt church goes up in the Vision of Piers the Plowman, of Langland. The poet falls asleep and sees in his vision the world — his distracted English world — as a "fair Piers the piow- field full of folk." There are plowmen, the fruit of whose toil the gluttons waste, men in rich apparel, chafferers, lawyers who will not open their mouths except for gold, pardoners from Rome, who traffic with the people for pardons, and divide with the parish priest the silver of the poor. The world makes a pilgrimage to seek 3° PERIOD OF PREP AHA TION. Truth, and finds a guide in Piers, a plowman, at work in the fields. He bids them wait until he has finished his half-acre, then he will lead them. " The equality of all men before God, the gospel of labor — these are the two great doctrines found in this poem."* In religion John Wyclif, by his fearless attack on the ill- gotten wealth and corruptions of the church, by certain of his religious doctrines, and by his translation of the Bible (nSb), stands as the greatest mouth- John Wyclif. . , , . . , , i i i r piece of the new spirit and the herald ot the Reformation. Wyclif, too, by giving up the Latin of the mediaeval schoolmen, and speaking directly to the people in homely English, shows us that learning was ceasing to be the exclusive possession of priest and clerk. Finally, the new learning of Italy colors the verse of Chaucer, and mingles with its mediaeval hues. In his work, more than in that of any other writer, Chaucer. ^ this crowded fourteenth century survives for us ; there, indeed, its men and women breathe and act before us — alive veritably to-day beyond the power of five centuries of time and change. GEOFFREY CHAUCER.— 1340 (?)-i400. Our knowledge of Chaucer's life is meagre and frag- mentary ; many points are uncertain, and much left to conjecture. Yet Chaucer is real to us through his books, and the little we do know of his life is remarkably signi- ficant of its general character. Geoffrey Chaucer, the son of John Chaucer, a wine mer- chant on Thames Street, was born in London about 1340. As a boy he learned something of the court, for Jie was page in the household of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, the second son of Edward III. As a youth, he knew some- thing of war and camps, for he took part in a campaign * Green's " History of English People," vol. i. p. 442. GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 3' in France in 1359, probably as an esquire, was taken prisoner and ransomed. Attached to tlie court, he was sent on diplomatic missions to various foreign countries. In 1372, he went to Genoa to arrange a commercial treaty, and remained in Italy about a year. He was there brought directly under the influence of that New Learning which was to re-create the mind of Europe. Here, too, he probably met Petrarch, its greatest living represen- tative. Two years later he was given a position in the Custom House at London. In 1366 he was returned to Parliament as Knight of the Shire of Kent, but in the same year lost his place as Controller of the Customs, in the absence of his patron John of Gaunt— the " time- honored Lancaster " of Shakespeare's Richard II. For awhile he knew poverty, bearing it with characteristic good humor. On the accession (1399) of Henry IV., the son of his former patron, his fortunes again improved ; he was granted an annuity of forty marks, but died on the 25th of the October following, closing the eyes, which had seen so much, in his quiet home at Westminster, while the dawn grows over Europe and the new century is born. Little as we know of Chaucer, we can see at how many points he touched the varied and brilliant life of his time, knowing it not merely as an onlooker, but as a practical man of affairs, himself an actor in jjan of the its restless activities. He was a man of the world, but one who added to the quick eye and retentive mind the poet's tenderness and sympathy with suffering, the philosopher's large-minded toleration of human follies and mistakes. And Chaucer, like Shake- speare, learned not only from life but from ^^^^^^^ books. He would return from his work at the Custom House to read until his eyes were " dazed and dull." We may agree with Lowell that in Chaucer's 32 PERIOD OF PREPARATION. description of the Oxford Clerk, the poet writes out of the fulhiess of a personal sympathy. " For he haclde geten him yit no benefice, Ne was so worldly for to have office. For him was levere have at his beddes heede Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reede. Of Aristotle and his philosophie, Then robes riche, or fithele or gay sawtrie." Chaucer the poet had so absorbed the tales of trouvere and Italian, as to make them live anew, in his verse, on English soil. Chaucer the student translated Boethius's Consolations of Philosophy and wrote a scientific treatise on the astrolabe.* Lover of men and lover of books, Chaucer Lover of nature. . 11, r . <■ 1 1 IS no less the lover of nature, for her alone delighting to leave his studies. "And as for me, though that I kon but lytee, On bokes for to rede I me delyte, And to hem yive I feyth and ful credence And in myn herte have hem in reverence So hertely, that ther is game noon. That fro my bokes maketh me to goon, But yt be seldom on the holy day. Save, certeynly, when that the moneth of May Is comen, and that I here the foules synge And that the fioures gynnen for to sprynge, Farewel my boke, and my devocioun !" *[ To approach in reverent imagination the reserve of tenderness, the sacred depths in the rare nature of this old poet, who takes what life sends "in buxomnesse,":]: who makes no display of what he is and feels, we must think of him as he shows himself in one of his poems, * " The oldest work in England now known to exist on any branch of science." — Craik's " English Literature," vol. i. p. 367. \ Prologue to "Legend of Good Women." X See "Good Counseil," page 59 infra. GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 33 going out alone into the meadows in the stillness of early morning and falling on his knees to greet the daisy. In Chaucer's poems we see the expression of this full life, that knew and loved men, books, and nature ; but above all, there shines through them the element of that highest achievement — personal greatness of character. He is truthful, putting down honestly and naturally what he sees; he can enjoy life, almost with the frank delight of a child, capable of laughter without malice ; and, boisterous or coarse as he may sometimes seem, he is at heart surpassingly gentle and compassionate. The innocence and sufferings of women move him deeply. He has shown us woman's faith and purity in Constance, her love and patience in Griselda.* In both of these beautiful stories the quiet acceptance of adversity is as- sociated with children, and the ideal woman is shown, not only in her wifehood, but in her motherhood. Finally, in his grasp of human life and in his handling of a story, Chaucer shows a dramatic power, which, had he lived in a play-writing age, would have placed him among the greatest dramatists of all time. But with all this breadth, there are certain elements in Chaucer's England that find no utterance in his works. Men and women of many conditions are indeed found there, from the knight to the miller and p^et of the the plowman, and all are pictured with the '^°'"^*- same vividnesss and truth ; but breadth of observation is not of necessity bi'eadth of sympathy. Nowhere does he show us the England of Langland, with its plague, pestilence, and famine, its fierce indignation flaming up into wild outbursts of socialism.f We may suppose * " Man of Lawes Tale," and "Clerks Tale." f See "The Pilgrim and the Ploughman," in Palgrave's "Visions of England-" 34 PERIOD OF PREPARA TION. Chaucer's ideal plowman to have been after the pattern of the one he describes in Canterbury Tales : " A trewe swinker and a good was he Lyvynge in pees and perfight charitie." * Chaucer was the poet of the court, the poet of those who dwelt in fine houses clad in rich stuffs, not of those who hungered in rain and cold in the fields. He was the outcome and voice of the spirit of chivalry, in its class distinctions and exclusiveness as well as its splendor. His easy-going nature has no touch in it of the re- former, the martyr, or the fanatic. He dwelt at ease in his sunshiny world of green fields and merry jests, and if the heights and the depths in Dante and Shakespeare were beyond him, we should be thankful for all we gain in his genial and manly company. CHAUCER'S WORKS. "The father of English poetry" had no English masters in his art to whom he could turn for help. The poems most in favor at court when he began to write were French, and it is to the Norman-French literature that he first turned for his models. One of his earliest works was the translation of a French love poem, the Romaimt of the Rose, and in other early poems he is " an English trouvire!' By his Italian journey, he was brought into contact with another great literature, and, after this time, we find many evidences of his close study of Dante, Petrarch, and other great writers of the new Italy. As his genius developed, he gained in power and originality, but -from first to last, whether he borrowed from France or Italy, he made a story his own, re-creat- ing it and breathing into it the breath of his own spirit.f * Prologue to " Canterbury Tales," j See Tfible on p. 36, CHAUCER'S WORKS. 35 Before Chaucer, there had been an Anglo-Norman liter- ature, and the beginning of a popular English literature ; but no great poet had yet combined the spirit of the two. It is one of the glories of Chaucer that in his work so much is combined and harmonized for the first time. He has the Celtic lightness and humor with the English solidity and common sense ; he has the literary tradi- tions of the Norman trouvere with the new thought of the Italian; he expresses in his very language the end of a period of amalgamation, and all these elements are made one by the power and personality of his geniiis. No illustration of this could be better than that given by Lowell. "Chaucer, to whom French must have been almost as truly a mother-tongue as English, was familiar with all that has been done by Troubadour or Trouvire. In him we see the first result of the Norman yeast upon the home-baked Saxon loaf. The flour had been honest, the paste well kneaded, but the inspiring leaven was wanting till the Norman brought it over. Chaucer works still in the solid material of his race, but with what airy lightness has he not infused it ? Without ceasing to be English, he has escaped from being insular."* Thus Chaucer in more than one way stands for the end of the period of preparation. Like his century, he is partly of the Middle Ages, and partly of the coming Renaissance; partly Norman and partly English. His literary style, as well as his mixed language, remind us that he expresses the union of what had been sep- arate elements, and that he is at once the end of an old order and the beginning of a new. * Essay on Chaucer in " My Study Windows," by J. R.Lowell, 36 PERIOD OF PREPARA TIOiV. TABLE OF CHAUCER'S PRINCIPAL WORKS. " The Romaunt of the Rose," a translation from a French poem begun by Guillaume de Lorris and continued by Jean de Meun. "The A. B. C." The version of a prayer to the Virgin, from the French. " A Complainte of the Deathe of Pitie." " The Boke of The Duchess " : an Elegy on the Duchess Blanche (wife of John of Gaunt), who died 1369. " The Parliament of Foules." " The Complainte of Mars." "Troilus and Crysseide." " The Legende of Goode Women." " The House of Fame." " The Canterbury Tales." * Among the short poems, '' Complaint to his Purse," "The good Counseiland Advice to Adam Scrivener," are well known. Twenty-five of " The Canterbury Tales " were written and some of these are not complete. The entireseries, had the poem been finished and each pilgrim fulfilled the compact, would have consisted of one hundred and twenty-eight tales. LANGUAGE AND VERSIFICATION. The difficulties of reading Chaucer have been greatly overrated. Some, indeed, have thought that in order to popularize his works it is necessary to turn them into Modern English. But while such a version would pro- bably be more widely read, it would undoubtedly be devoid of much of the quaint humor and peculiar charm which only Chaucer's own words can give. The use of the glossary will soon render the student familiar with unusual words, and the few following explanations of spelling and pronounciation may help him to enjoy the rhythm and rhyme, which cannot be appreciated without some slight knowledge of fourteenth, century English. * Some of these Tales were written earljer as separate poeilis, and af terwarc? jficluded in the seneSj CHAUCER'S LANGUAGE AND VERSIFICATION. 37 One of the first things we notice in reading Chaucer is that many words have a final e which has since been dropped. This final e was almost always pronounced as a separate syllable ; as in the words " Aprille," " swoote" (pronounced A-pril-16, swo-te), etc. To understand the reason for this, we must go back in the history of the lan- guage before Chaucer's time. The early English, or Anglo-Saxon, was what is called an inflected language; that is, the grammatical relation between words was indicated by a change of ending, not, as with us, by auxiliary words. The effect of the Norman Conquest was to greatly hasten the dropping of these endings, their force being supplied by prepositions ; but in the fourteenth century this change was not fully completed, and the final e, pronounced as a separate syllable, was a remnant of the old inflections. Besides these words of Anglo-Saxon origin, there are a number of words de- rived from the French, in which the final e is retained and generally pronounced as in French verse. The beginner, who is not reading Chaucer as a critical student of his language, should first acquaint himself with Chaucer's metre, and then be guided by his ear in deciding whether the final e should be pronounced. Thus we find that the metre of the Prologue, like blank verse, is de- decasyllabic, or ten-syllabled, having five feet, each ac- cented on the second syllable; hence in order to preserve the metre, certain final r?'s are sounded, others dropped. Take for example these opening lines : " Whan that | April - | le with | his schowr | es swoote The drought | of Marche -| hath per - | ced to | the roote* And bath - | ed eve - | ry veyne | in swich | licour Of whiche | virtue | engen - | dred is | the flour." — Prologue. * The final e in swoote and roote is not-required for the metre. It should, however, be lightly sounded, and rather adds to the melody of the verse. 3^ Period 6.f prepara tion: In general, however, it raay be said the final e is pro- nounced except, [a) when it precedes a vowel, or (^) before the following- words, beginning with h; viz., he, his, him, hem, hire, hath, hadde, have, how, her, here; in these cases it is elided. Pronounciation. — A is always pronounced broad, as in ah ; e is like a in China. In determining the meaning, the reader will find it a help to pronounce the word, and be guided by the sound rather than the spelling. In many cases the word will then be easily recognized ; thus, syngynge, peynede, fisch, quyk, though unfamiliar to the eye, are readily recog- nized by the ear. No attempt has been made here to direct the student's attention to more than a few essential points ; fuller rules on this subject will be found in the introduction to Morris's edition of the Prologue, and Knight's Tale, or in Professor F. J. Child's "Essay on Chaucer." THE CANTERBURY TALES. The latest and most famous work of Chaucer is a col- lection of separate stories, supposed to be told by pil- grims who agree to journey in company to the tomb of The Canterbury ^*^' 'Thomas a Becket at Canterbury. In a '^^''^' general prologue we are told how these pilgrims met at the Tabard Inn in Southwark, the district opposite to London on the other side of the Thames; how they agreed to be fellow-travelers; how the jolly inn-keeper, " Harry Bailly," proposed that each pilgrim should tell two tales on the way to Canterbury and two returning. There are, by way of interlude, prologues to the several stories thus told, which bind the whole series more firmly together, and recall to us the general design. The idea of sti-inging distinct stories on some thread of connection is not an uncommon one. Shortly THE CANTERBURY TALES. 39 \ before Chaucer, Boccaccio had written his Decamerone, a collection of stories linked together by a very simple expedient. In it a number of gay lords and ladies leave Florence during the plague, and, sitting together in a beautiful garden, they amuse themselves by telling the tales that form the main part of the work. If Chaucer, as many suppose, found the suggestion for the plan of the Canterbury Talcs in the Decamerone, there is no doubt that he greatly improved on his original. Chaucer's work is founded on a pilgrimage, one of the characteristic and familiar features of the life of the time. With rare tact he has selected one of the few occasions which brought together in temporary good- fellowship men and women of different classes and oc- cupations. He is thus able to paint the moving life of the world about him in all its breadth and variety ; he can give to stories told by such chance-assorted com- panions a dramatic character and contrast, making knight, priest, or miller reveal himself in what he relates. The chief interest the prologue has for us lies in the freshness and truth with which each member of the little party of pilgrims is set before us. As one after another of that immortal procession passes by, the dainty smiling Prioress, the Merchant with his forked beard , The Prologue. and beaver hat, we know that history does not mean dust and dates, but life, and we ourselves seem fourteenth-century pilgrims riding with the rest. It is a morning in the middle of April, as we with the jolly com- pany, thirty in all, with Harry Bailly as "governour," take the high-road to Canterbury. The spring that refreshes us in the first words of the prologue is all about us. " Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote The drought of Marche hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour, Of which vertue engendred is the flour ; 4° PERIOD OF PREPARA TlOh'. Whan Zephiius eek with his swete breethe Enspired hath in every holte and heethe The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halfe coins i-ronne, And smale fowles maken melodie, That slepen al the night with open eye, So piiketh hem nature in here corages : — Thanne longen folk to gon on pilgri[nages. " There rides the Knight, who has fought in fifteen mor- tal battles, always honored for his bravery. His hau- berk is stained, for he has just returned from a voyage; in his bearing he is meek as a maid. " He neveie yit no vileinye ne sayde In al his lyf, unto no maner wight. He was a verray perfight gentil knight." With him ther was his sone, a yong squyer, A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler. With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse. Of twenty yeer of age he was I gesse. Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, And wonderly delyvere, and gret of strengthe. And he hadde ben somtyme in chivachie, In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardie, And born him wel, as of so litel space, In hope to stonden in his lady grace. Embiowded was he, as it were a mede Al ful of fresshe floures, white and reede. Syngynge he was, or floytygne, al the day ; He was as fressh as is the moneth of May. Schort was his goune, with sleeves longe and wyde. Wel cowde he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. He cowde songes make and wel endite, Juste and eek daunce, and wel purtreye and write. So hole he lovede, that by nightertale He sleep no more than doth a nightyjigale. Curteys he was, lowely, and servysable. And carf byforn his fader at the table." After the Knight and the Squire, rides their one attend- ant, with round head and brown face, clad in the green THE PROLOGUE. 41 of the forester. He is the English yeoman, the type of those archers whose deadly "gray goose shafts" broke the shining ranks of knighthood at Cr^cj' and Poictiers.* " There was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of hire smylyng was ful simple and coy ; Hire gretteste 00th ne was but by seynt Loy ; And sche was cleped Madame Eglentyne. Ful wel sche sang the servise divyne, Entuned in hire nose ful semely ; And Frensch sche spak ful faire and fetysly. After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe. At mete wel i-taught was sche withalle ; Sche leet no morsel from hire lippes falle, Ne wette hire fyngres in hire sauce deepe. Welcowde sche caiie a morsel, and wel keepe. That no drope ne fille uppon hire breste. In curteisie was set ful moche hire leste. Hire overlippe wypede sche so clene. That in hire cuppe was no ferthing sene Of greece, whan sche dronken hadde hire draughte. Ful semely after hire mete sche raughte, And sikerly sche was of gret disport, And ful plesaunt, and amyable of port. And peynede hire to countrefete cheere Of court, and ben estatlich of manere. And to ben holden digne of reverence. But for to speken of hire conscience, Sche was so charitable and so pitous, Sche wolde weepe if that sche sawe a mous Caught in a trappe if it were deed or bledde. Of smale houndes hadde sche, that sche fedde With rested flessh, or mylk and wastel breed. But sore wepte sche if oon of hem were deed. Or if men smot it with a yerde smerte ; And al was conscience and tendre herte. Ful semely hire wympel i-pynched was ; Hire nose tretys ; hire eyen greye as glas ;- * The Passage on the Bow, in Green's " History of the English People," V. I, p. 421, may be read in class. 42 PEklOD OF PREPARA TtON. Hire mouth ful smal, and thereto softe and reed But sikerly sche hadde a fair forheed. It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe ; For hardily sche was not undergrowe. Ful fetys was hire cloke, as I was waar. Of smal coral aboute hire arm sche baar A peire of bedes gauded al with grene ; And thereon heng a broch of gold ful schene, On which was first i-write a crowned A, And after, Amor vincit omnia.'' There ambles the rich, pleasure-loving Monk, with his greyhounds ; one of those new-fashioned churchmen of the day who have given up the strict monastic rule of an earlier time. He cares neither for learning nor to work with his hands, but delights in hunting. " His heed was balled, that schon as eny glas. And eek his face, as he had ben anoynt. He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt ; His eyen steepe, and rollyng in his heede, That stemede as a forneys of a leede ; His bootes souple, his hers in gret estate. Now certeinly he was a fair prelate." The corruption of the Church is also to be seen in the next pilgrim, a brawny, jolly Friar, licensed to beg within a prescribed district. In the thirteenth century the friars, or brothers, had done great good in England, but by Chaucer's time they had grown rich, and had for- gotten the high purposes for which the order was founded. The friar has no threadbare scholar's dress, his short cloak is of double worsted. His cowl is stuffed with knives and pins, for he is a peddler like many of his order.* *Wyclif writes of the friars : ' ' They become peddlers, bearing knives, purses, pins, and girdles, and spices, and silk, and precious pellure, and fouris for women, and thereto small dogs. (Quoted Jusserand, " Eng. Wayfaring Life," p. 304.) Ttm prologVU. 43 " Ful sweetely herde he the confessioun. And pleasaunt was his absolucioun ; He was an easy man to yeve penaunce Ther as he wiste han a good pitaunce." After the Merchant, sitting high on his horse, comes the Clerk of Oxford : " As lene was his hers as is a rake, And he was not right fat, I undertake ; But loked holwe, and thereto soberly. Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy, For he hadde geten him yit no benefice, Ne was so worldly for to have office. Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladle teche." Then the Sergeant at Lawe, who seems always busier than he is ; the Franklin, or farmer, with his red face and beard white as a daisy ; the Haberdasher, or small shop- keeper, a Carpenter, a Weaver, a Dyer, a Tapicer or dealer in carpets or rugs — all these ride in the company. Then the Cook, who can "roste and sethe, and boille and fry," and make "blank manger " with the best ; the Ship- man, whose beard has been shaken by many a tempest, and the " Doctour of Phisik." "' In al this world ne was ther non him lyk To spake of phisik and of surgerye ; F-or he was grounded in astronomye." Among these is the dashing, red-faced Wife of Bath, gayly dressed, with scarlet stockings, new shoes, and a hat as broad as a shield. Then, in sharp contrast, the parish Priest, the " poure Persoun of a toun," reminding us that, in spite of luxurious monks and cheating friars, the Church was not wholly corrupt. 44 PERIOD OF PREPARATIOX. " Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, And in adversite ful pacient ; Wyd was his parische, and houses fer asonder. But he ne lafte not for reyne ne thonder, In sicknesse nor in meschief to visite The ferreste in his parissche, moche and hte, Uppon his feet, and in his hond a staf. This noble ensample to his scheep he yaf, That first he wroughte, and afterwards he taughte, Out of the gospel he tho wordescaughte, And this figure he addede eek thereto, That if gold ruste, what schal yren doo ? For if a prest be foul, on whom we trusts. No wonder is a lewed man to ruste ; He waytede after no pompe and reverence, Ne makede him a spiced conscience, But Criste's lore, and His apostles twelve, He taughte, but first he folwede it himselve." But we must hurry to the end of this representative company : the party is made up by the Plowman, the Reeve, or steward, the Miller, who carries a bagpipe, the Summoner, an officer in the law courts, the Pardoner, or seller of indulgences, his wallet full of pardons, the Manciple, or caterer for a college, and last, the Poet himself, portly and fair of face, noting with twinkling eyes every trick of costume, and looking through all to the soul beneath. INTRODUCTION TO THE NONNE PRESTES' TALE. This story, told by one of the three priests attending the Nun, or Prioress, is among the shorter and slighter of the Canterbury Tales, and gives us a glimpse of only one side of Chaucer's genius. It is a charmingly told little fable ; but from it we can form no notion of Chaucer's tragic force, or of his power of gorgeous rXTRODUCTION TO THE XOiVNE PRESTES' TALE. 45 description, as revealed to us, for instance, in the chival- ric story of The Knight ; nor does it help us to gain any notion of the deep tenderness and pathos of Chaucer, which overflow in such stories as those of The Clerk, and of The Man of Lawe. Yet the Nonne Prestes' Tale has its own claims upon our attention and admiration. It is one of the most delightful products of Chaucer's quaint and abundant humor, and it shows also his dramatic vigor as a story-teller. In it Chaucer follows his usual practice of going elsewhere for the framework of his story. The Nonnc Prestes Tale is a version of one of those fables, or fablieiix, in which the childlike intelli- gence of mediaeval readers delighted. It may have been taken directly from the fifty-first fable in a collection by Marie de France, a poetess of the early part of the thir- teenth century ; but it is now thought more probable that Chaucer's original was the fifth chapter of an old French poem, Le Roman du Renart, where the same fable appears in a much longer form.* In either case Chaucer has made the story his own. The incidents in the Nonne Prestes Tale are of the simplest, the background is of the humblest, — the garden or barnyard of a poor widow, — the principal actors are a cock, a hen, and a fox; yet out of these every day materials Chaucer has con- trived to bring inimitable results. The life of the coun- try-poor is described with sympathy and skill ; the meagre diet of the widow, her two-roomed, chimneyless house, sooty from the smoke that had no escape except through the crevices of the roof, her yard fenced in with sticks, her little wealth of cows, pigs, and chickens, — all this is brought before us with characteristic vividness and truth. Then we note the sympathy with which Chaucer * These two poems are given in publications of the Chaucer Society : " Originals and Analogues," 2cl s?ries, pp. Il6, 117. The first contain? only j8, the second 45^ lines. 46 PERIOD OF PREPARA TION. has contrived to enter into thelife of the creatures of the farmyard ; the hens taking their sand-bath, or the cock clucking when he has found a grain of corn. " He chukketh, whan he hath a corn i-founde, And to him rennen than his wives alle." But truthful as this is, Chauntecleer and Pertelote are more than chickens ; they are living characters, with an actual human personality. The cock is a good deal of a pedant, and enumerates the learned authorities for his belief in the significance of dreams, with all the relish, and something of the length, of the mediaeval school- man. The hen takes the practical and emphatically feminine view of the case, urging a resort to the family medicine chest, — a proposal which the cock, with an em- phatically masculine aversion, passes over in silent con- tempt. All through we come across sly strokes of humor, as when the cock takes advantage of his wife's ignorance to mistranslate the Latin sentence: " In principio, Mulier est hominis confusio," so as to delude her into the belief that it is complimen- tary ; or when we are told that " Alle the hennes in the clos," made terrible lamentation about Chauntecleer's capture, but Pertelote alone shrieked like a queen, " But soveraignly dame Pertelote schrighte.'' The interview in which the fox makes his skillful ap- peal to his intended victim's vanity is full of pure fun, while the description of the flight and pursuit is a master- piece of rapid and nervous narrative, THE NOATNE FJiESTES' TALE. 47 THE NONNE PRESTES' TALE. A poure wydovv somdel stope in age, Was whilom dwellyng in a narwe cotage, Bisyde a grove, stondyng in a dale. Tliis wydwe of which I telle yow my tale, Syn thilke day that sche was last a wif, In pacience ladde a ful symple lyf, For litel was hire catel and hire rente By housbondrye of such as God hire sente, Sche fond hireself, and eek hire doughtren tuo Thre large sowes hadde sche, and no mo, Thre kyn and eek a scheep that highte JNIalle. Ful sooty was hire hour, and eek hire halle, In which she eet ful many a sclender meel, Of poynaunt sawce hire needede never a deel. No deynte morsel passede thurgh hire throte ; Hire dyete was accordant to hire cote. Repleccioun ne made hire nevere sik ; Attempre dyete was al hire phisik, And exercise, and hertes suffisaunce. The goute lette hire nothing for to daunce, Ne poplexie schente not hire heed ; No wyn ne drank sche, nother whit nor reed ; Hire bord was served most with whit and blak. Milk and broun bred, in which sche fond no lak, Seynd bacoun, and somtyme an ey or tweye. For she was as it were a maner deye. A yerd sche hadde, enclosed al aboute With stikkes, and a drye dich withoute, In which she hadde a cok, highte Chauntecleer, In al the lond of crowyng nas his peer. His vols was merier than the merye orgon, On masse dayes that in the chirche goon ; Wei sikerer was his crowyng in his logge, Than is a clok, or an abbay orlogge. By nature knew he ech ascencioun. Of equinoxial in thilke toun ; For whan degrees fyftene were ascended, Thanne crew he, that it mighte not ben amended. 48 PERIOD OF PREPARA TION. His comb was redder than the fyn coral, And bataylld, as it were a castel wal. His bile was blak, and as the geet it schon ; Lik asure were his legges, and his ton ; His nayles whitter than the lilye flour, And lik the burnischt gold was his colour. This gentil cok hadde in his governaunce Sevene hennes, for to don al his plesaunce, Whiche were his sustres and his paramoures, And wonder like to him, as of coloures. Of whiche the faireste hewed on hire throte Was cleped fayre damoysele Pertelote. Curteys she was, discret, and debonaire, And compainable, and bar hireself ful faire, Syn thilke day that sche was seven night old. That trewely sche hath the herte in hold Of Chauntecleer loken in every lith ; He lovede hire so, that wel him was therwith. But such a joye was it to here hem synge,- Whan that the brighte sonne gan to springe, In swete accord, " my lief is faren on londe." For thilke tyme, as I have understonde, Bestes and briddes cowde speke and synge. And so byfel, that in a dawenynge, As Chauntecleer among his wyves alle Sat on his perche, that was in the halle. And next him sat this faire Pertelote, This Chauntecleer gan gronen in his throte. As man that in his dreem is drecched sore. And whan that Pertelote thus herde him rore, Sche was agast, and sayde, " O herte deere, What eyleth yow to grone in this manere ? Ye ben a verray sleper, fy for schame ! " And he answerde and sayde thus, " Madame, I praye yow, that ye take it nought agrief : By God, me mette I was in such meschief Right now, that yit myn herte is sore afright. Now God," quod he, " my swevene rede aright. And keep my body out of foul prisoun ! Me mette, how that I romede up and doyi; THE NONNE PRESTES' TALE. 49 Withinne oure yerde, wher as I saugh a beest, Was lik an hound, and wolde han maad areest Upon my body, and wolde han had me deed. His colour was betwixe yelwe and reed ; And tipped was his tail, and bothe his eeres With blak, unlik the remenaunt of his heres ; His snowte smal, with glowyng eyen tweye. Yet of his look for feere almost I deye ; This causede my gronyng douteles." " Avoy ! " quod sche, " fy on yow, herteles ! " Alias ! " quod sche, " for, by that God above ! Now han ye lost myn herte and al my love ; I can nought love a coward, by my feith. For certes, what so eny womman seith. We alle desiren, if it mighte be. To han housbondes, hardy, wise, and fre, And secr6, and no nygard, ne no fool, Ne him that is agast of every tool, Ne noon avauntour, by that God above ! How dorste ye sayn for schame unto youre love, That any thing mighte make yow aferd ? Han ye no mannes -herte, and han a herd ? Alias ! and konne ye ben agast of swevenys ? Nothing, God wot, but vanity in swevene is. Swevenes engendren of replecciouns. And ofte of fume, and of complecciouns. Whan humours ben to abundaunt in a wight. Certes this dreem, which ye han met to-night, Cometh of the grete superfluity Of youre reede colera, pard6. Which causeth folk to dremen in here dremes Of arwes, and of fyr with reede leemes. Of grete bestes, that thai woln hem byte, Of contek, and of whelpes greete and lite ; Right as the humour of malencolie Causeth ful many a man, in sleep, to crye, For fere of beres, or of boles blake, Or elles blake develes woln him take. Of othere humours couthe I telle also. That wirken many a man in slep ful woo 5° PERIOD OF PREPARATION. But I wol passe as lightly as I can. Lo Catoun, which that was so wis a man, Sayde he nought thus, ne do no fors of dreme ? Now sire," quod sche, "whan we flen fro the beemes. For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf ; Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf, I counseille yow the beste, I wol not lye. That bothe of colere, and of malencolye Ye purge yow ; and for ye schul nat tarye. Though in this toun is noon apotecarie, I schal myself to herbes techen yow, That schul ben for youre hele, and for youre prow ; And in cure yerd tho herbes schal I fynde. The whiche han of here propret^ by kynde To purgen yow bynethe, and eek above. Forget not this, for Goddes oughne love ! Ye ben ful colerik of compleccioun. Ware the sonne in his ascencioun Ne fynde yow not replet of humours hote ; And if it do, I dar wel laye a gjrote, That ye schul have a fevere terciane. Or an agu, that may be youre bane. A day or tuo ye schul han digestives Of wormes, or ye take youre laxatives. Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere. Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there, Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis. Of erbe yve, growyng in oure yerd, that mery is Pekke hem upright as thay growe, and ete hem in. Be mery, housbonde, for youre fader kyn ! Dredeth no dreem ; I can say yow no more." " Madam," quod he, " graunt mercy of youre lore. But natheles, as touching daun Catoun That hath of wisdom such a gret renoun. Though that he bad no dremes for to drede, By God, men may in olde bookes rede Of many a man, more of auctorit^ Than evere Catoun was, so mot I the. That al the revers sayn of this sentence, And han wel founden by experience. THE NONNE PRESTES' TALE. 51 That dremes ben significaciouns, As wel of joye, as tribulaciouns, That folk enduren in this lif present. " Lo, in the lif of Seint Kenelm, I rede. That was Kenulphus sone, the noble king Of Mercenrike, how Kenelm niette a thing. A lite er he was mordred, on a day His mordre in his avysioun he say. His norice him expouned every del His swevene, and bad him for to kepe him wel For traisoun ; but he nas but seven yer old, And therfore litel tale hath he told Of eny drem, so holy was his herte. By God, I hadde levere than my scherte. That ye hadde rad his legende, as have I. Dame Pertelote, I saye yow trewely, Macrobeus, that writ the avisioun In Affrike of the worthy Cipioun, Affermeth dremes, and saith that thay been Warnyng of thinges that men after seen. And forther more, I pray yow loketh wel In the olde Testament, of Daniel, If he held dremes eny vanyte. Red eek of Joseph, and ther schul ye see Wher dremes ben somtyme (I say nought alle) Warnyng of thinges that schul after falle. Loke of Egipte the King daun Pharao, His bakere and his botiler also, Wher thay ne felte noon effect in dremes. Who so wol seken actes of sondry remes. May rede of dremes many a wonder thing. Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde King, Mette he not that he sat upon a tre, Which signifiede he schukle anhanged be ? Lo hire Andromacha, Ectores wif, That day that Ector schulde lese his lif, Sche dremede on the same night byforn, How that the hf of Ector schulde be lorn. If thilke day he wente in to bataylle ; Sche warnede him, but it mighte nought availle ; PERIOD OF PREPARA TION. He wente for to fighte natheles. And he was slayn anoon of Achilles. But thilke tale is al to long to telle, And eek it is neigh day, I may not duelle. Schortly I saye, as for conclusioun That I schal han of this avisioun. Adversity ; and I saye forther-more. That I ne telle of laxatives no store. For thay ben venymous, I wot right wel ; I hem defye, I love hem nevere a del. Now let us speke of mirthe, and stynte al this ; Madame Pertelote, so have I blis, Of a thing God hath sent me large grace ; For whan I see the beaute of your face. Ye ben so scarlet reed aboute your eyghen, It maketh al my drede for to deyghen, For, also siker as In principio, Mulier est hominis confusio. (Madame, the sentence of this Latyn is, Womman is mannes joye and al his blis.) " I am so ful of joye and of solas That I defye bothe swevene and drem ! " And with that word he fleigh down fro the beem. For it was day, and eek his hennes alia ; And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle. For he hadde founde a corn, lay in the yerd. Real he was, he was no more aferd ; He loketh as it were a grim lioun ; And on his toon he rometh up and doun. Him deyneth not to sette his foot to grounde. He chukketh, whan he hath a corn i-founde, And to him rennen than his wives alle. Thus real, as a prince is in his halle, Leve I this Chauntecleer in his pasture ; And after wol I telle his aventure. Whan that the moneth in which the world bigan, That highte March, whan God first made man, Was complet, and y-passed were also, Syn March bygan, thritty dayes and tuo. THE NONNE PRESTES' TALE. S3 Byfel that Chauntecleer in al his pride, His seven wyves walkyng him by syde, Caste up his eyghen to the brighte sonne. That in the signe of Taurus hadde i-ronne Twenty degrees and con, and somwhat more ; He knew by kynde, and by noon other lore, That it was prime, and crew with blisful stevene. " The sonne," he sayde, " is clomben up on hevene Fourty degrees and oon, and more i-wis. Madame Pertelote, my worldes blis, Herkneth these blisful briddes how they synge. And seth the fressche fioures how they springe ; Ful is myn hert of revel and solaas." But sodeinly him fel a sorweful caas ; For evere the latter ende of joye is wo. Got wot that worldly joye is soone ago ; And if a rethor couthe faire endite. He in a chronique saufly mighte it write. As for a soverayn notabilite. Now every wys man let him herkne me ; This story is also trewe, I undertake. As is the book of Launcelot de Lake, That wommen holde in ful gret reverence. Now wol I torne agayn to my sentence. A col-fox, ful of sleigh iniquite. That in the grove hadde woned yeres thre. By heigh ymaginacioun forncast, The same nighte thurghout the hegges brast Into the yerd, ther, Chauntecleer the faire Was wont, and eek his wyves, to repaire ; And in a bed of wortes stille he lay. Til it was passed undern of the day, Waytyng his tyme on Chauntecleer to falle ; As gladly doon these homicides alle, That in awayte lyggen to mordre men. O false mordrer lurkyng in thy den ! O newe Scariot, newe Genilon ! False dissimulour, O Greet Sinon, That broughtest Troye al outrely to sorwe ! O Chauntecleer, accursed be that morwe, S4 PERIOD OF PRE PAR A TIOAT. That thou into that yerd floughe fro the bemes ! Thou were ful wel i-warned by thy dretnes, That thilke day was perilous to the. But what that God forwot mot needes be After the opynyoun of certeyn clerkis. Witnesse on him that eny perfit clerk is, That in scole is gret altercacioun In this matere, and gret disputisioun, And hath ben of an hundred thousend men. But I ne cannot bulte it to the bren, As can the holy doctor Augustyn, Or Boece, or the Bischop Bradwardyn, Whether that Goddes worthy forwetyng Streineth me needely for to don a thing, (Needely clepe I simple necessity) ; Or elles if fre choys be graunted me To do that same thing, or do it nought, Though God forwot it, er that it was wrought : Or if his wityng streyneth nevere a deel. But by necessity condicionel, I wol not han to do of such mateere ; My tale is of a cok, as ye schul heere, That took his counseil of his wyf with sorwe, To walken in the yerd upon the morwe. That he hadde met the drem, that I tolde. Wommennes counseils ben ful ofte colde ; Wommennes counseils broughte us first to woo, And made Adam fro paradys to go, Ther as he was ful merye, and well at ese. But for I not, to whom it mighte displese. If I counseil of wommen wolde blame. Passe over, for I sayde it in my game. Red auctours, wher thay trete of such mateere, And what they sayn of wommen ye may heere, These been cokkes wordes, and not myne ; I can noon harme of no womman divine. Faire in the sond, to bathe hire merily, Lith Pertelote, and alle hire sustres by, Agayn the sonne ; and Chauntecleer so free Sang merier than the mermayde in the see ; THE NONNE PRESTES' TALE. SS For Phisiologus seith sikerly, How that thay singen wel and merily. And so byfel that as he caste his eye, Among the wortes on a boterflye, He was war of this fox that lay ful lowe. No thing ne liste him thanne for to crowe, But cryde anon " cok, cok," and up he sterte, As man that was affrayed in his herte. For naturelly a beest desireth flee Fro his contrarie, if he may it see, Though he nevere erst hadde seyn it with his eye, This Chauntecleer, whan he gan him espye. He wolde han fled, but that the fox anon Saide, " Gentil sire, alias ! wher wol ye goon ? Be ye affrayd of me that am youre freend ? Now certes, I were worse than a feend, If I to yow wolde harm or vileynye. I am nought come youre counsail for tespye. But trewely the cause of my comynge Was oonly for to herkne how that ye singe. For trewely ye have als merye a stevene. As enyaungel hath, that is in hevene; Therwith ye han in musik more felynge. Than hadde Boece, or eny that can synge. My lord youre fader (God his soule blesse) And eek youre moder of hire gentilesse Han in myn house ibeen, to my gret ese ; And certes, sire, ful fayn wolde I yow plese. But for men speke of syngyng, I wol saye, So mot I brouke wel myn eyen tweye. Save you, I herde nevere man so synge. As dede youre fader in the morwenynge. Certes it was of herte al that he song. And for to make his vols the more strong, He wolde so peyne him, that with bothe his eyen He moste wynke, so lowde he wolde crien, And stonden on his typtoon therwithal. And strecche forth his nekke long and smal. And eke he was of such discrecioun ; That ther nas no man in no regioun S^ Period of prepara rtoN: That him in song or wisdom mighte passe. I have wel rad in daun Burnel the Asse Among his vers, how that ther was a cole, For that a prestes sone yaf him a knok Upon his leg, whil he was yong and nyce. He made him for to lese his benefice. But certyn ther nis no comparisoun Betwix the wisdom and discrecioun Of youre fader, and of his subtilt^. Now syngeth, sire, for seinte Charity, Let se, konne ye youre fader countrefete ? " This chauntecleer his wynges gan to bete. As man that couthe his tresoun nought espye, So was he ravyssht with his flaterie. Alias ! ye lordes, many a fals flatour Is in youre courtes, and many a losengour, That plesen yow wel more, by my faith, Than he that sothfastnesse unto yow saith. Redeth Ecclesiaste of fiaterie; Betth war, ye lordes, of here treccherie. This chauntecleer stood heighe upon his toos, Strecching his nekke, and held his eyen cloos, And gan to crowe lowde for the noones ; And daun Russel the fox sterte up at oones. And by the garget hente Chauntecleer, And on his bak toward the woode him beer. For yit was ther no man that hadde him sewed. O destiny, that maist not ben eschewed ! Alas, that Chauntecleer fleigh fro the hemes ! Alias, his wif ne roughte nought of dremes ! And on a Friday fel al this mischaunce. Certes such cry ne lamentacioun Was nevere of ladies maad, when Ilioun Waswonne, and Pirrus with his streite swerd, Whan he hadde hent Kyng Priam by the herd, And slayn him (as saith us Eneydos), As maden alle the hennes in the clos, Whan they hadde seyn of Chauntecleer the sighte. But sovraignly dame Pertelote schrighte, Ful lowder than dide Hasdrubales wyf ; Whan that hire housbonde hadde lost his lyf, The NONtfE presteS' tale. S7 And that the Romayns hadde i-brent Cartage, Sche was so ful of torment and of rage. That wilfully into the fyr sche sterte, And brende hirselven with a stedefast herte. O woful hennes, righte so criden ye, As, whan that Nero brente the cit6 Of Rome, criden senatoures wyves, For that here housbondes losten alle here lyves ; Withouten gult this Nero hath hem slayn. Now wol I torne to my tale agayn ; This sely wydwe, and eek hire doughtres tuo, Herden these hennes crie and maken wo, And out at dores sterten thay anoon, And seyen the fox toward the grove goon, Ank bar upon his bak the cok away ; They criden, " Out ! harrow and weylaway ! Ha, ha, the fox! " and after him they ran. And eek with staves many another man ; Ran Colle our dogge, and Talbot, and Garlond, And Malkyn, with a distaf in hire bond ; Ran cow and calf, and eek the very hogges. So were they fered for berkyng of the dogges And schowtyng of the men and wymmen eke, Thay ronne so hem thoughte here herte breke, Thay yelleden as feendes doon in helle ; The dokes criden as men wolde hem quelle ; The gees for fere flowen over the trees ; Out of the hyves cam the swarm of bees ; So hidous was the noyse, a benedicite ! Certes he jakke straw, and his meyn6, Ne maden nevere scho'utes half so schrille. Whan that thay wolden eny Flemyng kille, As thilke day was maad upon the fox. Of bras thay broughten hemes, and of box, Of horn, of boon, in whiche thay blewe and powpede And therewithal thay schrykede and thay howpede ; It semede as that hevene schulde falle. Now, goode men, I praye you herkneth alle ; Lo, how fortune torneth sodeinly The hope and pride eek of hire enemy ! 58 PERIOD OF PREPARATION. This cok that lay upon the foxes bale, In all his drede, unto the fox he spak, And saide, " Sire, if that I were as ye. Yet schulde I sayn (as wis God helpe me), Turneth ayein, ye proude cherles alle ! A verray pestilens upon yew falle ! Now am I come unto this woodes syde, Maugre youre heed, the cok schal heer abyde ; I wol him ete in faith, and that anoon." The fox answerde, " In faith, it schal be doon." And as he spak that word, al sodeinly This cok brak from his mouth delyverly; And heigh upon a tree he fleigh anoon. And whan the fox seigh that he was i-goon, " Alias ! " quod he, " O Chauntecleer, alias ! I have to yow," quod he, " y-don trespas, Iii-as-moche as I makede yow aferd. Whan I yow hente, and broughte out of the yerd ; But, sire, I dede it in no wikke entente ; Com doun, and I schal telle yow what I mente. I schal saye soth to you, God help me so ! " " Nay than," quod he, " I schrewe us bothe tuo And first I schrewe myself, bothe blood and boones. If thou bigile me finy ofter than oones. Thou schalt no more, thurgh thy flaterye. Do me to synge and wynke with myn eye. For he that wynketh, whan he scholde see, Al wilfully, God let him never the ! " " Nay," quod the fox, " but God yive him meschaunce, That is so undiscret of governaunce. That jangleth whan he scholde holde his pees." Lo, such it is for to be reccheles, And necgligent, and truste on flaterie. But ye that holden this tale a folye. As of a fox, or of a cok and hen, Taketh the morality thereof, goode men. For seint Poul saith, that al that writen is, To oure doctrine it is i-write i-wys. Taketh the fruyt, and let the chaf be stille. Now goode God, if that it be thy wille, GOOD COUNSEIL. 59 As saith my lord, so make us alle good men ; And bringe us to his heighe blisse. Amen. GOOD COUNSEIL. Fie fro the pres, and dwelle with sothfastnesse : Suffice thee thy good, though hit be smal ; For herd hath hate, and clymbyng tikelnesse, Pres hath envye, and wele blent over al Savour no more then thee behove shal ; Do wel thy-self that other folk canst rede, And trouthe thee shal delyver, hit ys no drede. Peyne thee not eche croked to redresse In trust of hir that turneth as a bal, Gret reste stant in lytil besynesse ; Bewar also to spurne ayein a nal, Stryve not as doth a crokke with a wal ; Daunte thy-selfe that dauntest otheres dede. And trouthe thee shal delyver, hit is no drede. That thee is sent receyve in buxomnesse. The wrastling of this world asketh a fal ; Here is no hoom, here is but wyldernesse. Forth pilgrime, forth ! forth best, out of thy stal ! Loke up on hye, and thonke God of al ; Weyve thy lust, and let thy gost thee lede. And trouthe shal thee delyver, hit is no drede. 6o PERIOD OF PREPARA TION. NOTES AND REFERENCES. 1. History. — Pauli's " Pictures of Old England " (valuable for social conditions, etc., in Chaucer's time); Jusserand's English " Way-faring Life in the Fourteenth Century " ; Wright's " History of Domestic Manners and Sentiments in England During the Middle Ages"; Cutt's "Scenes and Characters in the Middle Ages"; Brown's "Chaucer's Eng- land." S. Lanier's "Boys' Froissart" and Bulfinch's "Age of Chivalry " may be used with class. 2. Chaucer. — Ward's " Life of " (English Men of Let- ters Series), Lowell's Essay on, in "My Study Windows"; Minto's " English Poets"; Haweis's " Chaucer for Schools"; Alexander Smith's Essay on, in " Dreamthorpe " (contains prose version of " Knight's Tale"; not strictly reliable, but gives graphic pictures of chivalry) ; Saunders's " Canterbury Tales"; Lounsbury's "Chaucer," three volumes. The poem on "The Pilgrim and the Ploughman " in Palgrave's " Visions of England," p. 82, is admirable from critical as well as poeti- cal point of view, and should be read with class. 3. Chaucer's Works. — Edition in Clarendon Press series is recommended ; at present it contains The Prologue, The Knight's, Nonne Prestes', Prioress', Monk's, Clerk's, Squire's tales. The Rhyme of Sir "Thopas, and a number of the minor poems. For works not included in this edition, Bell's or Oilman's "Chaucer" may be used, also Wright's "Canterbury Tales," with notes. 4. Langland. — Wharton's " History of English Poetry," sec- tion 8 ; Morley's " English Writers," vol. iv. 5. Language. — Marsh's "Lectures on the English Lan- guage"; Lounsbury's "English Language"; Earle's "Phi- lology of the English Tongue "; Carpenter's " English in the Fourteenth Century"; Trench's "English Past and Present." TABLE, 61 Table III. — Chaucer's Century, i 300-1400. ENGLAND. SOVEREIGNS. Edward III., 1327-1377' Richard II. 1377-1399. Henry IV., 1399-1413. LITERATURE. HISTORICAL EVENTS. Chaucer's birth, 1340. Lawrence Minot : Poems, 1350; Poems on Wars of Edward III., 1352. Sir John Mande- ville: Travels, Voy- ages, 1356. Chaucer probably cage to Lionel's wife, 1357. Wm. Langland, 1332-1400 : " Vision of Piers Plowman." Chaucer taken pris- oner by the French, 135Q ; his " Detht of Blanche theDuch ess," 1369; employed on a mission to Pisa and Genoa, meets Petrarch, 1372 ; Ap- pointed Controller of Customs, 1374. John Barbour: "The Bruce," 1375. John Wyclif, 1324- 1384 : Translation of the Bible j Treatise "De Domino." Chaucer sent on mis- sion to France, 1377, John Trevisa: Trans- lation of Higdens's " Polychronicon " 1387. Chaucer appointed Clerk of King's Works at Windsor, 1390. John Gower, 1325- 1408 C?l); "Confessio Amantis," 1391 CO Chaucer is granted a pension of ;^20 a year, 1394 ; pension doublecf, 1399 ; his death, 1400. Death of Bruce, 1329. Battle of Halidon Hill, 1333- Edward claims France from Brabant, 1339. Beginning of Hundred ears' War, 1339. Battles of Crecy and Neville's Cross, 1346. Gunpowder first used at Cr6cy. First appearance of Black Death, 1349. First statute of Preemu- nire, 1353. Battle of Poictiers, 1356. Peace of firetigny, 1360. Renewal of French War, 1368. Uprising of Jack Straw, 1378. Wat Tyler's revolt, 1381 Condemnation of Wyclif at Blackfriars, 1382. Suppression of the Poor Preachers, 1382. Death of Wyclif, 1384. Truce with France, 1389. Persecution of Lollards, 1399* FOREIGN COUNTRIES. Dante, 1265-1321. Divina Commedia," begun about 1307. Petrarch, 1304-1374. Sonnets and Poems. Petrarch crowned at Rome, 1341. Boccaccio, i3i3-i375" Decameron," 1350. Teseide." War between Florence and Pisa. English auxiliaries employed by the latter, 1362. Artists : Giotto, 1276-1336. Taddeo Gaddi, 1300- 1366. Ghiberti, 1378-1455. Brunelleschi, 1377- 1446. GERMANY. The Meistersinger. Hubrecht Van Eyck. Froissart, 1337-1410. Chronicles. •HONHmdNi Nvnvxi do aoraHd •II iavd PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. 1400 to 1660. dbapter ir. The Revival of Learning. THE COMING OF THE NEW LEARNING TO ENGLAND. The Century following the death of Chaucer is gener- ally regarded as "the most barren" in the history of the literature. Indeed, after the year 1400, we find little evi- dence of a fresh and vigorous life in English literature until the year 1579, when Edmund Spenser's first poem was given to the world. Yet the fifteenth century is nevertheless of far-reaching importance in the history of England's mental growth. It was a time of national education. If England did not produce great literature, she received from many sources new thoughts and im- pulses, which replenished and broadened her life, and which later found expression in her literary work. In the fifteenth century England passed definitely out of the bounds of the Middle Ages, and came to share as a nation in the inspiration of the Renaissance, which, in the century before, only such rare individual minds as Chaucer and Wyclif had known by anticipation. The feudal society of the middle ages was finally shattered in England by the Wars of the Roses (1455-1485), in which great numbers of the old nobility The New perished. The outworn scholastic learning, Learning, the relic of the mediaeval monastic schools, was cast aside, and the reorganization of the entire educational 65 66 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. system of England according to the advanced ideas of Italy was begun. In the early years of the fifteenth century, the old learning had ceased to satisfy, and the new had not yet come. At Oxford the spirit of free inquiry, stimulated by Wyclif, had been sternly suppressed. Versifiers worked painstakingly after the pattern set by Chaucer ; but literature, like learning, waited the breath of a new impulse. So England lay — " Between two worlds, One dead, the other powerless to be born." * Then the new life manifested itself amid the breaking up of the old order. At Oxford, between 1430 and 1485, three colleges were established, and a Library was Foundation of founded by Humphrey, Duke of Glouces- coiieges. |.gr. About the middle of the century Henry VI. founded Kings, and Margaret of Anjou Queen's College, Cambridge, and, in the same reign, the great school of Eton was established. Three Uni- versities arose in Scotland between 1410 and. 1494. But even more important than the increased opportunities for education, was the introduction of new methods and subjects of study. The knowledge of Greek life and literature, almost wholly lost during the Middle Ages, had stirred Italy with the power of a fresh revelation. Chryso- loras, an ambassador from Constantinople, had begun to teach Greek in Florence in 1395, and upon the Fall of Constantinople (1453) numbers of Greek scholars took refuge in Italy, bringing precious manuscripts and the treasures of an old thought which Europe hailed as " new." Italy became the University of Europe, and, toward the end of the fifteenth century, English scholars learned at Padua, at Bologna, or at the Florence of * Mathew Arnold's " Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse.'' COMING OF THE NEW LEARNING TO ENGLAND. 6^ Lorenzo di Medici, what they taught at Oxford or at Cambridge. Cornelius Vitelli, an Italian exile, taught Greek at Oxford before 1475 ; there, too, William Grocyn lectured on Greek, in 1491, after he had studied under Vitelli, and in Florence and Venice. Among Grocyn's hearers was the young Sir Thomas More, who was later to embody the new spirit in his history of Richard III., and in the Utopia. We have thus an illustration of the way in which the New Learning sprung from Italian to Englishman, and from the English scholar to the English writer, thus passing out of the college into the wider sphere of literature. Among this band of reformers was Thomas Linacre, a learned physician ; John Colet, who studied the New Testament in the original, and who started a system of popular education by founding in 1 5 10 the Grammar School of St. Paul ; Erasmus, the famous Dutch scholar, who taught Greek at Cambridge, and wrote at More's house his Praise of Folly. Side by side with the new learning came the new means men had found for its diffusion. William Caxton, who had learned the strange art of printing in Holland, returned to England in 1474, and set up his press at Westminster at " the sign of the Red "" "'^' Pale." Here he published the Game and Playe of the Chesse (1474), the first book printed in England. Caxton was no mere tradesman ; he was prompted by a deep and unselfish love for literature. His press gave England the best he knew — the poems of Chaucer, the Morte d^ Arthur of Sir Thomas Mallory, a noble book on which Tennyson has based his Idyls of the King. Our first printer was himself an industrious translator ; the favorite of royal and noble patrons of learning. . " Many noble and divers gentlemen " discussed literary matters with him in his humble workshop ; among the rest, John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, the first English scholar of his time, 68 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. who has been called " the first fruits of the Italian Renaissance in England." While the touch of Greek beauty and philosophy, re- stored and immortal after their burial of a thousand The discovery of Y^^'^^, was thus reanimating Europe, the the new world. hoHzon of the world was suddenly en- larged by a series of great discoveries. In i486 Diaz discovered the Cape of Good Hope ; in 1492 Columbus penetrated the sea of darkness and gave to civilization a new world ; and in 1497 Vasco da Gama rounded Africa and made a new path to India. England shared in this fever of exploration, and in 1497 the Cabots, sent by Henry VII., " to subdue land unknown to all Christians," saw the main land of America. We can hardly overesti- mate the impetus given to the mental life of Europe by such a sudden rush of new ideas. The opportunities for life and action were multiplying ; man's familiar earth was expanding on every side. The air was charged with wonder and romance ; the imaginations of explorers was alive with the dreams of a poet, and cities shining with gold, or fountains of perpetual youth, were sought for in the excitement of sensation which made the impossible seem a thing of every day. In the midst of all the new activity, Copernicus (1500) put forth his theory that, instead of being the center of the universe, round which the whole heavens revolved, the solid earth was but a satellite Copernicus. . . . m motion round the central sun. While this conception, so startling to men's most fundamental notions, was slow to gain general acceptance, it was an- other element of wonder and of change. The Church was quickened by the currents of this new life. Men chafed at its corrupt wealth, and narrow mediaeval views. The Bible was translated and made the book of the people, Luther, the type pf the Mnfettered, COMING OF THE NE W LEARNING TO ENGLAND. 69 individual conscience, faced pope and cardinal with his " Here I stand, Martin Luther ; I cannot do otherwise : God help me." This mighty upheaval ^he Reforma- shook England as well as Germany. The ''""• year of 1526 saw the introduction of Tyndale's trans- lation of the Bible, and ten years later the policy of Henry VHI. withdrew the Church in England from the headship of the pope. Thus England came to share in the diverse activities of the Renaissance, intellectual, maritime, and religious ; in the revival of learning, the discovery of the world, and the Reformation. In the fifteenth century, she had absorbed and stored up many vital influences; early in , . , Summary. the Sixteenth century these slowly accumu- lated forces, these new emotions and ideas, began to find an outlet in the work of a new class of writers, and we reach the threshold of the Elizabethan era, the time when the Renaissance found utterance in English literature. THE EXPRESSION OF THE NEW LEARNING IN LITERATURE. The first conspicuous example of the influence of Italy on English verse is found in the poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt and of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. These noblemen belonged to the new class of wyatt and "Courtly Makers,"* poets of the court Surrey, circle, in whose brilliant and crowded lives the making of verses was but the graceful and incidental accomplish- ment of the finished cavalier. Poetry was a court fashion, and Henry VIII., a patron of the new learning, was him- self a writer of songs. Both Wyatt and Surrey were translators as well as imitators of the Italian poetry, and * Maker is a poet, one who creates. Poet from Greek ■Koifyrrj^ , a maker. Troubadour, or trouvhre, from the French trouver, to find; one who invents, or makes. 10 PERIOD OF tTAUAM tNFLUEMCE. their effect on literature was even greater than the in- trinsic value of their work. They introduced the son- net, which Petrarch had recently brought to great per- fection — almost the only highly artificial poetic form ever successfully transplanted to England. Surrey did even more for the future of English poetry. In his partial trans- lation of Virgil's u^Enead, he adopted from the Italian the unrhymed ten-syllable measure (iambic pentameter), which we call blank verse. This metre the dramatists of Elizabeth's time thus found ready to their hand. Used in the first English tragedy, the Gorbuduc, or Ferrex and Porrex, of Sackville and Norton (1562), improved by Marlowe and by Shakespeare, it was made the epic verse of English poetry in Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained. But Wyatt and Surrey did more than use Italian metres and poetic forms ; they had absorbed, also, the sentiment and thought of Italy, and, in their songs and sonnets, deal with "the complexities of love," and kindred themes, ac- cording to the best Italian models. While we may weary of their conventional gamut of sighs and groans, we must think of these Courtly Makers as doing a great work by bringing to English poetry that new Italy which was the fairy godmother of Elizabethan literature. The publica- tion, in 1557, of the work of these two poets, in a collec- tion known as TotteVs Miscellany of Uncertain Authors. did much to popularize the new style of writing; and with that year the Elizabethan period may conveniently be said to begin. The extent and importance of Italy's influence in England, whether on education or literature, Italian Influence. . , , , r t i can be appreciated only by careful study. " Every breeze was dusty with the golden pollen of Greece, Rome, and of Italy."* Sir Thomas More wrote a life of Pico di Mirandola, a great leader in the new Italian * Lowell's Essay on Spenser in " Among My Books," p. 149. THE NEW LEARNING IN LITERATURE. 71 culture. In Sackville's Mirror for Magistrates ( 1 563), we recognize the influence of Dante, and the Faerie Queene of Edmund Spenser (\i,gS) is aglow with the warmer and more prodigal beauty of the South, and filled with rem- iniscences of the romantic poems of Tasso and Ariosto. Through the example and stimulus of Italy, the litera- tures of Greece and Rome were made a living element in English culture. Not only did scholars and the fine ladies of the court pore over their Plato in ^he work of Greek; translators were busily at workmak- the Translators, ing the great classics the common quarry for all who could read the English tongue. During the latter half of the sixteenth and early part of the seventeenth cen- turies, Virgil's JEneid, Ovid's Metamorphoses, numbers of Seneca's plays, and Homer, in the famous translation of Chapman, were thus made English literature. The Eliz- abethan writers delighted in a somewhat ostentatious dis- play of this newly acquired learning, and their works are often filled with classic allusions which we should now consider commonplace. But as a quickening power their effect was incalculable. Shakespeare's use of Sir Thomas North's translation of Plutarch's Lives, admirably illus- trates the way in which the Translator supplied material for the Author. Out of North's version Shakespeare built his Julius Ccesar, Coriolanus, Antony and Cleopatra, and, to some extent, Timon of Athens. The literature of Italy was likewise thrown open to the English reader. Harrington translated Ariosto's Orlando Furioso {i$gi), Fairfax translated Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered (1600), while hundreds of Italian stories were circulated in England and became the basis of many a drama. 72 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. ELIZABETHAN ENGLAND. The thought and imagination of England, thus expand- ing under the stimulus of the Renaissance, found many- conditions in the reign of Elizabeth which favored their expression in literature. In the two preceding reigns much of- the national force had been spent in religious controversies. Edward VI. (1547-1553) had forced Protestantism upon a nation not, as a whole, fully prepared to accept Freedom from ' i .r f r ^ _ r R^^jg'ous Perse- jt ; Mary (1553-1 558) with a religious zeal as pathetic as, in our eyes, it was cruel and mistaken, had striven to persecute the people back into Roman Catholicism. In Elizabeth's reign we pass out of the bitterness and confusion of this warfare of religions, into a period of comparative quiet. The religious and political difficulties which beset Elizabeth on her accession in 1558, slowly sank out of sight under herfirm and moder- ate rule. Patience and toleration did much to soften the violence of the religious parties ; the fierce fires of mar- tyrdom, which had lit up the terrible reign of Mary, were cold, and the nation, relieved from pressing anxieties, was comparatively free to turn to other issues. The very year in which Shakespeare is supposed to have come up to London to seek his fortune (1587) saw the final removafof a threatened danger by the execution of Mary Queen of Scots. But the reign was more than a period of relief from past struggles or persecution ; it was rriarked by a rapid advance in national prosperity and by a wide-spread in- prosperity of urease in the comforts and luxuries of life, the People. Amoug the people there were many causes of contentment. Improved methods of farming doubled the yield per acre ; the domestic manufacture of wool greatly increased, and homespun came into favor. In ELIZABETHAN EkGLAND. 73 many little ways, by the introduction of chimneys, of feather beds, pillows, and the more general use of glass, the conveniences of living were greatly increased. The sea, as well as the land, yielded a large revenue. Not only did the English fishing boats crowd the Channel, but hardy sailors brought back cod from the Newfoundland banks, or tracked the whale in the vast solitudes of the polar seas. England was laying the foundations of her future com- mercial and maritime supremacy. Her trade increased with Flanders and with the ports of the Mediterranean, and her merchant ships pushed to Scandi- Growth of navia, Archangel, and Guinea. In 1566 commerce. Sir Thomas Gresham built the Royal Exchange in Lon- don, a hall in which the merchants met as the Venitians in their Rialto. Toward the end of the sixteenth cen- tury, the famous East India Company was established. With the ease and wealth that sprung from this in- creasing prosperity, came that delight in beauty, that half-pagan pleasure in the splendid adornments of life, which characterize the Italian Renaissance. ^^^ spUndor Life, no longer shut within the heavy ma- "'' '''^'=- sonry of the feudal castle, ran glittering in the open sun- shine. Stately villas were built, with long gable roofs, grotesque carvings, and shining oriels, and surrounded with the pleached walks, the terraces, the statuary, and the fountains of an Italian garden. The passion for color showed itself among the wealthier classes in a lavish magnificence and eccentricity of cos- tume. The young dandy went " perfumed J Q ^ ^ Dress. like a milliner,"* and often affected the fashions of Italy as the Anglo-maniac of our own day apes those of England. In its luxury of delight in Hfe and color, the nation bedecked itself * " King Henry IV.," act i. sc. 3. 74 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. " With silken coats, and caps, and golden rings. With cuffs, and ruffs, and farthingales, and things. With scarfs and fans, and double change of bravery, With amber bracelets, beads, and all that knavery."* Moralists and Puritans bitterly denounced the extrav- agance and absurdities of the rapidly changing fashions. " Except it were a dog in a doublet," writes an author of the time, " you shall not see any so disguised as are my countrymen of England. "f But ridicule and reproof were alike powerless to check the nation's holiday mood. Men put off their more sober garments to rustle in- silks and satins, to sparkle with jewels; they were gorgeous in laces and velvets, they glittered with chains and brooches of gold, they gladly suffered themselves to be tormented by huge ruffs, stiff with the newly discovered vanity of starch. Shakespeare, whom we cannot imagine over-precise, is fond of showing such fashionable vanities in an unfavor- able light, and from more than one passage we may sup- pose him to have felt an intense, country-bred dislike for painted faces and false hair. On the other hand, when we read his famous description of Cleopatra in her barge, we appreciate how all this glow of color appealed to and satisfied the imagination of the time.:]: The same spirit showed itself in the costly banquets, in the showy pageants or street processions, with their elaborate scenery and allegorical characters, in the revels like those with which Queen Elizabeth was received at Kenilworth (1575), in the spectacular entertainment of the mask, a performance in which poet, musician, and — as we should say — the stage manager, worked together to delight * " Taming of the Shrew," act iv. sc. 3. f Harrison's " Elizabethan England " (Camelot Series, p. 108). I " Antony and Cleopatra," act ii, sc. a. ELIZABETHAM ENQLAtTD. 7S mind, eye, and ear. Milton has this splendor in mind when he writes : " There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear, In pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry. Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream." * But the Elizabethan passion for dress and ornament is but a surface indication of the immense delight in life which characterizes the time. If we would appreciate the vital spirit of this crowded and bewildering age, we must feel the rush of its superb and irrepres- Elizabethan sible energy, pouring itself out through d^i's" in Life, countless channels. England was like a youth first come to the full knowledge of his strength, rejoicing as a giant to run his course, and determined to do, to see, to know, to enjoy to the full. The fever of adventure burned in her veins ; Drake sailed round the world (i 577-1 580) ; the tiny ships of Hawkins, Frobisher, Gilbert, and the rest parted the distant waters of unplowed seas. The buc- caneers plundered and fought with the zest and un- wearied vigor of the Viking. When Sir Walter Raleigh wis taken prisoner in 1603, he is said to have been decked with four thousand pounds' worth of jewels ; yet courtier and fine gentleman as he was, he could face peril, hunger, and privation, in the untracked solitudes of the New World. With an insatiable and many-sided capacity for life typical of his time, Raleigh wrote poetry, boarded Spanish galleons, explored the wilderness, and produced in his old age a huge History of the World. In their full confidence of power, men carried on vast literary undertakings, like Sidney's Arcadia, Drayton's Poly- * " L'AUegro." ?6 PERIOD Ol-' ITALIAN INFLUENCE. olbion, or Spenser's Faerie Queene, the magnitude of which would have daunted a less vigorous generation, Nothing wearied, nothing fatigued them ; like Raleigh, they could " toil terribly." The young Francis Bacon — lawyer, philosopher, and courtier — wrote to Cecil with an inimitable audacity : " I have taken all knowledge to be my province." And all this young life, with its varied spheres of ac- tion, was still further quickened by a deep national pride in the growing greatness of England, and by a feeling of chivalric loyalty to the Queen. Religious National Pride. ... r i i differences gave way before a common bond of patriotism. The men that faced " the Great Armada " were united by a common hatred of Spain, a common de- votion to England and to her Queen. The destruction of this huge armament made every English heart beat with a new pride of country, that became a moving power in the literature of the time. We feel the exultant thrill of this triumph in those stirring words in Shakespeare's King John: " This England never did nor never shall Lie at the proud feet of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again. Come with three corners of the world in arms. And we shall shock them, naught shall make us rue. If England to herself do but rest true."* And the centre of this new nationality was the Queen. Capricious, vain, and fickle as Elizabeth was, she awak- ened a devoted loyalty denied to the gloomy and relent- Loyaitytothe ^^^^ Mary, or to the timorous and un- Queen. gainly James. She had a quick and practical sympathy with the new intellectual and literary activities of her time. The first regular tragedy was * " King John," act' v. sc. 7. EDMUND SPENSER. 77 produced before her, and her interest helped the develop- ment of the struggling drama. " The versatility and many-sidedness of her mind enabled her to understand every phase of the intellectual movement about her, and to fix by a sort of instinct on its highest represen- tative."* As we review the achievements of Elizabethan Eng- land, we can see that the same magnificent energy which makes England prosperous at home and triumphant upon the seas, is the motive power back of the , - - , , Summary, greatest creative period of her literature. Looking at this great time as a whole, we must see Eng- land as " a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep and shaking her invincible locks — as an eagle mewing her mighty youth and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam."f Elizabethan literature is but one outlet for this imperious energy ; it is the new feeling for life that creates the drama as well as discovers kingdoms far away. This is indeed the Re- naissance — the re-birth. EDMUND SPENSER. Edmund Spenser was born in London about 1552. There is some dispute as to his parentage, but he appears to have belonged to a respectable Lancashire family. After attending the Merchant Taylor's school in London, he went to Pembroke College, Cambridge, as a sizar, or free scholar, in 1569. His first published poems, transla- tions from Du Bellay and Petrarch, appeared in the same year in a poetical miscellany called The Theatre for Worldlings. The work is smooth and creditable, but the especial value of the poem is its indication of Spen- ser's early interest in the French and Italian literature. * Green's " History of the English People," ii. p. 319. I Milten's " Areopagitic^," 78 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. While at college Spenser became acquainted with Gabriel Harvey, who figures in the literary history of the time as a learned, if somewhat formal and narrow-minded critic, deeply interested in the development of English poetry. Spenser left Cambridge after taking his master's degree, in 1576, and spent two years in the north, prob- ably with his kinsfolk in Lancashire. Shortly before 1579 he became acquainted with Sir Philip Sidney, the mirror and pattern of the English gentleman of the time, then a young man of about Spenser's age. Tradi- tion has it that Spenser wrote his Shepherd's Calendar during a stay at Penshurst, Sidney's country place. The poem received immediate recognition as a work which marked the comiiig of a new and original poet. It is an Eclogue, or pastoral poem, in twelve books, one for each month. Spenser weaves into its dialogue some of his recent country experiences, including his unsuccessful suit of a lady he calls " Rosalind." He asserts his Pur- itanism, condemns the laziness of the clergy, and pays the customary tribute to the vanity of the Queen. In Elizabeth's time the great avenue to success was through the royal favor, and Spenser tried to push his fortunes at court through his friend Sidney and the Earl of Leicester. Sidney was out of the Queen's good graces, and had left in disgust to weave the airy tissue of his Arcadia. Leicester had Spenser appointed secretary to Lord Grey, the new deputy to Ireland, and in 1580 the young poet left the brilliant England of Elizabeth, with its gathering intellectual forces, for a barbarous and rebel- lious colony. In this lawless and miserable country he spent the rest of his life, except for brief visits to England ; " banished," as he bitterly writes, " like wight forlorn, into that waste where he was quite forgot." Lord Grey was recalled in 1582, but Spenser remained in Dublin about six years longer as clerk in the Chancery EDMUND SPENSER. 79 Court. We find an unintentional irony in the fact that the former incumbent, from whom Spenser purchased the post, a certain Ludovic Briskett, wished to " retire to the quietness of study." Spenser was rewarded for his services by a gift of the castle of Kilcolman, part of the forfeited estate of the Desmonds. There Sir Walter Raleigh found him " Amongst the cooly shade Of the green alders of the MuUae's shore," * and heard from the poet's own lips the first three books of his masterpiece, the Faerie Queene. Raleigh, with great and generous admiration, prevailed upon Spenser to accompany him to London, where the first installment of the Faerie Queene appeared in the same year (1590). Spenser remained in London about a year, learning the miseries of a suitor for princes' favors, and then returned in bitter indignation to his provincial seclusion. Here, in 1594, he married Elizabeth Boyer, "an Irish country lass," and paid her a poet's tribute in his Amoretti, or love sonnets, and in the splendid Epithalamion, or marriage hymn, a poem filled with a rich and noble music. Here also, besides writing certain minor poems, he completed six of the twelve books that were to make up the first part of the Faerie Queene. About 1595 Spenser again visited London, and in the following year published his Prothalamion, or song before marriage. Apart from its poetical value, this poem has a personal interest. Through it we are able to determine Spenser's birthplace, for he speaks of London as " My most kindly nurse. That to me gave this life's first native source." From it, too, it would appear that he was again an un- successful suitor at court. Spenser returned to Ireland * "Colin Clout Come Home Again,"— read this entire passage, beginning line 56. 8o PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. in 1598, having been appointed sheriff of Cork. Shortly- after, his house was burned and plundered in the rebellion of Tyrone. Spenser barely escaped with his wife and children. He soon afterward went to London as bearer of dispatches. Here he died a few weeks later (January 16, 1599) in a lodging house, a ruined and broken-hearted man. Ben Jonson wrote : " He died for lack of bread in King Street, and refused twenty pieces sent to him by my Lord of Essex, saying that he had no time to spend them." Spenser stands alone, the one supremely great undra- matic poet of a play-writing time. In his youth he had, indeed, composed nine comedies, now lost, but the quality Spenser as a o^ ^'s genius was apart from the dramatic ^°^^' temper of his greatest poetical contempo- raries. With a wonderful' richness and fluency of poetic utterance, with the painter's feeling for color, and the mu- sician's ear for melody, Spenser lacked the sense of humor, the firm grasp of actual life, indispensable to the success- ful dramatist. From one aspect, Spenser's work expresses the spirit and deals with the problems of his time. In the Faerie Queene, the struggle of the Church of England with the Church of Rome, a vital issue for Elizabeth and her people, is imaged by the opposing figures of the saintly Una and the foul and dissembling Duessa : what Spenser deemed the righteous severity of Lord Grey's Irish administration is symbolized by Artegal, the knightly personification of Justice. But while current events or questions are thus introduced under the thin veil of allegory, while from time to time we catch the more or less distorted image of some great contemporary, Mary Queen of Scots or Sir Philip Sidney, from another aspect the Faerie Queene impresses us as remote from the substantial world of fact, enveloped in an enchanted atmosphere peculiarly its own. Jil its visionary pages/ EDMUND SPENSER. 8l Spenser revives a fading chivalry, clothing it in fantastic but beautiful hues, at a time when the author of Don Quixote was about to ridicule its decaying glories with his melancholy scorn. Yet unreal and luxurious as the Faerie Queene may seem, Spenser had in it a dis- tinctly practical and moral object. Under the mask of allegory he aimed to show the earthly warfare between good and evil, representing the contending virtues and vices by the different personages of the story. The general object of the poem was to " fashion a perfect gentleman," by showing the beauty of goodness and its final triumph. But this moral purpose, overlaid with lav- ish color and confused by minoror conflicting allegories, is often lost sight of by the reader ; sometimes, we are inclined to think, by the poet himself. We are rather led to enjoy without question the beauty which delights the eye, or the rhythmical undulations of a verse which satisfies the ear. Moral purpose and allegory are alike obscured by the intricaries of a story, which, as we advance, reminds us of a river scattering its divided forces through countless channels, until it ends choked in sand. But the imperishable charm of the poem is independent of its story or of its declared purpose. No poet before Spenser had called out such sweet and stately music from our English speech, and none had so captivated by an appeal to the pure sense of beauty. Spenser was a high-minded Englishman, a student of the ideal philoso- phy of Plato, with a touch of Puritan severity ; but he had, above all, the warm and beauty-loving temper of the Renaissance. In his solitary Kilcolman, amidst the insecurity, pillage, and misery of unhappy Ireland, he felt the full fascination of Italy, an alluring southern magic which to Ascham seemed like " the enchantments of the Circes." In the Faerie Queene, the half-pagan and gorgeous beauty of the Italian Renaissance finds its most 82 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. perfect expression in English poetry, modified and restrained by Spenser's serenity and spirituality and by his English conscience. With him we are not, as with Chaucer, admitted to the mirth and jolly fellowship of the common highway ; rather, like Tennyson's Lady of Shalott in her high tower, we see in a glass only the passing reflection of knight and page. There are moods when this rests and satisfies ; then again we look down to Camelot at life itself, and the mirror cracks from side to side. PROTHALAMION. I. Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre Sweete breathing Zephyrus did softly play, A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titans beanies, which then did glyster fayre ; When I, whom sullein care, Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay In Princes Court, and expectation vayne Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away. Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne, Walkt forth to ease my payne Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes ; Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes, Was paynted all with variable flowers, And all the meades adorned with daintie gemmes, Fit to decke maydens bowres. And crowne their Paramours Against the Brydale day, which is not long : Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song. II. There, in a Meadow, by the River's side, A Flocke of Nymphes I chaunced to espy, All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby, With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde. As each had bene a Bryde ; And each one had a little wicker basket. Made of fine twigs, entrayled curiously, In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket. PROTHALAMION. 83 And with fine fingers cropt full feateously The tender stalkes on hye. Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew, They gathered some; the Violet, pallid blew, The little Dazie that at evening closes, The virgin Lillie, and the Primrose trew. With store of vermeil Roses, Te deck their Bridegroomes posies Against the Brydale day, which was not long : Sweet Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song. III. With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe Come softly swimming downe along the Lee ; Two fairer Birds I yet did never see : The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew, Did never whiter shew. Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be For love of Leda, whiter did appeare ; Yet Leda was, they say, as white as he. Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare : So purely white they were. That even the gentle streame, the which them bare, Seem'd foule to them, and bad his billowes spare To wet their silken feathers, least they might Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre. And marre their beauties bright. That shone as heaven's light. Against their Brydale day, which was not long : Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song. IV. Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill. Ran all in haste to see that silver brood. As they came floating on the christal Flood ; Whom when they sawe, they stood amazed still. Their wondering eyes to fill : Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fayre. Of Fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre Which through the Skie draw Venus silver teeme ; For sure they did not seeme To be begot of any earthly Seede. 84 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. ' But rather Angels, or of Angels breede : Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say, In sweetest Season, when each flower and weede The earth did fresh aray ; So fresh they seem'd as day, Even as their Brydale day, which was not long : Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song. V. Then forth they all out of their baskets drew Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field. That to the sense did fragrant odours yield. All which upon those goodly Birds they threw, And all the Waves did strew. That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme. When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore. Scattered with flowres, through Thessaly they streeme. That they appeare, through Lillies plenteous store, Like a Brydes chamber flore. Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands bound Of freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found. The which presenting all in trim array. Their snowie foreheads therewithall they crown'd, Whilst one did sing this Lay, Prepar'd against that day. Against their Brydale day, which was not long : Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song. VI. " Ye gentle Birdes, the world's faire ornament. And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower Doth leade unto your lovers blissfuU bower, Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content Of your loves couplement ! And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love, With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile. Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove All loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile Forever to assoile. Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord. And blessed Plentie wait upon you(r) bord ; And let your bed with pleasures chast abound, That fruitfuU issue may to you afford, PROTHALAMION. 8S Which may your foes confound, And make your joyes redound Upon your Brydale day, which is not long : Sweete Themmes ! runne softUe, till I end my song." VII. So ended she ; and all the rest around To her redoubled that her undersong, Which said, their bridale daye should not be long : And gentle Eccho, from the neighbor ground Their accents did resound. So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low, As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong, Yet did by signes his glad affection show. Making his streame run slow : And all the foule which in his flood did dwell Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend The lesser starres. So they, enranged well, Did on those two attend. And their best service lend Against their wedding day, which was not long : Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song. VIII. At length they all to mery London came, To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse, That to me gave this Lifes first native sourse, Though from another place I take my name. An house of auncient fame. There when they came, whereas those bricky towres The which on Themmes brode aged backe doe ryde. Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers : There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde. Till they decayd through pride ; Next whereunto there standes a stately place, Where oft I gayned giftes and goodly grace Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell ; Whose want too well now feels my freendles case : But ah ! here fits not well Olde woes, but joyes, to tell 86 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Against the Brydale daye, which is not long : Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song. IX. Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer, Great Englands glory, and the Worlds wide wonder. Whose dreadfuU name late through all Spaine did thunder, And Hercules two pillors standing neere Did make to quake and feare. Faire branch of Honour, flower of Chevalrie ! That fillest England with thy triumphes fame, Joy have thou of thy noble victorie. And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name That promiseth the same. That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes. Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes. And great Elisaes glorious name may ring Through al the world, fil'd with thy wide alarmes. Which some brave muse may sing To ages following, Upon the Brydale day, which is not long Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song. X. From those high Towers this noble Lord issuing. Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre In th' Ocean billowes he hath bathed fayre. Descended to the Rivers open vewing. With a great traine ensuing. Above the rest were goodly to bee scene Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature. Beseeming well the bower of any Queene, With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature, Fit for so goodly stature, That like the Twins of Jove they seemed in sight. Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright : They two, forth pacing to the Rivers side, Receiv'd those two faire Brides, their Loves delight ; Which at th' appointed tyde, Each one did make his Bryde Against their Brydale day, which is not long : Sweete Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song. THE ELIZABETHAN DRAMA. 87 THE ENGLISH DRAMA BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. Shakespeare is so much a part of our English civiliza- tion, we accept his gift to us so easily, and are so familiar with his greatness, that it is well to remind ^he EHza- ourselves of his place as the King of all tethan Drama, literature. Thomas Carlyle wrote of him : " I think the best judgment, not of this country only, but of Europe at large, is pointing to the conclusion that Shakespeare is the chief of all poets hitherto ; the greatest intellect who, in our recorded world, has left a record of himself in the way of literature ; " * and Emerson says, speaking for our own branch of the English people : " Of all books dependent upon their intrinsic excellence, Shakespeare is the one book of the world. . . Out of the circle of religious books, I set Shakespeare as the one unparalleled mind."f Criticism cannot explain how, or why, the country-bred son of a Warwickshire wool-dealer should have possessed this supreme gift ; it is the miracle of genius; but we can partly understand how surrounding conditions favored the expression of Shakespeare's genius through a dra- matic form. It is beyond our philosophy to analyze the nature of the mysterious force shut within a seed, although we may appreciate the conditions which help its development. Let us look at Shakespeare in the light of some of those surroundings in which his genius worked. Shakespeare did not create that dramatic era of which he was the greatest outcome ; he availed himself of it. He lived in the midst of one of the world's few great dramatic periods — a period equaled only, if equaled at all, by the greatest epoch in the drama of Greece. The Elizabethan drama was more than a national amuse- * " Heroes and Hero Worship ; Jhe Hero as a Poet." f " Representative Men : Shakespeare." 88 PERIOD OF ITALIAN 1NFLUEMC&. ment. More fully than any other form of literary or artistic expression, it interpreted and satisfied the crav- ing of the time for vigorous life and action. Shakespeare ,_,, , , . , . ^ Part of a Dra- 1 he theatre was then, as in classic Lrreece, matic Period. . , ^ ^ . i a national force, and a means of national education. An immense popular impulse was back of the Elizabethan dramatist. The wooden play-houses were daily filled with turbulent crowds, and scores of playwrights were busy supplying the insatiable public with countless dramas. Shakespeare was sustained by a hearty, if not always discriminating, appreciation ; he was stimulated by the fellowship, or rivalry, of a host of competitors. At first sight, this dramatic activity may seem to have sprung suddenly into being in answer to a new popular demand. The first regular tragedy was The Prepara- . , r-, , . t- . 11 tion for the Eiiz- about the time of Shakespeare s birth, and he abethan Drama, was twelve years old before the first reg- ularly licensed theatre was erected in England (1576). But the passion for life and action did not create the Elizabethan drama out of nothing; it rather transformed and adapted to its use a drama which had been estab- lished for centuries. This drama, brought into England sometime after the Norman Conquest, had grown out of the need which the Church felt for some means of popular religious instruction. Short scenes, or plays, illustrating some legend of the saints, or Bible story, were acted first by the clergy, and later by the professional players, or by the Guilds. These Miracle plays, as they were called, because they dealt with wonderful, or supernatural, sub- jects, were popular in England during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and continued to be acted in Shake- speare's time. There were other kinds of plays, of which we need not speak particularly — the Moral play, an allegorical performance, intended to teach some moral THR EMGLiSH DRAMA BEPORE SHAKESPEARE. 89 lesson, and the Interlude, a short scene, or dialogue, often played between {interludo) the courses at feasts. The earliest Moral play extant dates from the time of Henry VI., but mention is made of some still earlier. Inter- ludes were composed by John Heywood, in Henry VIII. 's reign, and produded at court. The introduction of his- torical characters among the allegorical personages of the morality play— Riches, Death, Folly, and the like— was an important step towards the regular historical drama.* These early plays, although full of interest for the student, have, as a rule, but little poetic merit. To our modern eyes, they often seem irreverent, and lacking in dignity, but they pleased and instructed a simple- minded and illiterate audience ; they cultivated and kept alive a taste for acting, and so prepared the way for a dramatic development under the re-creating touch of the New Learning. In taking the further step from the Interlude to the more regular dramatic forms, England was helped by the Revival of classical Learning and by the example of Italy. Her first regular comedy, the Ralph Roister Doister of Nicholas Udall, 1551, was writ- of Reguilr°D °a? . ma. ten m imitation of the Latm comic drama- tist, Plautus ; her first tragedy, the Gorbuduc, or Ferrex and Porrex, of Sackville and Norton, while it dealt with a subject in the legendary history of England, followed the style of the Latin tragic poet Seneca. The num- erous translations from the latter writer f are a proof of his influence and popularity. But the forces creating a * Bale's "King Johan " is one of the earliest examples of this, but it was probably not printed until 1538, and had little influence. Another early play is the " Conflict of Conscience." f Between 1559 ^"^^ 1566, five F h authors applied themselves to the task of translating Seneca. Ten of his plays collected and printed together in 1581 remain a monument of the English poets' zeal in studying the Roman pedagogue. 9° PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. drama in England were too strong and original to make it a mere classic imitation ; it might borrow from Rome or Italy, but it had vitality and charaeter of its own. Among the native forces thus shaping a new drama out of mediaeval Miracle plays or classic adaptations, was the intense patriotic pride which, in the days of the Influence of Armada, stirred England to more wide- gVo w't h Sf spread interest in her history, and to a Drama. warmer pleasure in the image of her triumphs. The Chronicle Histories of England were ransacked for subjects, and her past reviewed in dramas which were the forerunners of Shakespeare's great series of English historical plays. Among the early works of this class B.re, The Famous Victories of Henry V., acted before 1588, Sir Thomas More, about 1590, The Troublesome Raign 0/ King- John, printed in 1 591, and The New Chronicle History of King Leir and his three daughters, Gonerill, Ragan, and Cordelia, acted two years later (i 593). The English historical drama was thus a native growth, brought into being by a genuine national impulse. It helps us to estimate the motive power of this impulse if we turn a moment from the drama to other forms of literature. Patriotism while thus rnolding the drama was giving new life to history and verse. Learned men like Stowe, Harrison, and Hollingshead, were embodying in prose painstaking researches into English history and an- tiquities. Hollingshead and Harrison's Description and History of England, Scotland and Ireland (first edition, 1577), a good example of works of this class, supplied material to Shakespeare for his historical plays. In the- same way an enormous quantity of verse draws its inspi- ration from England and her history. William Warner set forth the history of England from the Deluge to the time of Elizabeth in a much-read poem of ten thousand THE ENGLISH DRAMA BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 91 lines (^Albion's England, 1586); Samuel Daniel dealt with English history in his Barons' Wars (1596), a poem on the reign of Edward II., and in his Heroical Epistles (1598): while later Michael Drayton wrote his splendid ballad The Battle of Agincourt z.nA The Polyolbion {1611), " my strange herculean toil " he appropriately calls it, a poetical description of England in thirty books containing about one hundred thousand lines. All these writers were bidding the people to " Look on England, The Empress of the European Isles. The mistress of the ocean, her navies Putting a girdle round about the world."* From the historical plays already named we pass easily to a higher order of drama in the Edward II., of Chris- topher Marlowe, Shakespeare's great predecessor, until we reach the climax of England's patriotic drama in the work of Shakespeare himself. About 1580, we find the drama rapidly taking form in London through the work of a group of rising dramatists, many of whom brought from the universities a tincture of the new learning. Prominent among shakespearcs these yn&rejohn Lyly (b. 1554, d. 1606), the P«decessors. Euphuist, who produced a play before 1584 ; Thomas Kyd (d. about 1 595), whose Spanish tragedy was written in a ranting and extravagant style much ridiculed by Shake- speare and the later dramatists ; George Peek (b. about 1552, d. about 1597), whose chronicle of Edward I. (i593) holds an important place in the development of the his- torical drama; Robert Greene (b. 1560, d. 1592) who, like many of his fellow playwrights, led a wild and dissipated life, friendless, except in a few ale houses. In his Hon- orable History of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, Greene gives some charming scenes of English country life. The * Massinger, " The Maid of Honor," act i. sc. i. 9 i PERIOD OF ITA LI A N^ I NFL UENCE. name of this unhappy writer will always be associated with his spiteful and jealous reference to Shakespeare as an " upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his tiger s heart wrapped in a player s hyde, supposes he is as able to bombast out a blanke-verseas the best of you ; and being an absolute Johannes factotum, is, in his own conceyt, the only ' Shake-scene ' in a countrey."* But, greater than all these in the tragic intensity of his genius and the swelling majesty of his " mighty line," was Chris- topher Marlowe (b. 1564, d. 1593), the immediate fore- runner of Shakespeare. When Marlowe began to write, the form of the English drama was still unsettled. Under the influence of its classic models, tragedy was in- clined to be stiff, stilted, and formal ; while in contrast with the work of the scholarly and somewhat artificial writers, there were rude, popular interludes in jingling rhymes, full of rough, clownish tricks and jests, and with- out unity and proportion. Marlowe's fine touch did much to reduce this confusion to order. His verse is the finest before Shakespeare, and stormy and riotous as was his life, his work shows the true artist's unselfish devotion to a high and beautiful ideal. Marlowe was a son of a Canterbury shoemaker, and was born two months before Shakespeare. He graduated at Cambridge, and came to London in 1581 to plunge into the vortex of reckless and lawless life that circled round the theatre. Passionate, unquiet, ambitious, Marlowe is spoken of as an atheist and a blasphemer. Before he is thirty he is stabbed with his own dagger in a low tavern at Deptford. The touch of the unknown, which he thirsted for like his own Faustus, stops him in the midst of his doubts, his passion- ate longings, his defiance, his love-making, and his fame, — and at length he is quiet, *In his pamphlet, a kind of dying confession, " Greene's Groatsworth of Wit Bought with a Million of Repentance." THE ENGLISH DRAMA BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 93 Marlowe's earliest play {Tamburlaine, First Part before 1587, Second Part 1590) portrays the insatiable thirst for power, the spirit of the typical conqueror long- ing for "the sweet fruition of an earthly crown." Another of Marlowe's tragedies, The Jew of Malta, is generally thought to have furnished Shakespeare with some hints for his Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. Ed- ward II. drew more firmly the lines of the English historical drama, while Dr. Faustus, with its magnifi- cent bursts of poetry, and the accumulating terror of its tragic close, is full of that overmastering longing for the unattainable, which seems to have been the strongest characteristic of Marlowe's restless nature. In these famous lines from Tamburlaine, Marlowe himself seems to speak to us : " Nature, that framed us of four elements Warring within our breast for regiment, Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds : Our souls whose faculties can comprehend The wondrous architecture of the world, And measure every wandering planet's course. Still climbing after knowledge infinite, And always moving as tITe restless spheres, Will us to wear ourselves and never rest." Plays were acted in England long before any theatres were built. The Miracle plays had been produced on temporary scaffolds, or on a two-storied erection, some- thing like a huge doll's house on wheels, called apageant. The Interludes or the early dramas were often played be- fore the Queen, or before some great noble, 1 r 1 /■ 1 I 1 11 The Theatre. on a platform at one end of the huge halls, perhaps at a great banquet or festival. But plays were a popular pastime also, performed in the open air in the court-yards of the Inns ; and these square Inn-yards, over- looked by the galleries or balconies which ran around the 94 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. inclosing walls of the Inn, are supposed to have furnished the model for the regular theatres. The growing delight in play-going seems to have produced a general demand for more permanent and commodious accommodations. One building regularly set apart for the performance of plays is known to have been in use before 1576. In the same year the " Black-friars Theatre " was opened, the first theatre regularly licensed. From this time the play houses rapidly increased, and when Shakespeare came up to London (about 1587) a number were in active oper- ation. Shakespeare's own theatre, " The Globe," built 1593, lay across the Thames from London in the " Bank- side," a part of Southwark, close to the river. Other famous theatres of the day were " The Fortune," " The Rose," and " The Curtain," at the last of which Marlowe is known to have acted. The theatres were of two kinds, public and private. The first were large six-sided wooden buildings, roofed over above the stage and thatched, the pit or yard being without shelter from the sun or rain. Galleries ran round the walls, as in the Inn-yards. The stage projected into the pit, which was alive with disorderly crowds who stood on the bare ground, joking, fighting, or shoving to gain the best places.* There was little attempt at scenery. In the old plays we find such significant stage directions as these : " Exit Venus ; or, if you can conveniently, let a chair come down from the top of the stage and draw her up."f In more than one place through the Choruses of Henry V. Shakespeare seems to be impatient of the slender re- sources of his stage-setting, as when he asks : " Can this cock-pit hold The vasty fields of France ? or may we cram * See Shakespeare's " Henry VIII.,'' act iii. so. 3. \ In Green's " Alphonsus "—quoted by Collier. " Annals of the Stage," vol. iii. p. 357- THE ENGLISH DRAMA BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 95 Within this wooden O, the very casques, That did affright the air at Agincourt ? "* And in the wonderful description that precedes the bat- tle of Agincourt, he complains ; " And so our scene must to the battle fly ; Where (O for pity) we shall much disgrace — With four or five most vile and ragged foils, Right ill-disposed, in brawl ridiculous, — The name of Agincourt ; yet sit and see, Judging true things by what these mockeries be."+ The private theatres were smaller and more comfortable than the public. They had seats in the pit and were entirely under roof. Performances were given by candle or torch light, and the audiences were usually more se- lect. The following description of Mr. Symonds gives us a vivid notion of the performance of a play in Shake- speare's time : " Let us imagine that the red-lettered play-bill of a new tragedy has been hung out beneath the picture of Dame For- tune \i. e., at " The Fortune " theatre, the great rival of Shake- speare's theatre, " The Globe "] ; the flag is flying from the roof, the drums have beaten and the trumpets are sounding for the second time. It is three o'clock upon an afternoon of summer. We pass through the great door, ascend some steps, take our key from the pocket of our trunk-hose and let ourselves into our private room upon the first or lowest tier. We find ourselves in a low, square building, not unHke a circus ; smelling of sawdust and the breath of people. The yard below is crowded with simpering mechanics and prentices in greasy leathern jerkins, servants in blue frieze with their masters' badges on their shoulders, boys and grooms elbowing each other for bare standing ground and passing jests on their neighbors. Five or six young men are already seated before the curtain playing * Chorus to " Henry V.," act i. f Chorus to act iv. 96 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. cards and cracking nuts to while away the time. A boy goes up and down among them offering various qualities of tobacco- for sale and furnishing lights for the smokers. The stage it- self is strown with rushes ; and from the jutting tiled roof of the shadow supported by a couple of stout wooden pillars, carved with satyrs at the top, hangs a curtain of tawny-colored silk. This is drawn when the trumpets have sounded for the third time and an actor in a black velvet mantle with a crown of bays upon his flowing wig, struts forward, bowing to the audience. He is the Prologue. " The prologue ends. " The first act now begins. There is nothing but the rudest scenery ; a battlemented city wall behind the stage, with a placard hung out upon it, indicating that the scene is Rome. As the play proceeds this figure of a town makes way for some wooden rocks and a couple of trees, to signify the Hyrcanian forest. A damsel wanders alone in the woods, lamenting her sad case. Suddenly a card-board dragon is thrust from the sides upon the stage and she takes to flight. The first act closes with a speech from an old gentleman, clothed in antique robes, whose white beard flows down upon his chest. He is the Chorus. . . . The show concludes with a prayer for the Queen's Majesty uttered by the actors on their knees." * WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. There is on Henley Street, in Stratford-on-Avon, War- wickshire, an old house, with gabled roof and low-ceil- inged rooms, which every year is made the object of „. „ ^ thousands of pilgrimages. Here William His Youth. ID o Shakespeare was born, on or about the 22d day of April, 1564. His father, John Shakespeare, the son of a small farmer in the neighboring village of Snit- terfield, added to his regular business of glover, sundry dealings in wool, corn, and hides, and possibly the occu- * "Shakespeare's Predecessors in the English Drama," by J. A. Symonds, p. 289. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 97 pation of butcher. His mother, Mary Arden, the daughter of a wealthy farmer near .Stratford, was connected with one of the oldest and most distinguished families in Warwickshire. The Ardens came of both Norman and Saxon blood, and thus represented "the two great race- elements that have gone to the making of the typical modern Englishman." * The influences about Shake- speare's youth were such as growing genius instinctively appropriates to its use. Then, as now, Warwickshire was full of that abundant and peaceful beauty which has come to represent for us the ideal English landscape. In Shakespeare's day its northern part was overgrown by the great forest of Arden, a bit of primeval woodland like that which we enter in As You Like It; while south- ward of the river Avon, which runs diagonally across the county, stretched an open region of fertile farm land. Here were warm, sunny slopes, gay with those wild- flowers that bloom forever for the world in Shakespeare's verse; low-lying pastures, where meditative cows stand knee-deep in grass, and through which wind the brim- ming waters of slow-flowing and tranquil streams. Strat- ford lies in this more southern portion ; but in Shake- speare's day the forest of Arden reached to within an easy distance of it for an active youth. Near his native town the young Shakespeare could loiter along country lanes, past hawthorn hedge-rows or orchards white with May, coming now and then on some isolated farmhouse or on the cluster of thatched cottages which marked a tiny village. There was Snitterfield, where he must have gone to visit his grandfather ; Shottery, where he wooed and won Anne Hathaway. There, in the midst of this rich midland scenery, was his own Stratford ; with its low wood and plaster houses and straggling streets, its mas- * Vide article on " Shakespeare," by J. Spencer Baynes, in Ency. Brit., ninth ed. 98 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. sive grammar school, where, as a boy, he conned his Lilly's Latin grammar. A little apart, by the glassy Avon, stood Old Trinity Church, its lofty spire rising above the surrounding elms. There is abundant evi- dence that Shakespeare loved Warwickshire with a depth of attachment that nothing could alter. These early surroundings entered into and became a permanent part of his life and genius, and his works are full of country sights and sounds. He shows us rural England in such scenes as that of the sheep-shearing in The Winter s Tale ; he contrasts the free woodland with the court in As You Like It ; he defines for us the essence of the ideal shepherd's life,* and in many a song, written to be sung in crowded London theatres, his imagination escapes to the fields and flowers of his native Warwick- shire. And Shakespeare's Warwickshire added to natural beauty the charm of local legend and the traditions of a splendid past. Within easy reach of Stratford lay War- wick, with its fine old castle, once the home of the great King-maker of the Wars of the Roses. The whole region was bound by tradition and association to that great civil strife which is one of the chief themes of Shakespeare's plays on English history. Near by was Kenilworth, the castle of Elizabeth's favorite, the Earl of Leicester, where the Queen was received (1575) with those magnificent revels which the boy Shakespeare may have witnessed. Traveling companies of players seem to have visited Stratford during Shakespeare's early years, whose perfor- mances he doubtless witnessed. He may even have gazed at the wonders of a Miracle play at Coventry, a town some twenty miles distant, where these plays were fre- quently produced by the Guilds. Besides all that he gained from such surroundings and * Lines beginning "To sit upon a hill," 3 " Henry VI.," act ii. sc. 5. WILL/AM SHAKESPEARE. 99 experiences, Shakespeare had received some instruction at the town grammar school. Here he acquired, or began to acquire, what his learned and somewhat pedantic fellow-dramatist, Ben Jonson, called his " small Latin and less Greek," however much that may have been. In 1 578 John Shakespeare, who had been pros- perous and respected, began to lose money, and it is gener- ally supposed that, in consequence, Shakespeare was taken from school and put to some employment. We are left to conjecture concerning these years of his life ; but we know that in 1582 he married Ann Hathaway, a woman eight years older than himself. A few years later, about 1585 to 1587, Shakespeare left Stratford and went up to London, as so many youthful adventurers are doing and have done, to seek his fortune. If we choose to be- lieve a story which there seems no sufficient cause for entirely disregarding, the immediate reason for this step was Shakespeare's quarrel with a neighboring landed pro- prietor, Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote Hall. Shake- speare is said to have been brought before this gentleman for deer stealing. " For this," says the original authority for the story, " he was prosecuted by that gentleman (Lucy), as he thought somewhat too severely ; and, in order to revenge the ill-usage, he made a ballad upon him. And though this, probably the first essay of his poetry, be lost, yet it is said to have been so very bitter, that it re- doubled the prosecution against him, to that degree that he was obliged to leave his business and family in War- wickshire for some time and shelter himself in London."* This story is probably not without some foundation ; but in any case, Shakespeare's establishment in London is exactly what his circumstances would lead us to expect. In 1585, he had a wife and two children to support, his father's money affairs had gone from bad to worse, and * Nicholas Rowe, " Life of Shakespeare." 100 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Shakespeare, strong as we may imagine in the hopes and confidence of youth and genius, had every reason to feel provincial Stratford too cramped for his powers. " The spirit of a youth That means to be of note, begins betimes."* In addition to all this, James and Richard Burbage, two famous actors in the company with which Shake- speare became connected, are supposed to have been Warwickshire men. If this were the case, Shakespeare may have been encouraged by the prospect of their assistance. When Shakespeare reached London (1587?) the drama was rapidly gaining in popular favor; clever young play- wrights were giving it form, and Marlowe had recently „. . produced his Tamburlaine. We know noth- Snakespeare ^ in London. jjjg qJ Shakespeare's life during his first few years in- London. It is supposed that he studied French and Italian under John Florio, a noted teacher of that time. There is a story that he was first employed at a theatre in holding the horses of those who rode to the play, and that he had a number of boys to assist him. This, however, is generally distrusted. We do know that Shakespeare made a place for himself among the crowd of struggling dramatists, arousing the envy of Greene by his rapid advance in favor; and that by 1592 he was established as a successful actor and author. In some way he seems to have commended himself to the young Earl of Southampton, to whom he dedicated his first poem, the Venus and Adonis, xvi 1593. Shakespeare seems to have begun his work as a dramatist, by adapt- ing and partially re-writing old plays. Titus Andronicus, a coarse and brutal tragedy, was probably one of the plays thus touched up by Shakespeare in his prentice * "Antony and Cleopatra," act iv. sc. 4. WlLLiAM SHAKESPEARE. i61 period. His arrangement of Henry VI. (Part I.) was brought out in 1592, and seems to have done much to bring him into notice. Among these earlier plays (writ- ten before 1598) were The Comedy of Errors, in which Shakespeare joins the imitators of Plautus ; The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Love's Labor Lost, into which many characteristic features of the Italian comedy were introduced ; and thus we see that Shakespeare, like the other dramatists of his time, turned at the very outset to classic models and contemporary Italy. Prof. Dowden points out that certain characters and situations in this last-mentioned play were used again in a modified form in the later Italian study, The Merchant of Venice. The poetic fantasie of The Midsummer Night's Dream also belongs to this period. But Shakespeare, also, shared in the intense patriotism of the time ; in 1593 he produced Richard IL, and the other plays of his great historical series followed in rapid succession. At Christmas of this year Shakespeare is known to have acted with Bur- bage and the other members of the Lord Chamberlain's company before Queen Elizabeth. Everything indicates that, so far as his worldly affairs were concerned, Shake- speare steadily prospered. In these active and hard- working years, he grew in fortune as well as in reputation ; he showed himself practical and capable, a man of busi- ness as well as a transcendent genius, and, by his charac- ter, he won the love and respect of his fellows. By 1597 he was able to buy a home for himself in his beloved Strat- ford. In 1 599 he was one of the proprietors of the " Globe Theatre," built in that year. In 1606 a further purchase of one hundred and seven acres of land at Stratford is made by William Shakespeare, Gentleman. Thus, while he is adding to the treasures of the world's literature, the thoughts and ambitions of this country-bred Shakespeare seem to return and centre about the Stratford of his youth. 102 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Up to this time, Shakespeare's success had been in comedy and in the historical drama. He had, indeed, written Romeo and Juliet, that rapturous and roman- tic tragedy of ill-fated love, and, in scattered pass- ages, had given hints of his power to sound the depths of yet profounder passion. In 1601, he began, in Julius CcBsar, the great series of plays which rank him among the supreme tragic poets of the world. In play after play, he now turns from the humorous and gayer side of life, to face its most terrible questions, to reveal to us the very depths of human weakness, agony, and crime. Some think that these great tragedies were written out of the suffering and bitterness of Shake- speare's own experience ; that, through the loss or treach- ery of friends, or some other personal sorrow, life at this time grew dark and difificult for him. Whatever griefs gave him this insight, it is certain that he somehow gained the knowledge for which even genius must pay the price of suffering. Shakespeare exhibits in the plays of this period a full understanding of the darkest aspects of life. Here is shown us sin, the hideous ulcer at the heart of life, poisoning its very source, degrading souls, and bringing with it a train of miseries which confound alike the innocent and the guilty. In Macbeth we are present at the ruin of a soul, stand- ing irresolute at the brink of the first crime and then hurrying recklessly from guilt to guilt ; in Othello we see the helplessness of a " noble nature " in the hands of fiendish ingenuity and malice; Ophelia, the " fair rose of May," and Hamlet, perish with the guilty King and Queen; the outcast Lear, "more sinned against than sinning," and the spotless Cordelia fall victims to a monstrous wickedness. " Not the first Who with best meaning have incurred the worst." WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. I03 To Chaucer's shrewd eye and sunny good humor, Shakespeare added the sublime depth and earnestness of a far rarer and richer nature. If he was tolerant, like Chaucer, it was not because he was capable of an easy indifference, or " peyned him not eche crokked to re- dresse "; it was because, knowing the worst of life, he could yet accept it with cheerfulness and hope. For Shakespeare always shows us that high endeavors, great- ness, and innocence, cannot really fail so long as they remain true to themselves, because they are their own exceeding great reward. It is enough that Brutus was " the noblest Roman of them all," though he lie dead for a lost cause under the gaze of the conquering Octavius. Worldly success may mean spiritual ruin ; worldly ruin spiritual success. Shakespeare does not explain the dark riddle of life; he does say with unequaled earnestness, "Woe unto them that call darkness light and light dark- ness, that put bitter for sweet and .sweet for bitter." Toward the close of his life, Shakespeare passed in his art out of this tragic mood, to write some of the loveliest of his comedies, with undiminished freshness and creative vigor. The imagination which at the beginning of Shakespeare's work budded forth in The Midsummer Night's Dream, the fairy land of Oberon and Titania, givesbeingto the dainty Spirit Ariel, speeding at the com- mand of Prospero, or cradled in the bell of the cowslip ; while, in the Winter s Tale, the stress of tragedy over, we can fancy ourselves back again in Warwickshire with Shakespeare, breathing its country odors and gazing on the " daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty."* As Shakespeare's fortune and engagements permitted him, he seems to have spent more and more time in his * " Winter's Tale," act iv. sc. 3. 104 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. native place ; and he appears to have returned there about 1610 or 1612. He had said his last to the world ; Retirement of ^°'' ^ ^^^ silent ycars, that appeal profoundly Stratford. ^^ q^j. imaginative interest, he lived in the midst of the scenes and associations of his boyhood, and then, on the 23d of April, 1616, the fifty-second anni- versary, it is supposed, of his birth, he closed his eyes on the world. Shakespeare speaks to all times and nations for the English nature and genius. He gathers and sums up the best that has gone before him — the Celtic wit, fancy, and deftness ; the Teutonic solidity and sincerity, its earnestness, morality, and reverence for the unseen. To this capacious nature, drawing its forces from the genius of two races, awakened Italy gives her tribute ; and through it the English Renaissance finds its su- preme poetic utterance. This man, then, stands for the English people, a king over them for all time. " Here, I say," Carlyle writes, " is an English king, whom no time or chance. Parliament or combination of Parliaments can dethrone ! This king, Shakespeare, does not he shine in crowned sovereignty, over us all, as the noblest, gentlest, yet strongest of rallying-signs ; in- destructible ; really more valuable in that point of view than any other means or appliance whatsoever ? We can fancy him as radiant aloft over all the Nations of Englishmen a thousand years hence. From Paramatta, from New York, wheresoever, under what sort of parish- constable soever, English men and women are, they will say to one another: 'Yes, this Shakespeare is ourj ; we produced him, we speak and think by him ; we are of one blood and kind with him.'" * * " The Hero as Poet" in " Heroes and Hero-Worship," by Thomas Carlyle. WILLIAM SHAICESPEARM. loS TABLE OF SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS. {F. J. Furnival.) I. PRE-SHAKESPEARIAN GROUP. Touched by Shakespeare. Titus Andronicus (1588-90). 1 Henry VI. (1590-91). II. EARLY COMEDIES. Love's Labor Lost (159c). Comedy of Errors (1591). Two Gentlemen of Verona (1592-93). Midsummer Night's Dream (1593-94)- III. MARLOWE-SHAKESPEARE GROUP. Early History. 2 and 3 Henry VI. (1591-92). Richard III. (1593). IV. EARLY TRAGEDY. Romeo and JuHet (? two dates, 1591, 1596-97). V. MIDDLE HISTORY. Richard II. (1594). King John (1595). Vr. MIDDLE COMEDY. Merchant of Venice (1596). VII. LATER HISTORY. History and Comedy United. I and 2 Henry IV. (1597-98). Henry V. (1599). VIII. LATER COMEDY. (a) Rough and Boisterous Comedy. Taming of the Shrew (? 1597). Merry Wives (? 1598). (b) Joyous, Refined, Romantic. Much Ado about Nothing (1598). , ^ As You Like It (1599). Twelfth Night (1600-1601). (c) Serious, Dark, Ironical. All's Well (? 1601-1602). Measure for Measure (1603). Troilus and Cressida (? 1603 ; revised 1607 ?). IX. MIDDLE TRAGEDY. Julius Caesar (1601). Hamlet (1602). X. LATER TRAGEDY. Othello (1604). Lear (1605). Macbeth (1606). Antony and Cleopatra (1607). Coriolanus (1608). Timon (1607-1608). XL ROMANCES. Pericles (1608). Cymbeline (1609). Tempest (i6io). Winter's Tale (1610-11). XII. FRAGMENTS. Two Noble Kinsmen (1612). Henry VIII. (1612-13). Poems. Venus and Adonis (? 1592). Lucrece (1593-94)- Sonnets (? 1595-1605). io6 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE— INTRODUCTION. The Merchant of Venice, one of the most delightful of Shakespeare's comedies, is thought to have been composed between 1594 and 1598. Within these limits Date of Com- Shakespearian scholars differ as to its pre- position. j.jgg date, but all agree that it was not later than 1598, as mention is made of it in that year. Like Chaucer and many early authors, Shakespeare did not invent his own plots; he freely appropriated whatever story seemed suited to his purpose — an old play, an Sources of the Italian novel, a story of Boccaccio's, a ^'°'- chronicle of English History, or Plutarch's Lives of Illustrious Men. There is a real value in trac- ing the materials which Shakespeare used. It gives us some hint of the extent and direction of his reading, and it fills us with wonder to see how his genius uses scattered hints or the slight outline of a story, and how his magic wand transforms the ordinary into a something " rich and strange." Doubtless there was more than one reason why Shakespeare relied on others for his plots; but one only need be mentioned. Dr. Furness reminds us of the extreme rapidity with which Shakespeare worked — writ- ing about forty plays in twenty years, or, on an average, one every six months during his entire working career — and then adds: "Thus, driven by the necessity of speed on the one hand, and by anxiety to catch the popular fancy on the other, is it any wonder that Shakespeare never stopped to devise a plot ? " * The Merchant of Venice is no exception to Shake- speare's general rule in this particular, but the especial source or sources from which he derived his material have been much discussed. It is enough to say here * Furness Var. Ed. " Merchant of Venice," 289, which see, also, for full discussion of probable date of play and sources of the plot. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE— INTRODUCTION. 107 that there seems to have been an earlier English play on which Shakespeare's was founded. Either the unknown author of this earlier play, or Shakespeare himself, was largely indebted for the story to an Italian novel, "///V- corone, of Ser Giovanni. Some think that Shakespeare also used a book of Declamations called Silvayn's Or- ator (1576), which contains a speech about " a Jew who would for his debt have a pound of the flesh of a Christian." It is important for us to notice that the origin of the story is another reminder of the bond between Renais- sance England and Italy. It is, also, proper to add that Shakespeare, or his unknown predecessor, has combined two separate and distinct stories, the story of the Cas- kets, and that of the Bond given for the pound of ilesh. The Merchant of Venice, like so many of bhakespeare s plays, seems surrounded by an atmosphere peculiar to itself. By its very title two things are suggested — Venice, and all the magic, beauty, and romance that the name itself stands for and implies; and Commerce, \\\2X spirit of trade with which the Venetian Republic is forever associated and on which the great- ness of the city was built. These two elements, skill- fully intermingled, give to the play its characteristic at- mosphere or coloring. The spirit of beauty and sentiment speaks in the charming story, reclaimed from the realm of absolute ro- mance only by the power of Shakespeare's art. To an Elizabethan audience there was a glamour in the Italian background, even in the casual mention of names and places, that came freighted with suggestion. To an Eng- lishman of Shakespeare's day, this Italy of the Renaissance was a region of wonder and inspiration. Its marble palaces, its unmatched and curious treasures of art, its learning, its luxurious magnificence and pagan refine- io8 PERIOD OF ITALIAN iNPLUENCE. ments of pleasure, the warmth of its southern nights, the liquid blue of its southern skies — these things intoxi- cated the colder and more sober English nature, and bewildered the English conscience. An English traveler of the sixteenth century expresses the feelings of his countrymen when he speaks of Venice as, " this incom- parable citie, this rich diadem and 'most flourishing gar- land of Christendom." * This is the scene to which Shakespeare brings us ; the Venice which " Sate in state, throned on her hundred isles. The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the mask of Italy." t Nowhere in the play does Shakespeare so transport us by this magical spell of Italy as at its close. In the last act there is no note of discord. The stately garden of Portia's mansion, the soft stillness, the full-orbed moon, the touches of sweet music, the ecstatic lovers quickened into the perception of an underlying harmony in the universe and in " immortal souls," the dash of raillery and wit, the vague anticipation of an eternal order, all these things mean to us the grace of a long dead Italian night, until the curtain falls. But if we are thus made to feel the beauty of Venice, her commercial greatness is, perhaps, even more strongly indicated. This is almost too obvious to require illustra- tion. The note is struck at the very start in the allusion of Salarino to Antonio's argosies. Trade, the lending out of money gratis, the relation of debtor and creditor, the risks of distant trafific, the legal enforcement of a contract — all this purely business element is woven into the airy tissue of a romance. When Salarino declares * Coryat's "Crudities," vol. ii. p. 76. \ Byron's " Childe Harold," canto iv. It will be well for the student to read the whole of this description. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE— INTRODUCTION. 109 that the Duke will never uphold the forfeiture of the bond, Antonio, the practical merchant, replies-: " The Duke cannot deny the course of law; For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied. Will much impeach the justice of the state ; Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations." * More is involved in the impartial enforcement of the law than the sympathetic Salarino realizes. The com- mercial relations of Venice are world-wide ; weaken the general confidence in the justice of her tribunals, deny the obligation of a contract, and a blow is struck at the foundations of her supremacy. In such allusions we have the mercantile side of Venice, the city that "once did hold the gorgeous East in fee," whose very site was chosen for security and commerce, on the great trading sea of the mediaeval world. Looking at the play from its commercial side, the central figure for us on the Rialto, " Where merchants most do congregate," is not Antonio but Shylock. Not that Shylock typifies commercial Venice, as Portia seems to sum up and express its beauty and charm, but because in him we have the extreme instance of the money- lender and the money-getter. Indeed, money enters into the play in so many ways, that one critic believes its main object is to " depict the relations of man to prop- erty."! Thus we have Portia the heiress, Bassanio the spend- thrift fortune-hunter, Shylock the usurer and money- lender, and Antonio the borrower, while Jessica and Lorenzo appear as the abstractors of money — to use the gentlest term. Money, our use or abuse of it, does * Act iii. sc. 3. \ Gervinus, "Shakespeare Commentaries," vol. i. p. 326, no PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. occupy a great place in the play ; but we must look else- where for the central motive. Shylock's master passion is not the love of money, but the passion for revenge. So far as the play is concerned, this is the main-spring of his action, and he prefers his " weight of carrion flesh " to thirty thousand ducats. He conceives the idea of using the very laws of the state to gratify his hatred of Antonio, and of perpetrating no less a crime than murder, in the open court, and under the cover of legal sanction. Ac- cording to the view taken in the play, Shylock has a perfect legal right to do this ; — a right, it must be re- membered, which even Portia does not question. On this Shylock doggedly takes his stand, demanding merely "justice and his bond." On every hand his appeal to justice is met by a counter-appeal for mercy ; we are told that " twenty merchants, the Duke himself, and the magnificoes of greatest port," all persuaded with him.* Salarino begs for mercy : Shylock declares " the Duke shall grant me justice." f The Duke, using the same argument afterward employed by Portia, asks: " How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none ? " only to be met by the same answer — " What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong ? " And a little later, Portia urges the necessity for mercy in her famous plea, and, as she confronts the inexorable Shylock, the spirit of forgiveness and the spirit of revenge. Christian charity and the pharisaical reliance on the technical observance of the letter of the law, stand, as they do throughout the play, in dramatic contrast. The central thought and dramatic motive of the play seems then to be one quite in keeping with the general tenor of Shakespeare's work, and, we are tempted to sup- * Act jii. sCi » f Act iii. sc. 3. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE— INTRODUCTION, m pose, with the character of Shakespeare himself. Human weakness requires another law than that of rigid justice. Neither in our heavenly nor our earthly relations dare we " stand upon our bond." Shylock, entrenched in the support of a lower and earthly law, fails to see upon what compulsion he " must be merciful." But Shakespeare, through Portia, points to the obligation of the higher law; he tells us that there is something " not nominated in the bond," even charity ; the grace of a mutual forbear- ance without which human life would be literally un- Hvable. He enforces in his way the parable of the un- just steward, " Shouldst thou not, therefore, have had compassion upon thy fellow servant even as I had pity on thee ? " Shylock is by no means the only offender against this law of charity. His hatred against Antonio has been excited partly by wanton insults and brutality. When Shylock recounts all he had endured, and how Antonio has called him dog, he is met by the taunting answer : " I am as like to call thee so again, To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too." * And when after the Christian invocation of mercy in the trial scene, the Duke asks, " What mercy can you render him, Antonio ? " Gratiano flippantly interposes, " A halter gratis ; nothing else, for God's sake," t and it may be questioned whether there is not a spice of malice in the apparently liberal terms proposed by An- tonio. The play is, therefore, no mere exhibition of the Jew's hatred ; it dares to show besides this the short- comings of the Christian, and to point to all the great lesson of charity. * Act i. sc. 3. \ Act iv. sc. i. 1 1 2 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFL UENCE. The strongly opposed characters of Shylock and Portia are the principal figures in the play, around which its interest and action centre, and to which the other chara te pcrsonages are strictly and properly subor- dinated. Antonio is a moping and poor- spirited creature, without energy, without strength enough to hate, or, of course, to love, whose flesh is really worth nothing else but " to bait fish withal." Whatever we may think of Bassanio, there is certainly nothing about him to distract our attention from the central male character of the play. Shakespeare would have us see something more in Shy- lock than the grasping and revengeful Jew, " incapable of pity, void and empty of any dram of mercy." With a force of character which we sharply contrast with the feebleness of Antonio, with that intellectual superiority which so often characterized the mediaeval Jew, he is the despised and ill treated member of a persecuted race, and after the loss of his daughter the very boys of Venice hoot at the old man's heels. Hunter writes : " Had the Jew been able to resent in proper time and with proper impunity, any wrongs that might have been inflicted upon him, his resentment would have had vent, and might have left his heart capable of charity ; but he had to endure, without retaliation, injury and insult, time after time, until his heart became hardened as a stone that would whet keenly the knife of vengeance should legal justice ever give him an opportunity of obtaining redress."* Shylock speaks but the truth when he exclaims, " If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge" ; and we cannot wonder that to him the logic of his con- clusion seems unanswerable. " If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge." But Shakespeare has not given us this * " New Illustrations of Shakespeare," Rev. James Hunter, p. 15. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE— INTRODUCTION. II3 tragic figure of Shylock, with its bitterness, avarice, severity, and tenacity of purpose, without a hint of another side to the man's nature of which we know nothing. There is a world of suggestion in his agonized outburst, when that Job's comforter, the " good " Tubal, mentions the fate of the turquoise ring. " Out upon thee, thou torturest me. Tubal ; it was my turquoise ; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor. I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys."* We should not then unthinkingly condemn Shylock ; while we cannot excuse him, we should rather regard him as the melancholy consequence of the lack of charity among those who profess and call themselves Christians. Portia is the centre of the beauty and charm of the play. The inheritor of wealth, not the accumulator of it, sur- rounded by a golden atmosphere of culture, ease, and splendor, she can give royally. She is perhaps the most intellectual of all Shakespeare's women ; she alone rises to the crisis in the trial, while the court, her husband, and Antonio stand helpless. Yet, she puts off nothing of her womanhood when she puts on the lawyer's robe of Bellario's representative. In our nineteenth century she would have run great risk of being what we call " strong-minded," but, happily for the lovers of Shakespeare's Portia, she lived in other times. A keen, high-bred, witty, charming woman, play- ful, dignified, and loving; with all she has — happy to comnit herself to her husband " to be directed." * Act. iii. sc. I. 114 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. The Merchant of Venice. DRAMA TIS PERSONM. Duke of Venice. Launcelot Gobbo, Clown, Servant Prince of Morocco, ) to Shylock, afterwards Servant to Prince of Arragon, j Bassanio. Suitors to Portia. Old Gobbo, Father to Launcelot. Antonio, the Merchant of Venice. Leonardo, Servant to Bassanio. Bassanio, his Friend, Suitor to Balthazar, ) ^^ ^ ^^. Portia. Stephano, ) Gratiano, \ r, ■ , ^ J, J ■ Portia, a rich Heiress. SALANio, [^"'"f " f4«fe»jo ^^^issx, her Waiting-maid. Salarino, ) ""'' ^''"'•"^o- Jessica, Daughter to Shylock. SALERIO. a Messenger. Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of Lorenzo, in love with Jessica. the Court of Justice, Gaoler, Ser- Shylock, a Jew. vants to Portia, and other Attend- Tubal, a Jew, his Friend. ants. ACT I. Scene I. — "Venice. A Street. Enter Antonio, Salarino, and Salanio. Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: It wearies me ; you say it wearies you ; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it. What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn ; S And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, That I have much ado to know myself. I. Sooth. — Means truth ; soothsayer, a truthsayer, or prophet. See char- acter of soothsayer in " Julius Caesar." I. Sad. The sadness of Antonio is made so prominent that some have called it the " keynote '' of the play. Dr. Furness points out that the play is a comedy, not a tragedy, as " Hamlet," or " Macbeth," where the keynote is given in the midnight ghost, and .the witches, and blasted heath. He finds the explanation in a note of Professor Allen, that " If Antonio were not represented as a melancholy man, and, therefore, crochety, he would not have been so extravagantly devoted to a friend, nor would he have signed such a bond." His melancholy is the keynote, not as portending disaster, but as explaining how a merchant and man of afi[airs could afterwards behave as a " want-wit" in signing the Jew's bond. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 115 Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean ; There, where your argosies with portly sail, Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, 10 Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea. Do overpeer the petty traffickers. That curt'sy to them, do them reverence. As they fly by them with their woven wings. Salan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, ' 15 The better part of my affections would Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind. Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads ; And every object that might make me fear 20 Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt. Would make me sad. Salar. My wind, cooling my broth, Would blow me to an ague, when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, 25 But I should think of shallows and of flats. And see my wealthy Andrew docked in sand, Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs. To kiss her burial. Should I go to church. And see the holy edifice of stone, 30 8. Ocean. — This word is a tri-syllable. In many cases, as in words end- ing in Hon, Hon, the metre indicates that, in Shakespeare's time, both vowels were sounded. g. Argosies. — Merchant vessels. Probably corrupted from "ragusye,"a vessel of Ragusa, an old Adriatic seaport with which Venice had an early trade. 10. Signiors. — Lords ; seignory, dominion. So used in Shakespeare. Eng. sire, or sir. 10. Burghers. — Citizens, freemen of a borough. 11. Pageants. — In allusion to enormous machines, in the shape of castles, dragons, etc., drawn about the streets in ancient shows and miracle plays ; as our floats in street processions. See description in Scott's " Kenilworth," vol. ii. chap. vii. 27. Andrew. — The name of his ship. Perhaps from Andrea Doria. See Ency. Brit., gth ed., vol. vii. p. 366. 28. Vailing her high-top, i.e., lowering her mast by tilting over in the sand. 1 1 6 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFL UENCE. And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks ; And, in a word, but even now worth this, 3S And now worth nothing ? Shall I have the thought To think on this, and shall I lack the thought That such a thing bechanced would make me sad ? But tell not me: I know Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 40 Ant. Believe me, no. I thank my fortune for it. My ventures are not in one bottom trusted. Nor to one place ; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year : Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad, 45 Salar. Why, then you are in love. Ant. Fie, fie ! Salar. Not in love neither? Then let's say you are sad, Because you are not merry : and 'twere as easy For you to laugh and leap, and say you are merry. Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, 50 Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time : Some that will evermore peep through their eyes And laugh, like parrots at a bag-piper ; And others of such vinegar aspect, That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile 55 Though Nestor swear and jest be laughable. Enter Bassanio, Lorenzo, and Gratiano. Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well ; We leave you now with better company. Salar. I would have stayed till I had made you merry, 60 If worthier friends had not prevented me. 50. Janus. — He swears by that double-faced divinity who was represented as both laughing and sad. Look up Janus in " Classical Dictionary." Classical allusions are frequent in the works of Shakespeare and his contem- poraries, and illustrate the recent revival of interest in classical studies. The student should look them up as they occur thoughout the play, and find out how and why they are used. 61. Prevented. — Used in the old sense of anticipated. How derived ? THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. Ii? Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it, your own business calls on you, And you embrace the occasion to depart. Salar. Good morrow, my good lords. 65 Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh ? say, when ? You grow exceeding strange : must it be so ? Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. [Exeunt Salarino and Salanio. Lor. My lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, We two will leave you ; but at dinner-time, 70 I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. Bass. I will not fail you. Gra. You look not well, signior Antonio ; You have too much respect upon the world : They lose it that do buy it with much care. 75 Believe me, you are marvellously changed. Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano : A stage where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one. Gra. Let me play the fool : With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, 80 And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man whose blood is warm within Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ? Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice 85" By being peevish ? I tell thee what, Antonio — I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,— There ire a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, 90 With purpose to be dressed in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit ; As who should say, " I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips let no dog bark ! " O, my Antonio, I do know of these 95 7g. Fool. — Not foolish person, but a professional Jester, a character often found in old plays. See the Fool in "Lear," Touchstone in "As You Like it," also Wamba in Scott's "Ivanhoe." The Jester formed a part of the household establishment of kings or nobles. Il8 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. That therefore only are reputed wise, For saying nothing ; when, I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears. Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. I'll tell thee more of this another time : loo But fish not, with this melancholy bait For this fool-gudgeon, this opinion. — Come, good Lorenzo. — Fare ye well awhile : I'll end my exhortation after dinner. Lor. Well, we will leave you, then, till dinner-time. ro5 I must be one of these same dumb wise men. For Gratiano never lets me speak. Gra. Well, keep me company but two years more. Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. Ant. Farewell : I'll grow a talker for this gear. i lo Gra. Thanks, i' faith ; for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried. {^Exeunt Gratiano and Lorenzo. Ant. Is that anything now ? Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat 1 1 5 hid in two bushels of chaff : you shall seek all day ere you find them ; and when you have them, they are not worth the search. Ant. Well, tell me now, what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage. That you to-day promised to tell me of ? 120 Bass. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate. By something showing a more swelling port Than my faint means would grant continuance : Nor do I now make moan to be abridged 125 From such a noble rate ; but my chief care Is to come fairly off from the great debts 104. Exhortation. — Perhaps an allusion to a Puritan sermon, too long to be finished before dinner. Slurs upon Puritanism are frequent among the Elizabethan dramatists ; See Malvolio in " Twelfth Night." Why was this ? How did Puritans regard the stage ? no. Gear. — Purpose, matter, affair. 124. Continuance, i. e. continuance of. 125. To be abridged. — Infinitive used as a noun or gerund. Complain of the abridgement. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. "9 Wherein my time, something too prodigal, Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio, I owe the most, in money, and in love ; 130 And from your love I have a warranty To unburthen all my plots and purposes, How to get clear of all the debts I owe. Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And if it stand as you yourself still do, 135 Within the eye of honour, be assured. My purse, my person, my extremest means, Lie all unlocked to your occasions. Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft I shot his fellow of the self-same flight 140 The self-same way, with more advised watch To find the other forth, and by adventuring both, I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof, Because what follows is pure innocence. I owe you much, and like a wilful youth, 145 That which I owe is lost ; but if you please To shoot another arrow that self way Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, As I will watch the aim, or to find both. Or bring your latter hazard back again, I Jo And thankfully rest debtor for the first. Ant. You know me well, and herein spend but time To wind about my love with circumstance ; And, out of doubt, you do me now more wrong, In making question of my uttermost, 155 Than if you had made waste of all I have : Then do but say to me what I should do. That in your knowledge may by me be done, And I am prest unto it : therefore speak. Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left, 160 And she is fair and, fairer than that word. Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages. Her name is Portia ; nothing undervalued To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia: 165 Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth ; 159. Prest, ready, from Lat. praestus. Fr. pret. 120 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. For the four winds blow in from every coast Renown&d suitors ; and her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand, 170 And many Jasons come in quest of her. O, my Antonio, had I but the means To hold a rival place with one of them, I have a mind presages me such thrift. That I should questionless be fortunate. 175 Ant. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea ; Neither have I money nor commodity To raise a present sum : therefore go forth Try what my credit can in Venice do : That shall be racked, even to the uttermost, 180 To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia. Go, presently inquire, and so will I, Where money is, and I no questions make To have it of my trust, or for my sake. [Exeunt. Scene II.— Belmont. A Room in PORTIA'S House. Etiter Portia and Nerissa. For. By the troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this 185 great world. Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are. And yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing. It is no small happiness, therefore, to 190 be seated in the mean : superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. For. Good sentences, and well pronounced. Ner. They would be better, if well followed. For. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, 195 chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions : I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood ; but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold 200 decree : such a hare is madness, the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel, the cripple. But this reasoning is not in 182. Presently, i. e., immediately — at once. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. I2I the fashion to choose me a husband. — O me, the word choose ! I may neither choose whom I would, nor refuse whom I disHke; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead 205 father. — Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none ? Ner. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations ; therefore, the lottery that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead, (whereof 210 who chooses his meaning, chooses you,) will, no doubt, never be chosen by any rightly but one whom you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come ? Par. I pray thee, over-name them, and as thou namest them 215 I will describe them ; and, according to my description, level at my affection. Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. Por. Ay, that's a colt, indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse ; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own 220 good parts, that he can shoe him himself. Ner. Then is there the county Palatine. Por. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say, " An you will not have me, choose." He hears merry tales and smiles not ; I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, 225 being so full of unmannerly sa_dness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two ! Ner. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon ? Por. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In 230 truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker: but, he ! why, he hath a horse better than the Neopolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the count Palatine : he is every man in no man ; if a throstle sing, he falls straight a-capering: he will fence with his own shadow. If I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. 235 If he would despise me, I would forgive him ; for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him. Ner. What say you, then, to Faulconbridge, the young baron of England ? Por. You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not 240 me, nor I him : he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian ; and you 225. Weeping philosopher. — Who was the weeping philosopher ? 1 2 2 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFL UENCE. will come into the court and swear that I have a poor penny-worth in the English. He is a proper man's picture ; but, alas ! who can converse with a dumb-show ? How oddly he is suited ! I think, he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his 245 bonnet in Germany, and his beliaviour everywhere. Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour ? Por. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him ; for he bor- rowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able : I think the Frenchman became 250 his surety, and sealed under for another. Ner. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew .' Por. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk ; when he is best, he is 255 a little worse than a man ; and when he is worst, he is a httle better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him. Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform'your father's will, if you should re- 260 fuse to accept him. Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket, for, if the devil 244. Oddly Suited. — The richer English of Shakespeare's time were fond of extravagant, ill-assorted, and sometimes foreign fashions in dress. Bishop Hall, in one of his satires, says : " They naked went ; or, clad in ruder hide. Or home-spun russet, void of forraine pride : But thou canst maske in garish gauderie. To suit a foole's far-fetched liverie. A French head, joyned to necke Italian, Thy thighs from Germaine, and brest from Spain ; An Englishman in none, a foole in all ; Many in one, and one in severall." " These foreign fashions did not escape Shakespeare's ridicule,'' says Mr. Edwin Goadby, " The Duke of York, in ' Richard 11.,' complains that the king is too much engrossed with the " Report of fashions in proud Italy, Whose manners still our tardy apish nation Limps after, in base imitation." 250. Frenchman. — What were the relations between the English, French, and Scotch at this time ? THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 123 be within, and the temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a 265 sponge. Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords : they have acquainted me with their determinations ; which is, indeed, to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than 270 your father's imposition, depending on the caskets. For. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable ; for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I wish them 275 a fair departure. Ner. Do you remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company with the Marquess of Montferrat ? For. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio ; as I think, so was he 280 called. Ner. True, madam : he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. For. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. . 285 Enter a Servant. Serv. The four strangers seek you, madam, to take their leave ; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the prince of Morocco, who brings word the prince his master will be here to-night. For. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I 290 can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach : if he have the condition of a saint, and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa.— Sirrah, go before.— Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the 29J door. [Exeunt. Scene III. — Venice. A public Place. Enter Bassanio and Shylock. Shy. Three thousand ducats, — well. Bass. Ay, sir, for three months. Shy. For three months, — well. Bass. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound. 124 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Shy. Antonio shall become bound, — well. 3°° Bass. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer ? Shy. Three thousand ducats, for three months, and Antonio bound. Bass. Your answer to that. 3°5 Shy. Antonio is a good man. Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary ? Shy. Oh, no, no, no, no : — my medning, in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me, that he is sufficient : yet his means are in supposition : he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, .310 another to the Indies ; I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men : there be land-rats and water-rats, land-thieves and water-thieves, I mean pirates; and then there is the peril of 315 waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats ; — I think, I may take his bond. Bass. Be assured you may. Shy. I will be assured I may ; and, that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio ? 320 Bass. If it please you to dine with us. Shy. Yes, to smell pork ; to eat of the habitation which your prophet, the Nazarite^ conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following ; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. 325 What news on the Rialto ? — Who is he comes here ? 311. Rialto. — There were three places in Venice called the Rialto — one of the islands on which Venice was built ; the Exchange building, built on this island, where merchants transacted their business ; and the bridge connecdng the island with St. Mark's quarter. Shylwck uses the word as we would say, " I understand upon 'Change." In Coryat's " Crudities," published in 1766, we find, " The first place of Venice that was inhabited is that which they now call the Rialto, which word is derived from rivus altus, that is, a deepe river, because the water is deeper there than about the other islands." — ^Vol. i. p. ZOI. See also note on line 336. 313. Squandered. — Scattered, not wasted. Note the various countries with which Antonio is said to trade, especially Mexico. The discovery of new countries was an important element in the Renaissance ; such references are frequent in Shakespeare and his contemporaries. 323. Conjured. — What miracle is here referred to ? THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 125 Enter Antonio. Bass. This is Signior Antonio. Shy. [Aside.] How like a fawning publican he looks ! I hate him for he is a Christian, But more, for that in low simplicity, 330 He lends out money gratis, and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 335 Even there where merchants most do congregate, On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift. Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe, If I forgive him ! Bass. Shylock, do you hear ? SAy. 1 am debating of my present store, 340 And, by the near guess of my memory, I cannot instantly raise up the gross Of full three thousand ducats. What of that ? Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe. Will furnish me. But soft ! how many months 345 Do you desire? — [To ANTONIO.] Rest you fair, good signior ; Your worship was the last man in our mouths. Ani. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow By taking nor by giving of excess, Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, 350 332. Usance.— Or usury, meant interest, not, as with us, an illegal rate. Christians considered it wrong to take any interest for the use of money. 336. Merchants most, etc. — In Coryat's " Crudities " we find, " The Rialto, which is at the farther side of the bridge as you come from St. Mark's, is a most stately building, being the Exchange of Venice, where the Venetian gentlemen and the merchants doe meete twice a day, betwixt eleven and twelve o'clock in the morning, and between five and six o'clock of the afternoon. This Rialto is of a goodly height, built all with brick, as the palaces are, adorned with many fair walks or open gal- leries, that I have before mentioned, and it hath a pretty quadrangle court adjoining to it." — Vol. i. pp. 211, 212. 344. Wealthy. — The cautious Jew implies that he himself is not wealthy. Note a similar action, probably imitated by Scott, in Isaac's loan to Ivanhoe. " Ivanhoe," vol. i. chap. vi. 126 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. I'll break a custom. — Is he yet possessed How much you would ? Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. Ant. And for three months. Shy. I had forgot : — three months ; you told me so. Well then, your bond ; and let me see, — But hear you : 355 Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow Upon advantage. Ant. I do never use it. Shy. When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep, — This Jacob from our holy Abram was (As his wise mother wrought in his behalf) 360 The third possessor ; ay, he was the third, — Ant. And what of him ? did he take interest } Shy. No, not take interest ; not, as you would say Directly interest : mark what Jacob did. When Laban and himself were compromised, 365 That all the eanlings which were streaked and pied Should fall as Jacob's hire, This was a way to thrive, and he was blest : And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not. Ant. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served for ; 370 A thing not in his power to bring to pass, But swayed and fashioned by the hand of Heaven. Was this inserted to make interest good ? Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams ? Shy. I cannot tell : I make it breed as fast. — 375 But note me, signior. Ant. Mark you this, Bassanio, The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart. 380 O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath ! Shy. Three thousand ducats ; — 'tis a good round sum. Three months from twelve ; — then let me see the rate. Ant. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you ? Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft, 385 In the Rialto, you have rated me About my moneys and my usances : Still have I borne it with a patient shrug; THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 127 For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. You call me misbeliever, cut-throat clog, 390 And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help : Go to then ; you come to me, and you say, " Shylock, we would have moneys " : you say so ; 395 You, that did void your rheum upon my beard And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold : moneys is your suit. What should I say to you ? Should I not say, " Hath a dog money ? Is it possible 400 A cur can lend three thousand ducats ? " or Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key, With bated breath, and whispering humbleness. Say this : — • " Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last ; 405 You spurned me such a day ; another time You called me dog ; and for these courtesi23 I'll lend you thus much moneys ? " Anf. I am as like to call thee so again. To spet on thee again, to spurn thee too. 410 If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends ; for when did friendship take A breed of barren metal of his friends ? But lend it rather to thine enemy ; Who if he break, thou may'st with better face 415 Exact the penalty. Shy. Why, look you, how you storm ! I would be friends with you, and have your love. Forget the shames that you have stained me with, Supply your present wants, and take no doit Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me. 420 This is kind I offer. . Bass. This were kindness. Sky. This kindness will I show. Go with me to a notary, seal me there Your single bond, and, in a merry sport, 407. See Introduction to " Merchant of Venice." 419. Doit. — A coin of small value. 128 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. If you repay me not on such a day, 425 lo such a place, such sum or sums as are Expressed in the condition, let the forfeit Be nominated for an equal pound Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your body it pleaseth me. 430 Ant. Content, in faith : I'll seal to such a bond, And say there is much kindness in the Jew. Bass. You shall not seal to such a bond for me : I'll rather dwell in my necessity. Ant, Why, fear not, man ; I will not forfeit it : 435 Within these two months — that's a month before This bond expires — I do expect return Of thrice three times the value of this bond. Shy. O father Abram ! what these Christians are. Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect 440 The thoughts of others ! — Pray you, tell me this ; If he should break his day, what should I gain By the exaction of the forfeiture ? A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man, Is not so estimable, profitable neither, 445 As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say. To buy his favour, I extend this friendship : If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; And for my love, I pray you, wrong me not. Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 450 Shy. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's, Give him direction for this merry bond. And I will go and purse the ducats straight ; See to my house, left in the fearful guard Of an unthrifty knave ; and presently 455 I will be with you. Ant. Hie thee, gentle Jew. \Exit Shylock. This Hebrew will turn Christian : he grows kind. Bass. I like not fair terms and a villain's mind. Ant. Come on, in this there can be no dismay ; My ships come home a month before the day. 460 {_Exeunt. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 129 ACT II. Scene I.— Belmont. A Room in Portia's House. Enter the Prince of Morocco, and his Followers; Portia, Nerissa, ajid others of her Train. Flourish cornets. Mor. Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadowed livery of the burnished sun To whom I am a neighbour and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born. Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, 465 And let us make incision for your love To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine Hath feared the valiant ; by my love, I swear, The best regarded virgins of our clime 470 Have loved it too. I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. Por. In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden's eyes : Besides, the lottery of my destiny 475 Bars me the right of voluntary choosing; But, if my father had not scanted me And hedged me by his wit to yield myself His wife who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair 480 As any comer I have looked on yet, For my affection. Mor. Even for that I thank you : Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets To try my fortune. By this scimitar, — That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince 485 That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, — I would outstare the sternest eyes that look. Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth. Pluck the young suckling cubs from the she-bear, Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, 490 To win thee, lady. But, alas the while I If Hercules and Lichas play at dice 478. Wit. — Foresight, wi'idom. 485. Sophy, — A title given to the Emperor of Persia. 130 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker hand, So is Alcides beaten by his page ; 495 And so may I, blind fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain. And die with grieving. Por. You must take your chance. And either not attempt to choose at all. Or swear before you choose, — if you choose wrong, scx) Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage : therefore be advised. Mor. Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance. Por. First, forward to the temple : after dinner Your hazard shall be made. Mor, Good fortune then, 505 To make me blest or cursed 'st among men ! [Cornets, and exeunt. Scene II.— Venice. A Street. Enter Launcelot Gobbo. Laun. Certainly, my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me — " Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot," or "good Gobbo,'' or "good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take 510 the start, run away." My conscience says, — " No ; take heed, honest Launcelot ; take heed, honest Gobbo ; " or, as aforesaid, " honest Launcelot Gobbo ; do not run ; scorn running with thy heels." Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack : " Via ! " says the fiend ; " away !" says the fiend ; " for the heavens, rouse 515 up a brave mind," says the fiend, " and run." Well, my con- science, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me — " My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man's son," — or rather an honest woman's son ; — well, my conscience says, " Launcelot, budge not." " Budge," 520 says the fiend : " Budge not," says my conscience. " Con- science," say I, " you counsel well ; " " fiend," say I, " you counsel well : " to be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who (God bless the mark) is a kind of devil ; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, 525 saving your reverence, is the devil himself. Certainly, the Jew is THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 131 the very devil incarnation, and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel : I will run, fiend ; my heels are at your commandment ; I will run. 530 Enter old GOBBO, with a basket. Gob. Master, young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew's ? Laun. [Aside.] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father, who, being more than sand-blind, high gravel-blind, knows me not : — I will try confusions with him. 535 God. Master, young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew's ? Laun. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but at the next turning of all, on your left ; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's 540 house. Gob. By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me, whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him, or no? Laun. Talk you of young Master Launcelot ? — [Aside.] Mark 545 me now ; now will I raise the waters. — [ To him.] Talk you of young Master Launcelot } Gob. No master, sir, but a poor man's son : his father, though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man ; and, God be thanked, well to live. 550 Laun. Well, let his father be what a will, we talk of young Master Launcelot. Gob. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir. Laun. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot .^ 555 Gob. Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership. Laun. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father ; for the young gentleman (according to Fates and Desti- nies, and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three, and such branches of learning) is, indeed, deceased ; or, as you would say, in plain 560 terms, gone to heaven. Gob. Marry, God forbid ! the boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. Laun. Do I look like a cudgel, or a hovel-post, a staff, or a prop? — Do you know me, father ? 565 132 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Gob. Alack the clay ! I know you not, young gentleman ; but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy (God rest his soul) alive, or dead ? Laun. Do you not know me, father ? Gob. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind ; I know you not. Laun. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the 570 knowing me ; it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. {Kfieels^ Give me your blessing. Truth will come to light ; murder cannot be hid long, a man's son may, but in the end truth will out. Gob. Pray you, sir, stand up. I am sure you are not Launce- 575 lot, my boy. Laun. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing : I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be. Gob. I cannot think you are my son. 580 Laun. I know not what I shall think of that ; but I am Launce- lot, the Jew's man, and, I am sure, Margery, your wife, is my mother. Gob. Her name is Margery, indeed : I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped 585 might he be ! what a beard hast thou got ; thou hast got more hair on thy chin, than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail. Laun. It should seem then that Dobbin's tail grows backward. I am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face, when I last saw him. 590 Gob. Lord ! how art thou changed ! How doest thou and thy master agree ? I have brought him a present. How gree you now ? Laun. Well, well ; but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. 595 My master's a very Jew : give him a present ! give him a halter : I am famished in his service. You may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come : give- me your present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liv- eries ; if I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. 600 — O rare fortune, here comes the man : — to him, father ; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. Enter Bassanio, with Leonardo, and other Followers. Bass. You may do so, but let it be so hasted, that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters de- THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 133 livered, put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come 605 anon to my lodging. [Exit a Servant. Laun. To him, father. Gob. God bless your worship ! Bass. Gramercy. Wouldst thou aught with me ? Gob. Here's my son, sir, a poor boy, — 610 Laun. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man, that would, sir, — as my father shall specify, — Gob. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve — Laun. Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and 615 have a desire,— as my father shall specify, — Gob. His master and he (saving your worship's reverence) are scarce cater-cousins, — Laun. To be brief, the very truth is, that the Jew having done me wrong, doth cause me,— as my father, being, I hope, an old 620 man, shall frutify unto you, — Gob. I have here a dish of doves, that I would bestow upon your worship ; and my suit is, — Laun. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man ; and, though I say 625 it, though old man, yet poor man, my father. Bass. One speak for both. — What would you ? Laun. Serve you, sir. Gob. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. Bass. I know thee well ; thou hast obtained thy suit : 630 Shylock, thy master, spoke with me this day, And hath preferred thee, if it be preferment To leave a rich Jew's service, to become The follower of so poor a gentleman. Laun. The old proverb is very well parted between my master 635 Shylock and you, sir : you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough. Bass. Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son. Take leave of thy old master, and inquire My lodging out. [ To his Followers.'] Give him a livery 640 More guarded than his fellows' : see it done. 618. Cater-cousins, — Word of doubtful origin — meaning cousins in a remote degree. 641. Guarded, — Laced — ornamented; the trimming is supposed to guard the edge from being worn. 134 PERIOD OF i TALI AM INFLUENCE. Laun. Father, in. — I cannot get a service, no ; I have ne'er a tongue in my head. Well : {looking on his fialnil if any man in Italy have a fairer table, which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to, here's a simple line of life, 645 here's a small trifle of wives, alas, fifteen wives is nothing ; eleven widows, and nine maids, is a simple coming in for one man : and then, to 'scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed, here are simple 'scapes : well, if For- tune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear. — Father, 650 come ; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye. {Exeunt Launcelot and old GOBBO. Bass. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this. These things being bought and orderly bestowed, Return in haste, for I do feast to-night My best-esteemed acquaintance : hie thee, go. 655 Leon. My best endeavors shall be done herein. Enter Gratiano. Gra. Where is your master? Leon. Yonder, sir, he walks. {Exit. Gra. Signior Bassanio, — Bass. Gratiano. Gra. I have a suit to you. Bass. You have obtained it. 660 Gra. You must not deny me : I must go with you to Belmont. Bass. Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano : Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice ; Parts, that become thee happily enough. And in such eyes as ours appear not faults, 665 But where thou art not known, why, there they show Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain To allay with some cold drops of modesty Thy skipping spirit, lest, through thy wild behaviour, I be misconstrued in the place I go to, 670 And lose my hopes. Gra. Signior Bassanio, hear me : If I do not put on a sober habit, 644. Table. — /. f., the palm of his hand where he reads his fortune. Fur- ness, following Allen's note, punctuates this with an exclamation after table, understanding the " which," used like the Latin as a causal relative. The sense then is "for it doth offer to swear," etc. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 135 Talk with respect, and swear but now and then, Wear prayer books in my pocket, look demurely, Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes 675 Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say amen. Use all the observance of civility Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more. Bass. Well, we shall see your bearing. 680 Gra. Nay, but I bar to-night ; you shall not gage me By what we do to-night. Bass. No, that were pity. I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well : 685 I have some business. Gra. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest : But we will visit you at supper-time. [Exeunt. Scene IIL— The Same. A Room in Shylock's House. EnUr Jessica ancf Launcelot. /es. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so : Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, 690 Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. But fare thee well ; there is a ducat for thee : And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest : Give him this letter, do it secretly : 695 And so farewell ; I would not have my father See me in talk with thee. Laun. Adieu ! — tears exhibit my tongue. — Most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew, adieu ! these foolish drops do somewhat drown my manly spirit : adieu ! 700 Jes. Farewell, good Launcelot. — \Exit LAUNCELOT. Alack, what heinous sin is it in me. To be ashamed to be my father's child ! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, 705 676. Hat. — In Shakespeare's time, hats were worn at meals. 136 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife. \Exit. Scene IV.— The Same. A Street. Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino, and Salanio. Lor. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, Disguise us at my lodging, and return All in an hour. Gra. We have not made good preparation. 710 Salar. We have not spoke us yet of torch -bearers. Salan. 'Tis vile unless it may be quaintly ordered, And better, in my mind, not undertook. Lor. 'Tis now but four o'clock, we have two hours To furnish us. Enter Launcelot with a letter. Friend Launcelot, what's the news ? 715 Laun. An it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify. {Giving a letter. Lor. I know the hand : in faith, 'tis a fair hand, And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ. Gra. Love-news, in faith. 720 Laun. By your leave, sir. Lor. Whither goest thou ? Laun. Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the Jew, to sup to- night with my new master, the Christian. Lor.' Hold here, take this: tell gentle Jessica I will not fail 725 her, speak it privately : [Exit Launcelot. Go, gentlemen, Will you prepare you for this masque to-night ? I am provided of a torch-bearer. Salar. Ay, marry, I'll begone about it straight. 730 Salan. And so will I. 711. Torch-bearers, — Furness, R. & J., p. 55, quotes Stevens: "Westward Hoe, 1607; ' He is just like a torch-bearer to maskers ; he wears good cloathes, and is ranked in good company, but he doth nothing.' A torch- bearer seems to have been a constant appendage on every troop of masks. . . Queen Elizabeth's gentlemen pensioners attended her to Cambridge and held torches while a play was acted before her in the Chapel of King's Col- lege, on a Sunday evening." THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 137 Lor. Meet me and Gratiano At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence. Salar. 'Tis good we do so. {Exeunt SaLARINO a«rfSALANIO. Gra. Was not that letter from fair Jessica } Lor. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed 735 How I shall take her from her father's house, What gold and jewels she is furnished with, What page's suit she hath in readiness. If e'er the Jew her father come to Heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter's sake ; 74° And never dare misfortune cross her foot, Unless she do it under this excuse, That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest : Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. [Exeunt. 745 Scene V.— The Same. Before Shylock's House. Enter Shylock and Launcelot. Shy. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge, The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio ; What, Jessica ! — thou shalt not gormandize As thou hast done with me ;— what, Jessica ! And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out.— 75° Why, Jessica, I say ! Laun. Why, Jessica ! Shy. Who bids thee call ? I do not bid thee call. Laun. Your worship was wont to tell me, I could do nothing without bidding. Enter JESSICA. /es. Call you ? What is your will ? 755 Shy. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica : There are my keys. — But wherefore should I go ? I am not bid for love ; they flatter me : But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian.— Jessica, my girl, 760 743. Faithless.— I.e., nnheWeVxng. 749. What.— An exclamation of impatience. " Julius Caesar," act ii. sc. i. 13^ PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Look to my house. — I am right loath to go : There is some ill a brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night. Laun. I beseech you, sir, go : my young master doth expect your reproach. 7^5 Shy. So do I his. Laun. And they have conspired together, — I will not say, you shall see a masque ; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black-Monday last, at six o'clock i' the morning, falling out that year on Ash- Wednesday was four 770 year in th' afternoon. Shy. What, are there masques .' — Hear you me, Jessica, Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum. And the vile squeaking of the wry-necked fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, 775 Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnished faces : But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements. Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter My sober house. — By Jacob's staff I swear, 780 I have no mind of feasting forth to-night: But I will go :— Go you before me, sirrah. Say, I will come. Laun. I will go before, sir. — Mistress, look out at window, for all this ; 785 There will come a Christian by. Will be worth a Jewess' eye. [Exit. Shy. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring ? ha ! Jes. His words were, " Farewell, mistress " ; nothing else. Shy. The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder 790 769. Black Monday is Easter Monday, and was so called on this oc- casion: " In the year 34th Edw. jIII., the 14th of April, 1360, and the morrow after Easter Day, King Edwarde with his hoast lay before the citie of Paris, which day was full darke of mist and haile, and so bitter cold that many men died on their horses' backs with the cold ; therefore unto this day it hath been called Black Monday." — Stowe's Chronicles, p. 264. 788. Hagar's offspring. — "This allusion is very appropriate to the de- parture of his servant ; Hagar having been bondswoman to Sarah, the wife of Abraham, and having quitted her, as Launcelot does Shylock, under the supposed grievance of too little indulgence. Gen., chap. xvi. verses 1-9." — Farren, p. 24, quoted by Furness. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 139 Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day- More than the wild cat : drones hive not with me, Therefore I part with him, and part with him To one that I would have him help to waste His borrowed purse. — Well, Jessica, go in, 795 Perhaps I will return immediately. Do as I bid you ; shut doors after you : Fast bind, fast find ; A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. {Exit. Jes. Farewell ; and if my fortune be not crost, 800 I have a father, you a daughter, lost. {Exit. Scene VI. — The same. Enter Gratiano and Salarino, masqued. Gra. This is the penthouse, under which Lorenzo Desired us to make stand. Salar. His hour is almost past. Gra. And it is marvel he outdwells his hour. For lovers ever run before the clock. 805 Salar. O ! ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly To seal love's bonds new-made, than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited ! Gra. That ever holds : who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down ? 810 Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first ? All things that are. Are with more spirit chased than enjoyed. How like a younker or a prodigal 815 The scarfed bark puts from her native bay. Hugged and embraced by the strumpet wind ! How like the prodigal doth she return. With over-weathered ribs and ragged sails. Lean, rent, and beggared by the strumpet wind ! 820 Enter Lorenzo. Salar. Here comes Lorenzo : more of this hereafter. Lor. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode ; Not L but my affairs, have made you wait : When you shall please to play the thieves for wives 140 PERIOD Of ITALIAN INFLUENCM. I'll watch as long for you then. — Approach ; 825 Here dwells my father Jew. — Ho, who's within .' Enter Jessica above, in boy's clothes. Jes. Who are you ? Tell me for more certainty, Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue. Lor. Lorenzo, and thy love. Jes. Lorenzo, certain ; and my love, indeed, 830 For who love I so much ? And now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours? Lor. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art. Jes. Here, catch this casket : it is worth the pains. I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me, 835 For I am much ashamed of my exchange : But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit ; For if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy. 840 Lor. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. Jes. What, must I hold a candle to my shames ? They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light. Why 'tis an office of discovery, love, And I should be obscured. Lor. So are you, sweet, 845 Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. But come at once ; For the close night doth play the runaway, And we are stayed for at Bassanio's feast. Jes. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself 850 With some more ducats, and be with you straight. [Exit Jrom above. Gra. Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew. Lor. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily ; For she is wise, if I can judge of her. And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, 855 And true she is, as she hath proved herself ; And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul. Enter JESSICA. What, art thou come,.' — On, gentlemen ; away ! THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 141 Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. 860 \^Exit with Jessica atid Salarino. Enter ANTONIO. Ant. Who's there? Gra. Signior Antonio ? Ant. Fie, iie, Gratiano, where are all the rest .'' 'Tis nine o'clock, our friends all stay for you : No masque to-night : the wind is come about, 865 Bassanio presently will go aboard ; I have sent twenty out to seek for you. Gra. I am glad on't, I desire no more delight Than to be under sail and gone to-night. {Exeunt. Scene VII. — Belmont. An Apartment in Portia's House. Enter Portia, with the Prince of MOROCCO, and both their Trains. Por. Go, draw aside the curtains, and discover 870 The several caskets to this noble prince : — Now make your choice. Mor. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears, " Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire." The second, silver, which this promise carries, 875 " Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves." This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, " Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath." How shall I know if I do choose the right ? Por. The one of them contains my picture, prince : 880 If you choose that, then I am yours withal. Mor. Some god direct my judgment ! Let me see ; — I will survey the inscriptions back again. What says this leaden casket .' " Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath." 885 Must give — for wliat .' for lead ? hazard for lead .' This casket threatens. Men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages : A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross, I'll then nor give, nor hazard, aught for lead. 890 What says the silver with her virgin hue .' "Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves." As much as he deserves ? — Pause there, Morocco, 142 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. And weigh thy value with an even hand. If thou be'st rated by thy estimation, 895 Thou dost deserve enough ; and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady ; And yet to be afeard of my deserving Were but a weak disabling of myself. As much as I deserve ! — Why, that's the lady : 900 I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, In graces, and in qualities of breeding ; But more than these, in love I do deserve. What if I strayed no further, but chose here ? — Let's see once more this saying graved in gold : 905 " Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire." Why, that's the lady ; all the world desires her. From the four corners of the earth they come To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint. The Hyrcanian deserts, and the vasty wilds 910 Of wild Arabia, are as thoroughfares now For princes to come view fair Portia. The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar To stop the foreign spirits, but they come, 915 As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia. One of these three contains her heavenly picture. Is't like, that lead contains her ? 'Twere damnation To think so base a thought : it were too gross To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. 920 Or shall I think in silver she's immured. Being ten times undervalued to tried gold ? O sinful thought ! Never so rich a gem Was set in worse than gold. They have in England A coin, that bears the figure of an angel 925 Stamped in gold, but that's insculped upon ; But here an angel in a golden bed 910. Hyrcanian. — Rolfe says " Hyrcania was an extensive tract of country southeast of the Caspian Sea." Shakespeare three times mentions the tigers of Hyrcania: "3 Henry VI.," act i. sc. 4 ; " Macbeth," act iii. so. 4 ; " Hamlet," act ii. sc. 2. Cf. Virgil's " .lEneid," iv. 367. 926. Insculped. — "Insculped upon. Graven on the outside. The angel was worth about ten shillings. It had on one side a figure of Michael pierc- ing the dragon." THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 143 Lies all within. Deliver me the key : Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may ! Por. There, take it, prince ; and if my form lie there, 930 Then I am yours. \^He unlocks the golden casket. Mar. O hell ! what have we here ? A carrion death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll. I'll read the writing. \Readsi\ All that glisters is not gold ; Often have you heard that told ; 935 Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms infold. Had you been as wise as bold. Young in limbs, in judgment old, 940 Your answer had not been inscroU'd, " Fare you well, your suit is cold." Cold, indeed, and labor lost : Then, farewell, heat, and, welcome, frost : Portia, adieu, I have too grieved a heart, 945 To take a tedious leave : thus losers part. [^Exit. Por. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains ; go. Let all of his complexion choose me so. [Exeunt. Scene VIII.— Venice. A Street. Enter Salarino and Salanio. Salar. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail : With him is Gratiano gone along ; 950 And in their ship, I'm sure, Lorenzo is not. Salan. The villain Jew with outcries raised the Duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship. Salar. He came too late, the ship was under sail : But there the Duke was given to understand 955 That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica. Besides, Antonio certified the Duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship. Salan. I never heard a passion so confused, 960 So strange, outrageous, and so variable. As the dog Jew did utter in the streets : " My daughter !— O my ducats !— O my daughter ! 1 44 PERIOD OF ITA LI A N I NFL UENCE. Fled with a Christian ! — O my Christian ducats ! Justice ! the law ! my ducats, and my daughter ! 965 A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter ! And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones, Stolen by my daughter ! — Justice ! find the girl ! Slie hath the stones upon her, and the ducats ! " 970 Salar. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him. Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. Salan. Let good Antonio look he keep his day. Or he shall pay for this. Salar. Marry, well remembered. I reasoned with a Frenchman yesterday, 975 Who told rae, in the narrow seas that part The French and" English, there miscarried A vessel of our country richly fraught. I thought upon Antonio when he told me, And wished in silence that it were not his. 980 Salan. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear ; Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. Salar. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part : Bassanio told him he would make some speed 985 Of his return : he answered — " Do not so ; Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay the very riping of the time ; And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me. Let it not enter in your mind of love ; '99° Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there." And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, 995 And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio's hand ; and so they parted. Salan. I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out, And quicken his embraced heaviness 1000 With some delight or other. Salar. Do we so. [Exeunl. 996. Sensible. — Full of feeling, tender. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 14S Scene IX. — Belmont. A Room in Portia's House. Enter Neri'SSA, with a Servitor. Ner. Quick, quiclc, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight. The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath, And comes to his election presently. Enter the Prince of Arragon, Portia, and their Trains. Flourish cornets. Por. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince : 1005 If you choose that wherein I am contained. Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnised ; But if you fail, without more speech, my lord. You must be gone from hence immediately. Ar. I am enjoined by oath to observe three things : loio First, never to unfold to any one Which casket 'twas I choose; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage ; Lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice, 101 5 Immediately to leave you and be gone. Por. To these injunctions every one doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self. Ar. And so have I addressed me. Fortune now To my heart's hope !— Gold, silver, and base lead, 1020 '' Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath : " You shall look fairer, ere I give, or hazard. What says the golden chest ? ha ! let me see :— " Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire." What many men desire :— that many may be meant 1025 By the fool multitude, that choose by show. Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet. Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty. 103° I will not choose what many men desire. Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank rtie with the barbarous multitudes. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house ; Tell me once more what title thou dost bear : io35 1028. Marltet— A bird like our swallow. See "Macbeth," act i. sc. 7. 146 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. " Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves." And well said too ; for who shall go about To cozen fortune and be honourable Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity : 1040 ! that estates, degrees, and offices. Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour Were purchased by the merit of the wearer ! How many then should cover that stand bare ; How many be commanded that command ; 1045 How much low peasantry would then be gleaned From the true seed of honour ; and how much honour Picked from the chaff and ruin of .the times. To be new-varnished ! Well, but to my choice : "Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves." 1050 1 will assume desert. — Give me a key for this. And instantly unlock my fortunes here. [He opens the silver casket. Por. Too long a pause for that which you find there. Ar. What's here ? the portrait of a blinking idiot. Presenting me a schedule ! I will read it. 1055 How much unlike art thou to Portia ! How much unhke my hopes and my deservings ! " Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves : " Did I deserve no more than a fool's head } Is that my prize ? are my deserts no better ? 1060 Por. To offend and judge are distinct offices, And of opposed natures. Ar. What is here ? {Reads'] The fire seven times tried this. Seven times tried that judgment is That did never choose amiss. 1065 Some there be that shadows kiss, Such have but a shadow s bliss : There be fools alive, I wis. Silvered o'er, and so was this : Take what wife you will to bed 1070 / will ever be your head : So be gone ; you are sped. 1041. Estates. — " Not property, but dignity — status." Furness, 1044. Cover. — "Wear their hats as masters." Clarendon. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 147 Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here : With one fool's head I came to woo, 1075 But I go away with two.— Sweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath. Patiently to bear my wroth. [Exeunt Arragon and Train. Por. Thus hath the candle singed the moth. O, these deliberate fools, when they do choose 1080 They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. Ner. The ancient saying is no heresy, Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. Por. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. Enter a Messenger. Mes. Where is my lady } ■Por. Here, what would my lord ? 1085 Mes. Madam, there is alighted at your gate A young Venetian, one that comes before To signify the approaching of his lord. From whom he bringeth sensible regreets. To wit (besides commends and courteous breath) 1090 Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen So likely an ambassador of love : A day in April never came so sweet. To show how costly summer was at hand. As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. 1095 Por. No more, I pray thee, I am half afeard Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee. Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him. Come, come, Nerissa, for I long to see Quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly. iioo Ner. Bassanio lord,— Love, if thy will it be ! [Exeunt. ACT in. Scene I.— Venice. A Street. Enter Salanio and Salarino. Salan. Now, what news on the Rialto ? Salar, Why, yet it lives there unchecked, that Antonio hath 148 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. a ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas ; the Good- wins, I thinl< they call the place, a very dangerous flat, and fatal, 1 105 where the carcases of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word. Salan. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of 1 1 10 prolixity, or crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio— O, that I had a title good enough to keep his name company Salar. Come, the full stop. Salan. Ha, what sayest thou ? Why, the end is, he hath lost 1015 a ship. Salar. I would it might prove the end of his losses. Salan. Let me say " amen " betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew. Enter Shylock. How now, Shylock, what news among the merchants } 11 20 Shy. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter's flight. Salar. That's certain : I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal. Salan. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was 1125 fledged ; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam. Sky. She is damned for it. Salar. That's certain, if the devil may be her judge. Sky. My own flesh and blood to rebel 1 11 30 Salan. Out upon it, old carrion, rebels it at these years ? 1 104. Narrow seas. — The English Channel. 1 105. Goodwins. — Goodwin Sands, off the coast of Kent ; see ref. " King John," act v. sc. 5. 1105. I think they call the place. — Salarino's doubt about the name is an artistic way of reminding us, first that an Italian, not an Englishman, is speaking : the scene is in Venice ; second, of the time covered by the play. Antonio's ship has had time to sail from Venice to England, be wrecked, and the news reported again at Venice. nog. Knapped ginger. — Nibbled ginger. — That gossips, z. t., old women, were fond of ginger may be inferred from ' ' Meas. for Meas. ," act iv. sc. 3 . — Furness. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 149 Shy. I say my daughter is my flesh and blood. Salar. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory ; more between your bloods than there is between red wine and rhenish. But tell us, do you hear, whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no ? 1 135 Shy. There I have another bad match ; a bankrupt, a prodi- gal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto ; a beggar, that used to come so smug upon the mart : Let him look to his bond : he was wont to call me usurer ; let him look to his bond : he was wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him 1140 look to his bond. Salar. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh ; what's that good for ? Shy. To bait fish withal ; if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half 1 145 a million, laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies ; and what's his reason ? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes ? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the 1150 same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is .' If you prick us, do we not bleed ? if you tickle us, do we not laugh ? if you poison us, do we not die ? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge .' If we are like you in the 1155 rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility ? revenge. If a Christian wrong a. Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example ? why, revenge. The villainy you teach me, I will execute ; and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. 11 60 Enter a Servant. Serv. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both. Salar. We have been up and down to seek him. Salan. Here comes another of the tribe, a third cannot be matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew. 1165 [Exeunt Salanio, Salarino, and Servant. Enter TUBAL. Shy. How now. Tubal ? what news from Genoa? Hast thou found my daughter ? 15° PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Tub. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. Shy. Why there, there, there, there! a diamond gone, 1170 cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort. The curse never fell upon our nation till now ; I never felt it till now ; two thou- sand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her 1 175 coffin ! No news of them ?— Why, so ; and I know not what's spent in the search : why, thou loss upon loss ! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief, and no satisfaction, no revenge ; nor no ill luck stirring, but what lights o' my shoulders ; no sighs, but o' my breathing : no tears, but o' my shedding. 1 180 Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too. Antonio, as I heard in Genoa Shy. What, what, what } ill luck, ill luck ? Tub. hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis. Shy. I thank God ! I thank God ! Is it true .? is it true .? 1 185 Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck. Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news •: — Ha, ha ! . . . hear ... in Genoa .? Titb. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, 1 190 fourscore ducats. Shy. Thou stick'st a dagger in me. I shall never see my gold again. Fourscore ducats at a sitting ! fourscore ducats ! Tub. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my com- pany to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break. 1195 Shy. I am very glad of it : I'll plague him ; I'll torture him ; I am glad of it. Tub. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey. Shy. Out upon her! Thou torturest me. Tubal : it was my 1200 turquoise ; I had it of Leah, when I was a bachelor. I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys. ii8g. Hear. — Here, in quartos. Furness suggests that Shylock feared to trust the rumor of Antonio's loss referred to in the opening of this scene as living unchecked on the Rialto and which he must have heard. He is too wily to speak of it when talking with Salarino. He accepts it only when referred to by Tubal, who spoke with the escaped sailors, ' ' here," in Genoa." 1200. See Introduction to " Merchant of Venice,'' p. 113. THE MERCHAHT OF VENICE. 151 Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone. Shy. Nay, that's true, that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer, bespealc him a fortnight before. I will have the heart 1205 of him, if he forfeit ; for were he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I will. Go, go. Tubal, and meet me at our syna- gogue : go, good Tubal ; at our synagogue. Tubal. {Exeunt. Scene II.— Belmont. A Room in Portia's House. Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and Attendants. For. I pray you, tarry ; pause a day or two Before you hazard, for in choosing wrong 1 2 10 I lose your company ; therefore, forbear awhile. There's something tells me, but it is not love, I would not lose you, — and you know yourself. Hate counsels not in such a quality ; But lest you should not understand me well 1215 (And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought) 1 would detain you here some month or two Before you venture for me. I could teach you How to choose right, — but then I am forsworn ; So will 1 never be : so may you miss me: 1220 But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin. That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes, They have o'erlooked me, and divided me : j ^ One half of me is yours, the other half yours. Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then yours, 1225 And so all yours. O, these naughty times Put bars between the owners and their rights ; And so, though yours, not yours ; — prove it so. Let Fortune go to hell for it, not I, I speak too long ; but 'tis to peise the time, 1230 To eke it and to draw it out in length. To stay you from election. Bass. Let me choose. For as I am, I live upon the rack. For. Upon the rack, Bassanio : then confess What treason there is mingled with your love. 1235 1230. Peise. — Stevens says: "From the Vr. peser,3.vA therefore means to retard by hanging weights." See " Richard III.," act v. sc. 3, 105; "King John," act ii. sc. i, 575. 1230. Rack. — Hunter notices that in politics and morals Shakespeare is 15* PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Bass. None, but that ugly treason of mistrust Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love. There may as well be amity and life 'Tween snow and fire as treason and my love. Por. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack, 1240 Where men enforcM do speak anything. Bass. Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth. Por. Well then, confess and live. Bass. Confess and love, Had been the very sum of my confession : happy torment, when my torturer 1245 Doth teach me answers for deliverance : But let me to my fortune and the caskets. [Curtain drawn from before the casket sl\ Por. Away then, I am locked in one of them, If you do love me, you will find me out. Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof. 1250 Let music sound, while he doth make his choice, Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end. Fading in music. That the comparison May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream And watery deathbed for him. He may win ; 1255 And what is music then ? then music is Even as the flourish when true subjects bow To a new-crowned monarch ; such it is, As are those dulcet sounds in break of day That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear, . 1260 And summon him to marriage. — Now he goes. With no less presence but with much more love Than young Alcides when he did redeem The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy To the sea-monster : I stand for sacrifice, 1 265 The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, With bleared visages, come forth to view The issue of the exploit : go, Hercules, Live thou, I live :— with much, much more dismay, 1 view the fight than thou that mak'st the fray. 1270 always on the side of justice and humanity. That while this sentiment would find approval in these times, it would not be agreeable to the public officials of his own day who were then employing torture in the tower of London. He speaks of it as a " bold utterance." See Furness, " Merchant of Venice," p. 138. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. iS3 A song, the whilst Bassanio comments on the caskets to himself. Tell me where is fancy bred. Or in the heart, or in the head ? How begot, how nourished f Reply, reply. It is engendered in the eyes, 1275 With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell : ril begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. All. Ding, dong, bell. 1 280 Bass. So may the outward shows be least themselves : The-world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil ? In religion, 1285 What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text. Hiding the grossness with fair ornament ? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. 1290 _ How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who, inward searched, have livers white as milk, And these assume but valour's excrement, 1295 To render them redoubted. Look on beauty, And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight. Which therein works a miracle in nature. Making them lightest that wear most of it : So are those crisped snaky golden locks, 1300 Which make such wanton gambols with the wind Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head. The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but a guilM shore I3°5 To a most dangerous sea ; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty ; in a word. The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold. 154 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee ; 131° Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 'Tween man and man : but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threat'nest than dost promise aught. Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I. Joy be the consequence! 1315 Por. How all the other passions fleet to air. As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair, And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy ! love, be moderate, allay thy ecstacy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess : 1320 1 feel too much thy blessing ! make it less, For fear I surfeit! Bass. What find I here? {Opening the leaden casket. Fair Portia's counterfeit. What demigod Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes ? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, 1325 Seem they in motion ? Here are severed lips Parted with sugar breath, so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in hei- hairs, The painter plays the spider and hath woven A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men 1330 Faster than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes, How could he see to do them ? having made one Methinks it should have power to steal both his, And leave itself unfurnished : yet look, how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow 1335 In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll. The continent and summary of my fortune : \_Reads!\ You that choose not by the view, Chance as fair, and choose as true, 1340 Since this fortune falls to you. Be content, and seek no new. If you be well pleased with this, 1323. Counterfeit. — Meaning likeness. See "Hamlet ": " Look here, upon this picture, and on this — the counterfeit presentment of two brothers ; " act iii. so. 4 ; and also Shakespeare's Sonnet xvi. 8 : " Your painted coun- terfeit." THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 15S And hold your fortune for your bliss. Turn you where your Lady is, 1345 And claim her with a loving kiss. A gentle scroll. — Fair lady, by your leave, I come by note, to give and to receive. [Kissing her. Like one of two contending in a prize, That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes, 1350 Hearing applause, and universal shout. Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt Whether those peals of praise be his or no ; So, thrice fair lady, stand I, even so. As doubtful whether what I see be true, 1355 Until confirmed, signed, ratified by you. Por. You see me. Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am : though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish. To wish myself much better, yet for you I360 I would be trebled twenty times myself ; A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich ; That, only to stand high in your account, I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account : but the full sum of me 1365 Is sum of nothing ; which, to term in gross. Is an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised, Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn ; happier than this. She is not bred so dull but she can learn ; 1370 Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours Is now converted : but now I was the lord 1375 Of this fair mansion, master of my servants. Queen o'er myself ; and even now, but now, This house, these servants, and this same myself. Are yours, my lord. I give them with this ring. Which when you part from, lose, or give away, 1380 Let it presage the ruin of your love And be my vantage to exclaim on you. Bass. Madam, you have bereft me of all words, IS6 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Only my blood speaks to you in my veins. And tiiere is such confusion in my powers 13^5 As after some oration, fairly spoke By a beloved prince, there doth appear' Among the buzzing pleased multitude ; Where every something, being blent together. Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy, 139° Expressed, and not expressed. But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence : O, then be bold to say, Bassanio's dead. Ner. My lord and lady, it is now our time. That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, 1 395 To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady ! Gra. My lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish ; For, I am sure, you can wish none from me. And, when your honours mean to solemnize 1400 The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you Even at that time I may be married too. Bass. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. Gra. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours, — ■ 1405 You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid ; You loved, I loved for intermission. No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. Your fortune stood upon the caskets there. And so did mine too, as the matter falls ; 1410 For wooing here until I sweat again, And swearing till my very roof was dry With oaths of love, at last, if promise last, I got a promise of this fair one here. To have her love, provided that your fortune 141S Achieved her mistress. For. Is this true, Nerissa ? Ner. Madam, it is, so you stand pleased withal. Bass. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? Gra. Yes, faith, my lord. Bass. Our feast shall be much honoured in your marriage. 1420 Gra. But who comes here .' Lorenzo, and his infidel ? What ! and my old Venetian friend Salerio ? THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 157 Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and Salerio. Bass. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither. If that the youth of my new interest here Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave 1425 I bid my very friends and countrymen. Sweet Portia, welcome. Por. So do I, my lord ; They are entirely welcome. Lor. I thank your honour. — For my part, my lord. My purpose was not to have seen you here ; 1430 But meeting with Salerio by the way, He did entreat me, past all saying nay, To come with him along. Saler. I did, my lord, And I have reason for it. — Signior Antonio Commends him to you. {Gives Bassanio a letter. Bass. Ere I ope his letter, 1435 I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth. Saler. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind ; Nor well, unless in mind ; his letter there Will show you his estate. [BASSANIO reads the letter. Gra. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger ; bid her welcome. 1440 Your hand, Salerio. What's the news from Venice.'' How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio ? I know he will be glad of our success ; We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. Saler. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost ! 1445 Por. There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper. That steals the colour from Bassanio's cheek : Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world Could turn so much the constitution Of any constant man. What, worse and worse ? — 1450 With leave, Bassanio ; I am half yourself. And I must freely have the half of anything That this same paper brings you. Bass. O sweet Portia, Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words That ever blotted paper. Gentle lady, 1455 When I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you, all the wealth I had IS8 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Ran in my veins, — I was a gentleman : And then I told you true, and yet, dear lady, Rating myself at nothing, you shall see 1460 How much I was a braggart. When I told you. My state was nothing, I should then have told you, That I was worse than nothing ; for indeed, I have engaged myself to a dear friend. Engaged my friend to his mere enemy, 14^5 To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady ; The'paper as the body of my friend, And every word in it a gaping wound. Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio ? Have all his ventures failed ? What, not one hit ? 1470 From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, From Lisbon, Barbary, and India, And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch Of merchant-marring rocks ? Saler. Not one, my lord. Besides, it should appear, that if he had I47S The present money to discharge the Jew, He would not take it. Never did I know A creature, that did bear the shape of man. So keen and greedy to confound a man. He plies the Duke at morning and at night, 1480 And doth impeach the freedom of the state If they deny him justice. Twenty merchants. The Duke himself, and the magnificoes Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him. But none can drive him from the envious plea 1485 Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. Jes. When I was with him I have heard him swear To Tubal, and to Chus, his countrymen. That he would rather have Antonio's flesh Then twenty times the value of the sum 1490 That he did owe him ; and I know, my lord, If law, authority, and power deny not. It will go hard with poor Antonio. For. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble ? Bass. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, 1495 The best-conditioned and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies ; and one in whom THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. IS9 The ancient Roman honour more appears, Than any that draws breath in Italy. Por. What sum owes he the Jew ? 1500 Bass. For me, three thousand ducats. Por. What, no more ? Pay him six thousand and deface the bond : Double six thousand, and then treble that. Before a friend of this d-escription Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault. 1505 First go with me to church, and call me wife, And then away to Venice to your friend ; For never shall you lie by Portia's side With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold To pay the petty debt twenty times over. 15 10 When it is paid, bring your true friend along ; My maid Nerissa, and myself, meantime. Will live as maids and widows. Come away. For you shall hence upon your wedding-day. Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer ; 1515 Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. — But let me hear the letter of your friend. Bass. \Reads?[ Sweet Bassanio, My ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low ; my bond to the Jew is forfeit, and since in paying it, it is impossible I should 1520 live, all debts are cleared between yoii and I if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure : if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter. Por. O love, despatch all business, and be gone. Bass. Since I have your good leave to go away, 1525 I will make haste ; but till I come again. No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay, Nor rest be interposer 'twixt us twain. [Exeunt. Scene III.— Venice. A Street. Enter Shylock, Salarino, Antonio, and Gaoler. Shy. Gaoler, look to him : tell not me of mercy. This is the fool that lent out money gratis. IS30 Gaoler, look to him. Ant. Hear me yet, good Shylock. Shy. I'll have my bond ; speak not against my bond. I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. l6o PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs. 1 535 The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder. Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request. Ant. I pray thee, hear me speak. Shy. I'll have my bond : I will not hear thee speak: 1540 I'll have my bond : and therefore speak no more. I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool. To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield To Christian intercessors. Follow not ; I'll have no speaking: I will have my bond. \Exit. 1545 Salar. It is the most impenetrable cur That ever kept with men. Ant. Let him alone : I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeks my life ; his reason well I know ; I oft delivered from his forfeitures 1550 Many that have at times made moan to me ; Therefore he hates me. Salar. I am sure, the Duke Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. Ant. The Duke cannot deny the course of law : For the commodity that strangers have 1555 With us in Venice, if it be denied. Will much impeach the justice of the state. Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go : These griefs and losses have so bated me 1560 That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh To-morrow to my bloody creditor. — 1537. Naughty. — Rolfe says ; " This word was formerly used in a much stronger sense than at present. In ' Much Ado,' v. 2, the villain Borachio is called a "naughty man,' and Gloster, in ' Lear,' iii. 7, when the cruel Regan plucks his beard, addresses her as ' Naughty Lady ! ' Cf. Proverbs vi. 12 ; I Sam. xvii. 28 ; James i. 21. Below, v. i, a ' naughty world,' — a wicked world." 1537. Fond. — Foolish, silly. This is the original meaning of the word. See " Lear," act iv. sc. 7 : " I am a very foolish fond old man." See Skeat. Etymolog. Diet. 1555. See Introduction to " Merchant of Venice,'' p. 109. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. l6l Well, gaoler, on.— Pray God, Bassanio come To see me pay his debt, and then I care not ! {^Exeunt. Scene IV.— Belmont. A Room in Portia's House. Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica, and Balthazar. Lor. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, 1565 You have a noble and a true conceit Of goil-like amity ; which appears most strongly In bearing thus the absence of your lord. But, if you knew to whom you show this honour, How true a gentleman you send relief, 1570 How dear a lover of my lord, your husband, I know, you would be prouder of the work Than customary bounty can enforce you. Por. I never did repent for doing good. Nor shall not now : for in companions 1575 That do converse and waste the time together, Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, There must be needs a like proportion Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit ; Which makes me think that this Antonio, 1580 Being the bosom lover of my lord, Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, How little is the cost I have bestowed In purchasing the semblance of my soul From out the state of hellish cruelty ! 1585 Tills comes too near the praising of myself; Therefore, no more of it : hear other things. Lorenzo, I commit into your hands The husbandry and manage of my house Until my lord's return : for mine own part, 1590 I have toward heaven breathed a secret vow To live in prayer and contemplation Only attended by Nerissa here. Until her husband and my lord's return. There is a monastery two miles off, 1595 And there we will abide. I do desire you Not to deny this imposition The which my love and some necessity Now lays upon you. l62 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Lor. Madam, with all my heart I shall obey you in all fair commands. 1600 Por. My people do already know my mind, And will acknowledge you and Jessica In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. So fare you well till we shall meet again. Lor. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you ! 1605 Jes. I wish your ladyship all heart's content. Lor. I thank you for your wish, and am well pleased To wish it back on you : fare you well, Jessica. {Exeunt Jessica and Lorenzo. Now, Balthazar, As I have ever found thee honest-true, l6lo So let me find thee still. Take this same letter, And use thou all the endeavour of a man In speed to Padua : see thou render this Into my cousin's hand. Doctor Bellario ; And look, what notes and garments he doth give thee, 1615 Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed Unto the tranect, to the common ferry Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words. But get thee gone : I shall be there before thee. Bal. Madam, I go with all convenient speed. 1620 {Exit. Por. Come on, Nerissa : I have work in hand That you yet know not of. We'll see our husbands Before they think of us. Ner. Shall they see us ? Por. They shall, Nerissa ; but in such a habit. That they shall think we are accomplished 1625 With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutred like young men, I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two ; And wear my dagger with the braver grace ; 1617. Tranect. — Rolfe says : " This is the reading of the old editions, but the word occurs nowhere else. It may be a misprint for 'traject,' as Rowe suggested. This would be the English equivalent of the French trajet Italian, traghetto.'' Coryat (Crudities) says : " There are in Venice thirteen ferries or passages, which they commonly call traghetto, where passengers may be transported in a gondola to what part of the city they will. K. thinks the tranect was the tow-boat of the ferry. " THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 163 And speak between the change of man and boy 1630 With a reed voice ; and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride ; and speak of frays. Like a fine bragging youth ; and tell quaint lies, How honourable ladies sought my love. Which I denying, they fell sick and died, 1635 I could not do withal : then I'll repent, And wish, for all that, that I had not killed them. And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell. That men shall swear I have discontinued school Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind 1640 A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise. But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device When I am in my coach, which stays for us At the park gate ; and therefore haste away, 1645 For we must measure twenty miles to-day. [Exeunt, Scene V.— The Same. A Garden. Enter Launcelot and ]%ssica.. Laun. Yes, truly ; for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children ; therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter : therefore, be of good cheer ; for, truly, I think 1650 you are damned. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good. Jes. And what hope is that, I pray thee ? Laun. Marry, you may partly hope that you are not the Jew's daughter. 1655 Jes. So the sins of my mother should be visited upon me. Laun. Truly then I fear you are damned both by father and mother : thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother. Well, you are gone, both ways. Jes. I shall be saved by my husband ; he hath made me a 1660 Christian. Laun. Truly, the more to blame he : we were Christians enow before ; e'en as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs : if we grow all to be porkeaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on 1665 the coals for money. l64 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Jes. I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say : here he comes. Enter LORENZO. Lor. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot. Jes. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo, Launcelot and I are 1670 out. He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for me in heaven be- cause I am a Jew's daughter : and he says, you are no good member of the commonwealth, for, in converting Jews to Chris- tians you raise the price of pork. Lor. I think, the best grace of wit will shortly turn into 1675 silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah ; bid them prepare for dinner. Laun. That is done, sir ; they have all stomachs. Lor. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you ! then bid them prepare dinner. 1680 Lawi. That is done too, sir ; only cover is the word. Lor. Will you cover then, sir ? Laun. Not so, sir, neither ; I know my duty. Lor. Yet more quarreling with occasion ? Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant ? I pray thee, understand 1685 a plain man in his plain meaning : go to thy fellows, bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner. Laun. For the table, sir, it shall be served in ; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered ; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern. \Exit. 1690 Lor. O dear discretion, how his words are suited ! The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words ; and I do know A many fools, that stand in better place. Garnished like him, that for a tricksy word 1695 Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica ? And now, good sweet, say thy opinion. How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife ? Jes. Past all expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, 1700 For, having such a blessing in his lady. He finds the joys of heaven here on earth ; And, if on earth he do not mean it, then In reason he should never come to heaven. Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, 1705 And on the wager lay two earthly women, TitE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 165 And Portia one, there must be something else Pawned with the other, for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow. Lor. Even such a husband Hast thou of me, as she is for a wife. 1710 Jes. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. Lor. I will anon ; first, let us go to dinner. Jes. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach. Lor. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk ; Then, howsoe'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things 171 5 I shall digest it. Jes. Well, I'll set you forth. [Exeunt. ACT IV. Scene I. — Venice. A Court of Justice. Enter the "OVK.^ ; the Magntficoes ; ANTONIO, Bassanio, Grati- ANO, Salarino, Salerio, and others. Duke. What, is Antonio here ? Ant. Ready, so please your grace. Ditke. I am sorry for thee ; thou art come to answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 1720 Uncapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy. Ant. I have heard Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify His rigorous course ; but since he stands obdurate. And that no lawful means can carry me 1725 Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose My patience to his fury, and am armed To suffer with a quietness of spirit The very tyranny and rage of his. Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court. 1730 Salar. He's ready at the door. He comes, my lord. Enter Shylock. Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face. Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice To the last hour of act ; and then, 'tis thought, 1735 Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange 1 66 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Than is thy strange apparent cruelty ; And where thou now exact'st the penalty, Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh. Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, 174° But, touched with human gentleness and love, Forgive a moiety of the principal ; Glancing an eye of pity on his losses That have of late so huddled on his back, Enow to press a royal merchant down I745 And pluck commiseration of his state From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint. From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never trained To offices of tender courtesy. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. I7S° Shy. I have possessed your grace of what I purpose ; And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn To have the due and forfeit of my bond : If you deny it, let the danger light Upon your charter and your city's freedom. 1755 You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive Three thousand ducats ? I'll not answer that. But, say, it is my humour • is it answered ? What if my house be troubled with a rat, 1760 And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats To have it baned ? What, are you answered yet ? Some men there are love not a gaping pig ; Some that are mad if they behold a cat ; Masters of passion, sway it to the mood 1765 Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer. As there is no firm reason to be rendered, Why he cannot abide a gaping pig ; Why he, a harmless necessary cat ; So can I give no reason, nor I will not, 1770 More than a lodged hate and a certain loathing I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him. Are you answered ? Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 1775 1762. Baned. — Destroyed, poisoned. A.-S.,bana, a murderer; rats-bane, rat poison. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 167 Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my answer. Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not love ? Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill ? Bass. Every offence is not a hate at first. Shy. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice ? 1780 Ant. I pray you, think you question with the Jew. You may as well go stand upon the beach And bid the main flood bate his usual height ; You may as well use question with the wolf Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb ; 1785 You may as well forbid the mountain pines To wag their high tops, and to make no noise When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven ; You may as well do anything most hard As seek to soften that (than which what's harder ?) I79° His Jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you. Make no more offers, use no further means ; But with all brief and plain conveniency. Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. 1795 Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them : I would have my bond. Duke. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none } Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong ? 1800 You have among you many a purchased slave. Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules. You use in abject and in slavish parts Because you bought them : — shall I say to you. Let them be free ; marry them to your heirs ? 1805 Why sweat they under burdens ? let their beds Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates Be seasoned with such viands ? You will answer, The slaves are ours. So do I answer you : The pound of flesh which I demand of him 1810 Is dearly bought ; 'tis mine, and I will have it. ng<). How Shalt thou hope etc ) ^ote these two lines carefully. 1800. What judgment shall I dread, etc. ) They express accurately the different feeling of the Christian and the Jew. They "not only anticipate the point on which this scene turns, but sum up concisely the central motive of the play. See Tntrod. p. tio, supra. i68 PERIOD OP ITALIAN INFLUENCE. If you deny me, fie upon your law ! There is no force in the decrees of Venice. I stand for judgment : answer ; shall ] have it ? Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss this court, 1815 Unless Bellario, a learned doctor Whom I have sent for to determine this, Come here to-day. Salar. My lord, here stays without A messenger with letters from the doctor, New come from Padua. 1 820 Duke. Bring us the letters ; call the messenger. Bass. Good cheer, Antonio ! What, man, courage yet! The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. Ant. I am a tainted wether of the flock, 1825 Meetest for death : the weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me. You cannot better be employed, Bassanio, Than to live still, and write mine epitaph. Enter Nerissa, dressed like a lawyer's clerk. Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario ? 1830 Ner. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace. {^Presents a letter. Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly.' Shy. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou mak'st thy knife keen ; but no metal can, 1835 No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee ? Shy. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make. Gra. O, be thou damned, inexorable dog And for thy life let justice be accused ! 1840 Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit Governed a wolf, who, hanged for human slaughter, 1845 1820. Padua. — One of the great Italian universities was at Padua. At first this was exclusively a School of Law. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 169 Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallowed dam Infused itself in thee ; for thy desires Are wolfish, bloody, starved, and ravenous. Shy. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, 1850 Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud. Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall To cureless ruin. — I stand here for law. Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend A young and learned doctor to our court. 1855 Where he is ? Ner. He attendeth here hard by To know your answer, whether you'll admit him. Duke. With all my heart. Some three or four of you Go give him courteous conduct to this place. Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario's letter. i860 Clerk. [Jieads.] Your grace shall understand, that, at the receipt of your letter, I am very sick ; but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Ro7ne ; his name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the few and Antonio, the 1865 merchant ; we turned o'er many books together ■ he is furnished with my opinion, which, bettered with his own learning, the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend, comes with him, at my importunity, to Jill up your grace's request in my stead. J beseech you, let his lack of years be no impedijnent to let him 1870 lack a reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation. Duke. You hear the learn 'd Bellario, what he writes : And here, I take it, is the doctor come. 1875 Enter Portia for Balthazar. Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario ? Por. I did, my lord. Duke, You are welcome ; take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court ? Por. I am informed th'roughly of the cause. l88o Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew .' Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 17° PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Por. Is your name Shylock ? Sky. Shylock is my name. Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law 1885 Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed. [ To Antonio.] You stand within his danger, do you not } Ant. Ay, so he says. Por. Do you confess the bond ? Ant. I do. Por. Then must the Jew be merciful. Shy. On what compulsion must I ? tell me that. 1896 Por. The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath ; it is twice blessed : It blesseth him that gives, and him tliat takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest, it becomes 1895 The thronM monarch better than his crown : His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty. Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 1900 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself, And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, 1905 That in the course of justice none of us Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoken thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea, 1910 1891. Strained. — /. c, mercy is not a matter of compulsion. 1892. Rain. — It is sent to all, without respect to persons, as impar- tially as the rain. Cf. St. Matt. chap. v. ver. 45 : " He maketh His sun to shine on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.'' I910. Justice. — Cf. " Meas. for Meas.," act ii. sc. 2. "Alas! Alas! Why all the souls that were were forfeit once And He that might the 'vantage best have took, Found out the remedy. How would you be, If He, which is the top of judgment, should THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. f]! Which if thou wilt follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. SAy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the Law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond. Por. Is he not able to discharge the money ? I9'5 Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court ; Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart. If this will not suffice, it must appear 1920 That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority : To do a great right, do a little wrong. And curb this cruel devil of his will. For. It must not be : there is no power in Venice 1925 Can alter a decree established ; 'Twill be recorded for a precedent. And many an error, by the same example, Will rush into the state : it cannot be. SAy. A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 193° O wise young judge, how I do honour thee ! Por. I pray you let me look upon the bond. SAy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. Por. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee. Sky. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven, 1935 Shall I lay perjury upon my soul ? No, not for Venice. Por. Why, this bond is forfeit, And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful : 1940 Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. SAy. When it is paid, according to the tenour. It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; You know the law, your exposition Hath been most sound : I charge you by the Law, 194S But judge you as you are ? O think on that ; And mercy then will breathe within your lips Like man new made." Same thought incidentally expressed in " Hamlet ": " Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping ? " — Act ii. sc. 2. 17^ PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment. By iny soul I swear, There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me. I stay here on my bond. Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court 1950 To give the judgment. For. Why then, thus it is : You must prepare your bosom for his knife. Shy. O noble judge ! O excellent young man ! For. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, I9S5 Which here appeareth due upon the bond. Shy. 'Tis very true. O wise and upright judge ! How much more elder art thou than thy looks ! For. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. Shy. Ay, his breast ; So says the bond : — doth it not, noble judge ? — i960 " Nearest his heart: " those are the very words. For. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh The flesh ? Shy. I have them ready. For. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 1965 Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ? For. It is not so expressed ; but what of that ? 'Twere good you do so much for charity. Shy. I cannot find it : 'tis not in the bond ? For. You, merchant, have you anything to say? 1970 Ant. But little ; I am armed and well prepared. Give me your hand, Bassanio : fare you well. Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; For herein Fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom : it is still her use 1975 To let the wretched man outlive his wealth To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow An age of poverty ; from which lingering penance Of such misery doth she cut me off. Commend me to your honourable wife : 1980 Tell her the process of Antonio's end ; Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death ; And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 173 Whether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent not you that you shall lose your friend, 1985 And he repents not that he pays your debt ; For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife Which is as dear to me as life itself; 1 990 But life itself, my wife, and all the world, Are not with me esteemed above thy life ; I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to ttiis devil, to deliver you. For. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, 1995 If she were by to hear you make the offer. Gra. I have a wife whom I protest I love : I would she were in heaven, so she could Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. Ner. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back ; 2000 The wish would make else an unquiet house. Shy. These be the Christian husbands. I have a daughter ; Would any of the stock of Barrabas Had been her husband, rather than a Christian. We trifle time ; I pray thee, pursue sentence. 2005 For. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine : The Court awards it, and the Law doth give it. Shy. Most rightful judge ! For. And you must cUt this flesh from off his breast : The Law allows it, and the Court awards it. 2010 Shy. Most learned judge ! — A sentence ! come, prepare ! For. Tarry a little ; there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; The words expressly are, a pound of flesh : Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 2015 But in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate Unto the state of Venice. Gra. O upright judge !— Mark, Jew : — learned judge ! 2020 Shy. Is that the law ? For. Thyself shalt see the Act ; For, as thou urgest justice, be assured, Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 174 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Gra. O learned judge !— Mark, Jew : — a learned judge ! Shy. I take this offer then ; pay the bond thrice, 2025 And let the Christian go. Bass. Here is the money. For. Soft ! The Jew shall have all justice ; — soft ! — no haste : He shall have nothing but the penalty. Gra. O Jew, an upright judge, a learned judge ! For. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 2030 Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less nor more But just a pound of flesh : if thou takest more , Or less than a just pound, — be it but so much ^ As makes it light or heavy in the substance Or the division of the twentieth part 2035 Of one poor scruple, nay if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair. Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip. 2040 For. Why doth the Jew pause .'' take thy forfeiture. Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. Bass. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. For. He hath refused it in the open court : He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 2045 Gra. A Daniel, still say I ; a second Daniel'! I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ? For. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 2050 Shy. Why then the devil give him good of it ! I'll stay no longer question. For. Tarry, Jew, The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, If it be proved against an alien, 2055 That, by direct or indirect attempts. He seek the life of any citizen. The party against the which he doth contrive Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half Comes to the privy coffer of the State, 2060 And the offender's life lies in the mercy THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 175 Of the Duke only, against all other voice. In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st ; For it appears by manifest proceeding, That indirectly and directly too, 2065 Thou hast contrived against the very life Of the defendant, and thou hast incurred The danger formerly by me rehearsed. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke. Gra. Beg, that thou may'st have leave to hang thyself; 2070 And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the State, Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; Therefore thou must be hanged at the State's charge. Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it. 2075 For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's : The other half comes to the general State, Which humbleness may drive into a fine. Por. Ay, for the State ; not for Antonio. Shy. Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not that : 2080 You take my house, when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house ; you take my life. When you do take the means whereby I live. Por. What mercy can you render him, Antonio ? — Gra. A halter gratis ; nothing else, for God's sake. — 2085 Ant. So please my lord the Duke, and all the Court, To quit the fine for one half of his goods, I am content so he will let me have The other half in use, to render it Upon his death unto the gentleman 2090 That lately stole his daughter : Two things provided more, — that, for this favour. He presently become a Christian ; 2084. See Introduction to " Merchant of Venice," p. iii. 2093. Become a Chtisiian. — In Coryat's "Crudities" we find the following : " For this I understand is the main impediment to their conversion : all their goods are confiscated as soon as they embrace Christianity, and this I heard is the reason, because whereas many of them do raise their fortunes by usury, insomuch that they do not only sheare, but also fleece many a poore Christian's estate by their griping extortions, it is therefore decreed by the Pope and other free Princes in whose territories they live, that they shall make a restitution of all their ill-gotten goods, and so disclogge their soules 176 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. The other, that he do record a gift, Here in the court, of all he dies possessed 2095 Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. Duke. He shall do this, or else I do recant The pardon, that I late pronounced here. For. Art thou contented, Jew .' what dost thou say .' Shy. I am content. For. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 2100 Shy. I pray you give me leave to go from hence. I am not well. Send the deed after me. And I will sign it. Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. Gra. In christening thou shalt have two godfathers, Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, 2105 To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. {Exit ShyloCK. Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. For. I humbly do desire your grace of pardon, I must away this night toward Padua, And it is meet I presently set forth. 21 10 Duke. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. Antonio, gratify this gentleman. For, in my mind, you are much bound to him. [Exeunt DUKE and his Train. Bass. Most worthy gentleman, I and Tny friend Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted 21 15 Of grievous penalties ; in lieu whereof, Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, We freely cope your courteous pains withal. Ant. And stand indebted, over and above. In love and service to you evermore. 2120 For. He is well paid that is well satisfied ; And I, delivering you, am satisfied, and consciences when they are admitted by Holy Baptisme into the bosom of Christ's Church. Seeing then, when their goods are taken from them at their conversion they are left even naked and destitute of their means of maintenance, there are fewer Jewes converted to Christianity in Italy than in any other country in Christendom, whereas in Germany, Poland, and other places the Jewes that are converted (which doth often happen) enjoy their es- tates as they did before.'' 2105. Ten. — This wsuld make twelve men to hurry him to the gallows — what does that mean ? THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 177 And therein do account myself well paid : My mind was never yet more mercenary. I pray you, know me when we meet again : 2125 I wish you well, and so I take my leave. Bass. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further : Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute Not as a fee. Grant me two things, I pray you ; Not to deny me, and to pardon me. 2130 Por. You press me far, and therefore I will yield. Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake ; And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you. Do not draw back your hand ; I'll take no more ; And you in love shall not deny me this. 2135 Bass. This ring, good sir.' alas, it is a trifle; I will not shame myself to give you this. Por. I will have nothing else but only this ; And now, methinks, I have a mind to it. Bass. There's more depends on this than on the value. 2140 The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, And find it out by proclamation : Only for this, I pray you, pardon me. Por. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers. You taught me first to beg, and now, methinks, • 2141; You teach me how a beggar should be answered. Bass. Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife : And when she put it on, she made me vow That I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it. Por. That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts. 2150 An if your wife be not a mad-woman, And know how well I have deserved this ring. She would not hold out_enemy forever. For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you. [Exeunt Portia and Nerissa. Ant. My lord Bassanio, let him have the ring : 2155 Let his deservings, and my love withal. Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandement. Bass. Go, Gratiano ; run and overtake him Give him the ring; and bring him, if thou canst. Unto Antonio's house. Away! make haste. 2160 \Exit Gratiano. 178 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE Come, you and I will thither presently, And in the morning early will we both Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio. [Exeunt. Scene II.— The Same. A Street. Enter PORTIA and Nerissa. Por. Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed, And let him sign it ; we'll away to-night, 2165 And be a day before our husbands home. This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. Enter Gratiano. Gra. Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en. My lord Bassanio, upon more advice. Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat 2170 Your company at dinner. Por. That cannot be. His ring I do accept most thankfully. And so I pray you, tell him : furthermore, I pray you, show my youth old Shylock's house. Gra. That will I do. Ner. Sir, I would speak with you. — 2175 \To Portia.] I'll see if I can get my husband's ring. Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. Por. [ To Nerissa.] Thou may'st, I warrant. We shall have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men ; But we'll outface them and outswear them too. 2180 [Atoud.] Away ! make haste : thou know'st where I will tarry. Ner. Come, good sir, will you show me to this house? [Exeunt. ACT V. Scene I.— Belmont. The Avenue to Portia's House. Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. Lor. The moon shines bright. In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, 2183. The moon shines bright. — After the tragic strains of the fourth act, the key changes, and the play closes peacefully with moonlight, music, and love ; this is indicated by the opening words. With quiet and contemplation THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 179 And they did make no noise, in such a night, 2185 Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls And sighed his soul towards the Grecian tents. Where Cressid lay that night. Jes. In such a night Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew. And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, 2190 And ran dismayed away. Lor. In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love To come again to Carthage. Jes. In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs 2195 That did renew old vEson. Lor. In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, And with an unthrift love did run from Venice, As far as Belmont. Jes. In such a night Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, 2200 Stealing her soul with many vows of faith And ne'er a true one. Lor. In such a night Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, Slander her love, and he forgave it her. Jes. I would out-night you did no body come ; 2205 But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. Enter Stephano. Lor. Who comes so fast in silence of the night ? Steph. A friend. Lor. A friend ? what friend? your name, I pray you, friend? Steph. Stephano is my name ; and I bring word 2210 My mistress will before the break of day Be here at Belmont ; she doth stray about By holy crosses, where she kneels and praj^s For happy wedlock hours. mingles a touch of pathos. All the love stories referred to end unhappily, as though Lorenzo were contrasting his happiness with the trouble of others. Look up the allusions, and find in what plays Shakespeare has treated the stories of Cressid and of Thisbe. i8o PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Lor. Who comes with her? Steph. None but a holy hermit, and her maid. 2215 I pray you, is my master yet returned ? Lor. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, And ceremoniously let us prepare Some welcome for the mistress of the house. 2220 Enter Launcelot. Laun. Sola, sola ! wo ha, ho ! sola, sola ! Lor. Who calls ? Laun. Sola ! did you see Master Lorenzo, and Mistress Lor- enzo ? sola, sola ! Lor. Leave holloing, man ; — here. 2225 Laun. Sola ! where .' where ? Lor. Here. Latin. Tell him, there's a post come from my master, with his horn full of good news : my master will be here ere morning. {^Exit. Lor. Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming. 2230 And yet no matter ; why should we go in ? My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you. Within the house, your mistress is at hand ; And bring your music forth into the air. [Exit Stephano. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 2235 Here we will 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. 2240 There's not the smallest orb which thou 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 2245 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. \Music. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. i8i Jes. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. 2250 Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive : For do but note a wild and wanton herd. Or race of youthful and unhandled colts. Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud. Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 2255 If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound. Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet 2260 Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ; Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage. But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself. Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, 2265 Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night. And his affections dark as Erebus ; Let no such man be trusted : Mark the music. Enter Portia a?id Nerissa, at a distance. Por. That light we see is burning in my hall. 2270 How far that little candle throws his beams ! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 2264. The man that hath no music, etc. — ' 'AH deep things are Song. It seems somehow the very central essence of us, Song; as if all the rest were but wrappages and hulls ! The primal element of us; of us, and of all things. The Greeks fabled of Sphere-Harmonies: it was the feeling they had of the inner structure of Nature; that the soul of all her voices and utterances was perfect music. Poetry, therefore, we will call musical Thought. The Poet is he who thinks in that manner. . . . See deep enough, and you see musically; the heart of Nature being everywhere music, if you can only reach it." — Carlyle's " Heroes and Hero-Worship — The Hero as Poet." Cf. Shy- lock's attitude toward music and masques, in his directions to Jessica, act ii. lines 772-782. 2271. Candle. — Morley thus explains the especial significance of this and the two speeches following. Lorenzo and Jessica are lifted into sympathy with the harmony in the universe and in immortal souls, and earthly music is used as a type of this underlying harmony and associated with it. Earthly music and that inward harmony, closed in by the vesture of decay, is but i82 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Ner. When the moon shone we did not see the candle. Por. So doth the greater glory dim the less : A substitute shines brightly as a king, 2275 Until a king be by; and then his state Empties itself, as doth an inland brook Into the main of waters :— Music: hark ! Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house. Por. Nothing is good, I see, without respect. 2280 Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. Por. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended ; and, I think. The nightingale, if she should sing by day, 2285 When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise, and true perfection ! — Peace, ho ! — the moon sleeps with Endymion, 2290 And would not be awaked. Lor. That is the voice, Or I am much deceived, of Portia. Por. He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo. By the bad voice. Lor. Dear lady, welcome home. Por. We have been praying for our husbands' welfare 2295 Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. .Are they returned ? Lor. Madam, they are not yet ; But there is come a messenger before. To signify their coming. Por, Go in, Nerissa ; Give order to my servants, that they take 2300 No note at all of our being absent hence ; Nor you,' Lorenzo ; Jessica, nor you. \A tucket sounded. Lor. Your husband is at hand ; I hear his trumpet. We are no tell-tales, madam ; fear you not. Por. This night, methinks, is but the daylight sick ; 2305 an anticipation, to be lost hereafter as the candle's light in the glory of the moon. " Man's endeavor to establish the kingdom of heaven within him shines royally, till it has^blended with, and is lost in, the supreme glories of eternal love. " Morley's Introduction to " Merchant of Venice," Cassell's Ed. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 1 83 It looks a little paler : 'tis a clay, Such as the day is when the sun is hid. Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano, and their Followers. Bass. We should hold day with the Antipodes If you would walk in absence of the sun. For. Let me giv6 light, but let me not be light ; 2310 For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, And never be Bassanio so for me : But God sort all ! You are welcome home, my lord. Bass. I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend : This is the man, this is Antonio, 2315 To whom I am so infinitely bound. For. You should in all sense be much bound to him, For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. Ant. No more than I am well acquitted of. For. Sir, you are very welcome to our house : 2320 It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. Gra. [ To Nerissa.] By yonder moon, I swear, you do me wrong ; In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk : For. A quarrel, ho, already ! what's the matter ? 2325 Gra. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring That she did give me, whose posy was For all the world like cutler's poetry Upon a knife. Love 7ne, and leave me not. Ner. What talk you of the posy or the value .' 2330 You swore to me when I did give it you That you would wear it till your hour of death. And that it should lie with you in your grave : Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths. You should have been respective and have kept it. 2335 Gave it a judge's clerk ! no, God's my judge. The clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face that had it. Gra. He will, an if he live to be a man. Ner. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. Gra. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, 2340 A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy. No higher than thyself, the judge's clerk ; 184 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. A prating boy, that begged it as a fee : I could not for my heart deny it him. Por. You were to blame, I must be plain with you, 2345 To part so slightly with your wife's first gift : A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger. And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. I gave my love a ring, and made him swear Never to part with it ; and here he stands : 2350 I dare be sworn for him, he would not leave it Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief : An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it. 2355 Bass. \Aside.'\ Why, I were best to cut my left hand off, And swear I lost the ring defending it. Gra. My lord Bassanio gave his ring away Unto the judge that begged it, and, indeed. Deserved it too ; and then the boy, his clerk, 2360 That took some pains in writing, he begged mine ; And neither man nor master would take aught But the two rings. Por. What ring gave you, my lord ? Not that, I hope, which you received of me. Bass. If I could add a lie unto a fault, 2365 I would deny it ; but you see, my finger Hath not the ring upon it : it is gone. Por. Even so void is your false heart of truth. By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed Until I see the ring. Ner. Nor I in yours, 2370 Till I again see mine. Bass. Sweet Portia, If you did know to whom I gave the ring. If you did know for whom I gave the ring. And would conceive for what I gave the ring. And how unwillingly I left the ring, 2375 When naught would be accepted but the ring. You would abate the strength of your displeasure. Por. If you had known the virtue of the ring. Or half her worthiness that gave the ring. Or your own honour to contain the ring, 2380 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE:. 185 You would not then have parted with the ring. What man is there so much unreasonable. If you had pleased to have defended it With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty To urge the thing held as a ceremony ? 2385 Nerissa teaches me what to believe : I'll die for't but some woman had the ring. Bass. No, by mine honour, madam, by my soul. No woman had it ; but a civil doctor, Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me, 2390 And begged the ring, the which I did deny him. And suffered him to go displeased away, Even he that had held up the very life Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady.' I was enforced to send it after him ; 2395 I was beset with shame and courtesy ; My honour would not let ingratitude So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady. For, by these blessed candles of the night, Had you been there, I think, you would have begged 2400 The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. Por. Let not that doctor e'er come near my house. Since he hath got the jewel that I loved. And that which you did swear to keep for me, I will become as liberal as you : 2405 I'll not deny him any thing I have. Ant. I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels. Por. Sir, grieve not you ; you are welcome notwithstanding. Bass. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong; And in the hearing of these many friends 2410 I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes. Wherein I see myself Por. Mark you but that ! In both my eyes he doubly sees himself ; In each eye, one : — swear by your double self. And there's an oath of credit. Bass. Nay, but hear me. 2415 Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear, I never more will break an oath with thee. Ant. I once did lend my body for his wealth. Which, but for him that had your husband's ring, 1 86 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Had quite miscarried : I dare be bound again, 2420 My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord Will nevermore break faith advisedly. For. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this. And bid him keep it better than the other. Ant. Here, Lord Bassanio ; swear to keep this ring. 2425 Bass. By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor. For. You are all amazed : Here is a letter, read it at your leisure ; It comes from Padua, from Bellario : There you shall find, that Portia was the doctor, 2430 Nerissa there, her clerk. Lorenzo here Shall witness, I set forth as soon as you. And even but now returned ; I have not yet Entered my house. Antonio, you aie welcome ; And I have better news in store for you, 2435 Than you expect : unseal this letter soon ; There you shall find, three of your argosies Are richly come to harbour suddenly. You shall not know by what strange accident I chanced on this letter. 2440 Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living ; For here I read for certain that my ships Are safely come to road. For. How now, Lorenzo ? My clerk hath some good comforts too for you. Ner. Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee. 2445 There do I give to you and Jessica, From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift. After his death, of all he dies possessed of. Lor. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way Of starved people. For. It is almost morning, 2450 And yet I am sure you are not satisfied Of these events at full. Let us go in ; And charge us there upon inter'gatories. And we will answer all things faithfully. {Exeunt. FRANCIS BACON. 187 FRANCIS BACON. The greatest names in Elizabethan literature are those of the dramatists and the poets, yet the intellectual advance of the time showed itself, also, in a rapid de- velopment of prose. English prose had Elizabethan made but little progress between the Pro^e. time of Wyclif and the middle of the sixteenth century. Such works as Malory's Morte d' Arthur (1485), Moore's History of Richard III. (written 1513), and Tyndale's Translation of the Bible (1525), show prose struggling towards a more honorable place ; but it is not until the early years of the reign of Elizabeth, when life and thought were expanding on every side, that the art of English prose-writing may be said to fairly begin. The effect of the Renaissance may be seen in the learned prose of Ascham (1515-1568), and in the euphuistic intricacies oi John Z_y/y (15 53-1606). Literary criticism springs into life in such works as Sid- ney's Defense of Poesy (1580-1581), or Puttenham's Art of English Poesy (1589). Prose fiction is repre- sented by Sidney's elaborate romance, The Arcadia, (1590), and by countless shorter stories from the rapid pens olPeele, O u 'A o 5 « o »o »— ^ i g -a a s " E S U c h s' i« " -^ « n i^ « to S O 'S J3 t-" 2"'' c^ »- w i a jjI ■3-3 2--C ** - H p, JJ SSi oT bi) g< rt « C B isl " S >i S « 9 o -e go M «l (3 U U ►JP O ^ U »0 rw & ". •£ S S > S M rt n s s u M .a •; n pj (I, cii n (o fl c < K ^ ■= - - g ■- rt u o U (a n bo H Q 7, < O n u ~ O " ^ *.s ? s X ^ C> tfc. ."^ .0 ',) cd u bJ) ,A si V B !1 ^5 % J w c .8 •« 1 vS g.s a a f go •5 S O to G* V P : ■gram.*. i-i3 : m ; as «.- SB e pa - _f- he '^ C 3 3 T3 ^ « s V V E.i b: ^ M H.S .s B S S O B 4J B K a a O C > M H TABLE OF THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING. 199 H O O is; o 3 A O fa ca ■+ . o ° 00 "^ H I o w d o C • N -=*"!; .2:5 s=€ ^ o *< " ■a •o — — c u u u rt cQ cd « • • -C C X J3 ^ .^ O u Qt S O J S Or! > £5 E S P ri H 1^ ■5.5 n B .ho %\ A PS p^ oJ2 .2 "^ s CO* 00 u o £ " r -I ! S ,r i? u5 rt o I E'l 2 fe .0 0,0 V o UPL4 P Z <: O z P4 •50 (X. - e^oli O 4> _ *" E ^ .-SO,, ^ u E I >> c ( 1^ B = S o 2 2 OHO THE RISE OF THE DRAMA. 261 Table V. SOVEREIGNS. Henry V., 1413-1422. Henry VI., 1422, died 1471. Wars of the Roses, 1455. Edward IV., died 1483. Edward V., died 1484. Richard III., died 1485. Henry VII., 1485-1509. Henry VIII., 1509-1547 RISE OF THE DRAMA — IIIO-I566. The first known dramatic production in England, the French Miracle play, " St. Katherine," acted at Dunstable about 11 10. Institution of the Festival of Corpus Christi (1264) gave an impulse to performance of plays. Street plays or pageants first performed about 1268. Whitsuntide plays at Chester about 1 268 ; prob- ably in French at this date. East Midland play, " Abraham and Isaac," middle of fourteenth century. York cycle of plays about 1340-1350 ; earliest known MS., 1430. Townley cycle of about thirty plays belonging to Widkirk Abbey. Coventry plays, 1485-1509. Chester Whitsun-plays, "Fall of Lucifer"; "Noah's Flood," etc.; composed probably early part of 14th century ; earliest MS., 1581. Morality Plays : one setting forth the goodness of the Lord's Prayer, performed 1480, " Impa- tient Poverty," etc. Interludes. John Heywood, (?)-d. 1565. " The Four P's," about 1530. Earliest extant Regular Comedy. Nicholas Udal, 1506-1557. "Ralph Roister Doister" (acted 1551), (pub- lished 1566.) "Gammer Gurton's Needle," by Bishop Still, about 1566. Thomas Sackville, 1536-1608. " Ferrex and Porrex," or the Tragedy of Gorbo- duc, played 1561, printed in 1565. 202 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. H o o o O E , u 3 = O ji ;_• >s tXO . -a M .2 r- « r^«s c sac * u « « P H o H H S J^O j PL, P. , a -a .2 5. •o ;? i4: >n m „ oo 4j 1^ i>- ,n « -n is o ^ K - E y= in O n 3 ' ^ ° £ H E u n CQ < C a> 3 U 'd. [*< c -§ w rt I O •-'''' ^^ *" o Bi Q n Q n 0, I H s im s Dj Q O W O rt B 5 3 ? 1 * S J3 u •So W E a d o Si2H. a ^ "^ u "^ ^ "2 G H "d e J3 I^ A '9^?^ O o ^ c s-s \0 CO „ o- t"m r 'fl <3 M ti H -o H "-H .S " >, So •S^.s W "-O ^ ■2-S^ E 'f^:^ . S 0, S^ (1, .S: H H M :: ; .11 « o r e >- o 35 M OS r 1 (7 O W fa ; : E E o It" SS ? 2 ■ ' ft) " *^ C4 ° g '^ -g 1 ^ .a s .S ►J M w rt Pl, o ; .S i £ s I u. « rt n M ;^ fl Q TABLE OF THE ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 203 H Z o o o 3 o u bo c I i • "I 10 ^ ; S£l>s 2 K 3 (V, c u u j: M ■ S O « H " Q A c .. 9 d t;K> J=.J3S +j vo j^ w "1 u 10 -a C a K''* G ■a J= •a a ° £ ;;^fl: 10 h> H g , o 1 K ^■i5 3 s S (J c c o c p:." ^•s^ ^31 (I. ^: : 0. = 2 P J3 O ■ Jr. P o 5 M " " " R M S U " C m o I-. *-. s-.e ,"5 a M 0) ^ S - S ^ P ffl a S % Q ^ g "Si 3 '? ■« : m : c -2 2 =, O O nl w pz g< CO § 6 rt uT ^ S "3 ^v8 .■§ -2 -S • M "S « .i5 CO ^*^ 5 ** ^< c t*4 ra Q, -. in o O* u M ^ cn « ^ , c ° '^ „ -s :s P S rt W T E o T3 bb ^' MH ^ 4) S \o O ft « bfJ^S £ S 13 £•5 204 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. NOTES AND REFERENCES. 1. History. — (a) Renaissance. — Symond's article under that title, " Ency. Brit.," 9th ed.; Burkhardt's " Renaissance." An article on Pico della Mirandola (whose life was written by Sir T. More) will be found in Pater's " Renaissance." (b) England. — Thornbury's "Shakespeare's England"; Goadby's " Shake- speare's England "; Drake's " Shakespeare and His Times." The class may be advised to read Scott's " Kenilworth," Kings- ley's " Westward Ho," also " With Essex in Ireland," by Hon. Emily Lawless. Froude's " History of England " covers this period. 2. Spenser. — Church's Life of, in English Men of Letters Series; Lowell's essay on, in "Among my Books"; "One Aspect of Spenser's Faery Queen," Andover Review, Octo- ber, 1889. " Spenser," Grosart's ed. 3. Elizabethan Drama, etc. — For history of drama, intro- duction to Hudson's " Shakspere's Life, Art, and Characters"; Pollard's "English. Miracle Plays" and Keltie's "British Dramatists " give specimen extracts. Symond's " Shake- speare's Predecessors in the English Drama "; Thayer's " Six best English Plays"; will be found useful for study of Shakespeare's contemporaries. Shakespeare. — Dowden's "Shakespeare Primer"; Lowell's essay on, in "My Study Windows "; Hunter's "Illustrations of the Life and Studies of Shakespeare "; Dowden's " Shakespeare, His Mind and Art "; Elze's " Life of Shakespeare " ; Knight's " Life of Shakespeare " ; White's "Shakespeare's Scholar"; Craik's "English of Shake- speare "; Abbott's " Shakespearian Grammar." Bayne's article on, in "Ency. Brit.," 9th Ed. is especially valuable for study of early environment. 4. Bacon. — Church's Life of, in English Men of Letters Series ; Macaulay's Essay on. 5. Elizabethan Songs. — Palgrave's " Golden Treasury "; A. H. Bullen's " England's Helicon"; " Lyrics from the Dram- atists of the Elizabethan 'Age "; Bell's "Songs from the Dramatists." THE ENGLAND OF MILTON. 205 Cbapter ITII. The Puritan in Literature. THE ENGLAND OF MILTON. Although Shakespeare and Milton are familiarly linked together in our ordinary speech as the two greatest poets of England, in the whole spirit and Shakespeare P , . , ^ I 111 zri^ Milton Ex- nature 01 their work they have hardly any- press the spint ... T ■ / , of Different thing in common, it is not merely that Times, they are, for the most part, distinguished in separate provinces of poetry ; that Shakespeare is above all the dramatic, and Milton the epic poet of the literature : the difference lies much deeper, and declares itself un- mistakably at almost every point. Now, this is not en- tirely due to an inborn, personal difference in the genius of these two representative poets ; it is due also to the difference in the spirit of the times they represent. For in a sense even Shakespeare was " of an age," as well as " for all time." * So far as we can guess from his work, he seems to have shared the orthodox politics of the Tudor times, distrusting the actions of the populace, and stanch in his support of the power of the king. In the true spirit of the Renaissance, Shakespeare's work is taken up chiefly with humanity in this world, rather than with its relations to any other; his dramas are alive with the crowding interests and activities which came with the Revival of Learning. But the England in which Milton lived and worked was stirred by far differ- ent emotions ; its finest spirits were inspired by far differ- ent ideals. Milton interprets and expresses the England of Puritanism, as Shakespeare does the England of Eliza- beth, and to understand the difference in the spirit of * " He was not of an age, but for all time." From Ben Jonson's poem to the memory of Shakespeare. 2o6 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. their poetry, we must turn to history and grasp the broad distinction between the times they respectively represent. At first sight the change from the England of Shake- speare to that of Milton seems an abrupt one. In point of actual time the two poets are close together, and Puritan for at the death of Shakespeare Milton was eight years old. But little more than half a century lies between that England in which loyalty to Queen and Country so triumphed over religious differ- ences that Romanist and Protestant fought the Armada side by side, and that England which hurried Charles I. to the scaffold, or in which Cromwell declared : " If I met the king in battle I would shoot him as soon as any other man." Yet in reality this change of the nation's mood was not hasty or unaccountable, but the natural result of a long and steady development. We spoke of the Renaissance as the re-birth of the re- ligious as well as of the intellectual life of Europe, and we saw that while in Italy the new life of the mind took form in what we call the Revival of Learning, in Germany the new life of the spirit had its outcome in that reli- gious awakening we call the Reformation. If in Italy the Renaissance meant freedom of thought, in Germany it meant freedom of conscience. The Revival of Learning and the Reformation entered England almost side by side. If the enthusiasm for the New Learning, the color, the luxury, and the " enchantments of the Circes," had entered England from Italy, something also of the awakening of conscience and the protest against Roman- ism had come from Germany, to find a deep response in the kindred spirit of Teutonic England. In our study of the Elizabethan period we have fol- lowed the first of these two influences. Let us look a moment at the second. Almost from the first, the tone of the New Learning in England had been colored by THE ENGLAND OF MILTON. 207 the inherently religious temper of the English character. The knowledge of Greek which John Colet gained in semi-pagan Italy he applied to the study ^^ „ , r i_ -NT T' ^"^ Reforma- pt the Mew Testament. Educational re- tion in England, former as he was, he had the image of the child Christ placed over the head master's desk in St. Paul's Grammar School, with the inscription, " Hear ye Him." * Just as the introduction of the study of Greek at Oxford changed the horizon of the English mind, so the introduction of Tyndale's translation of the Bible was an incalculable spiritual force. " If God spare my life," Tyndale had said to a learned opponent, "ere many years I will cause that the boy that driveth the plough shall know more of the Scriptures than thou dost." And year after year the inestimable influence of an ever-widening knowledge of the Bible was at work in thousands of English households. Beginning among the upper stratum of society, the New Learning had worked downward until it touched the people. But the changes wrought bv , ■ . , , „ ^ ^ The English direct contact with the English Bible, if B'tie. slower, were even more vital and more extended. The Bible became the literature of the people, telling the poorest and plainest of the essential things of life in words which all could understand. If we find a typical picture in the crowd of London shopkeepers and pren- tices crowding the pit of the " Fortune " or the " Globe," we find one no less typical in the eager throngs gathered about the reader of the Bible in the nave of St. Paul's. " The disclosure of the stores of Greek Literature had wrought the revolution of the Renaissance. The dis- closure of the older mass of Hebrew Literature wrought the revolution of the Reformation. "f * For account of Colet, read Green's " History of the English People," vol. ii p. 79, etc. t Green's "History of the English People," vol. iii. p. 11, The whole passage, from p. 9 to p. 13, may be read in class. 2o8 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. ] With this new idea of religious liberty, the idea of political liberty became closely associated. Stimulated Religious and ^"^ emancipated by greater intellectual and fy ciostiy^co"! rcligious freedom of inquiry, men began to "^'^'^''- scrutinize and discuss the whole theory of government. They grew restless under the arbitrary rule of the early Stuarts, as their minds rose to the con- ception of their supreme obligation to a higher law ; to a Power above the will of the king in the State, above the will of man in the kingdom of God. In the early part of the seventeenth century many things combined to call out and develop the^e new feelings. The middle classes had advanced greatly during Elizabeth's reign, in prosperity, influence, and intelligence ; the danger from Spain was at an end, and men were free to give them- selves up to matters at home. But the natural growth of the nation towards a greater political and religious freedom was met by petulant opposition. Elizabeth had been wise enough to know when and how to yield to the will of her Parliament and people, but it was character- istic of the Stuarts to take a wrong position, Arbitrary ... , . , , , Rule of the and hold to it With an obstinate and reckless Early Stuarts. i ■ i t i r /■ \ tenacity. The unkingly James (1603-1025) flaunted what he considered the " Divine Right" of his kingship in the face of an exasperated England. In the early years of the following reign (Charles I., 1625-1649), the growing Puritan sentiment was outraged by brutal persecution, the rising spirit of liberty insulted by fla- grant violations of the long-established and sacred politi- cal rights of Englishmen. Thus the England that rose up in protest against the severities of Archbishop Laud and the tyranny and duplicity of Charles, was on fire with other interests, and other aspirations than that of Eliza- beth ; its energies were centered upon two great issues — Politics and Religion. In the one, it was determined to LATER ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE. 209 " vindicate its ancient liberties " ; in the other, it " reasoned of righteousness and judgment to come." Among its great leaders in politics were Eliot, Hampden, Pym, and Cromwell ; in literature it spoke in the strong, simple, biblical prose of John Bunyan, a poor tinker; its- poet was John Milton. LATER ELIZABETHAN LITERATURE. But while the new ways of looking at the deepest questions of life, which for years had been agitating the Puritan element in England, were thus coming to the surface in history and in literature, during the early part of the seventeenth century many continued to write in the general manner and spirit of the Elizabethans. This later Elizabethan literature lies outside our present plan of study, but it cannot be passed over without a few words. The group of dramatists immediately preceding Shakespeare (see p. 91) had been followed by a number of men of genius who had the advantage of ^ater Eiiza- writing at a time when the theatre was a bethan Drama, more recognized institution, and the general form of the drama had been fixed by successful experiment. Ben Jonson, whose first play. Every Man in his Humor, was brought out about 1596-98, is usually considered as the greatest of Shakespeare's fellow-playwrights ; he doggedly fought his way to the front in the face of many obstacles, wrote many plays and masks, and after Shake- speare's death became the most prominent man of letters in England. Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Ford, Chapman, Dekker, and Marston, are a few of the most famous of these dramatists, and we see the influence of Italy in such plays as Webster's Duchess of Malfi, and Vittoria Corombona, or in the intense and passionate tragedies of Cyril Tourneur. Nevertheless, the decline 2IO PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. of the Elizabethan drama had begun before Shakespeare's death. Unlike Shakespeare, Ben Jonson was not con- tent to " hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to Ben Jonson, ., jt , i i i i r j and Decline of nature, * and show the world oi men and Drama. . women as it actually existed : he thought that the poet's business was to point a moral and to reform society. He ridiculed the abuses and fashionable follies of the time by making the persons of his dramas rep- resent the peculiar hobbies or " humors " of men, but in doing this his drama lost in faithfulness to life through a method which inclined him to make the mere caricature of what we call a " fad " take the place of a character. The method of Jonson, great as he was, was thus a distinct falling off from that of Shakespeare. Apart from this, the decline of the drama is closely associated with the increase of the Puritans, among whom were its bitterest opponents. In the early Puritan Hos- . ,.,,,. , tiiity to the seventeenth century this hostility to the stage. . , ' . , ' stage increased; unsuccessful attempts were made (1619, 1631, 1633) to suppress Blackfriars Theatre, and the representation of plays on Sunday was prohibited. Many of the more respectable people stayed away from the theatres altogether, while those who came demanded plays of a more and more depraved character. Finally, about the beginning of the Civil War (1642), the theatres were closed altogether, and the drama almost ceased until the Restoration (1660). THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRISTS. Most of the poetry of the early seventeenth century follows the general lines laid down by the Elizabethans, but with an obvious loss of creative power, and with less freshness, vigor, and depth. The first enthusiasm awakened by the coming of the new learning was largely * " Hamlet," act iii. sc. 2. THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRISTS. 211 spent, and men's energies were beginning to go out in new directions. Deprived of the strong inner impulse which sustained the earlier writers, poetry became more light, trifling, and affected. Dr. John Donne (1573-1631), a learned man and a genuine poet, delighted in a style of poetry often so far-fetched and fantastic as to deprive it of much of its value in the eyes of later readers, and there arose a group of graceful if somewhat artificial lyric poets who contented themselves with writing slight and pretty songs. Among these are Richard Love/ace {i6iS~i6$S), Thomas Carew (i 598-1639), and Sir John Suckling (1609- 1641). Each of these men holds an assured though minor place in literature by virtue of comparatively few poems ; yet each has contributed to it at least one lyric which has become a classic. The same fantastic spirit which we have noted in Donne runs through much of their work, and it is also distinctly traceable in that of a group of poets in other respects widely separated. These are the religious poets, George Herbert (i 592-1634), Richard Crashaw (1613-1650), Henry Vaughan (1622- 1695), and Francis Quarles {1^^2-161!^. Robert Herrick ( 1 591-1674), rises above these by his greater ,. .^ 1 1' 1^ 1 . ^1 r Robert Herrick, simplicity and directness, and in the finer quality of his lyrical gift. His limpid and altogether charming verse is troubled by no depth of thought or storm of passion. The most of his verse reflects the pagan spirit of those who lie at ease in the warm sun- shine ; content to enjoy, they sigh that life is but a day, and lament as the lengthening shadow draws near. The closing verse of his poem. To Corinna going a Maying, is a good example of his familiar mood : the inevitable chill of regret creeps into the sunshiny lyric of May day, and his laughter ends in a sigh. " Come, let us go, while we are in our prime ! And take the harmless folly of the time ! 212 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short ; and our days run As fast away as does the sun : — And as a vapour, or a drop of rain Once lost, can ne'er be found again : So when you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade ; All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna ! come, let's go a Maying.'' There is a captivating naturalness and freshness in Herrick's note ; the rural England of his time is green forever in his verse, the hedgerows are abloom, the May- poles gay with garlands. He sings " Of brooks, of blossoms, buds and bowers. Of April, May, and June, and July flowers." * In Herrick's time England was racked with civil war, but neither the strife of Religions nor the tumults in the State seem to shatter his Arcadia ; while king and Parlia- ment are in deadly grapple, Herrick sings his dainty love- songs to Julia and Althea, and "babbles of green fields." In the midst of such poetry as this, slight, charming, or fantastic, there rises the mighty voice of Milton. In Herrick and Lycidas,'^^\Q!a. may be said to conclude the Milton. poems of his earlier period, Milton too asks the pagan question, " Seeing that life is short, is it not better to enjoy ? " but only to meet it with triumphant de- nial. This famous passage becomes of especial interest when we think that it was probably written with such poets as Carew and Herrick in mind ; when we recognize in it the high seriousness and religious faith of Puritanism, squarely confronting the nation's lighter mood. * " Hesperides." THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRISTS. 213 " Alas ! what boots it with uncessant care To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neasra's hair ? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days ; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears. And slits the thin-spun life. ' But not the praise,' Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears : ' Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. Nor in the gUstering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies. But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; As he pronounces lastly on each deed. Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.' " — Lycidas, lines 64 to 85. SELECTIONS FROM THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRISTS. TO DAFFADILS. Fair Daffadils, we weep to see You haste away so soon ; As yet the early rising sun Has not attained his noon. Stay, stay. Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song ; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you ; We have as short a spring ; 2 14 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Liice to the summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. — R. Herrick. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME. Gather ye rose-buds while ye may : Old Time is still a-flying ; And this same flower that smiles to-day. To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run. And nearer he's to setting. That age is best, which is the first. When youth and blood are warmer ; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former. — Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry ; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry. — R. Herrick. VERTUE. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright. The bridall of the earth and skie : The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. Thy root is ever in its grave. And thou must die. THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRISTS. 215 Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and vertuous soul. Like seasoned timber, never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal. Then chiefly lives. — George Herbert. GOING TO THE WARS. To Lucasta. Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind. That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True : a new mistress now I chase. The first foe in the field ; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such. As you too shall adore ; I could not love thee, dear, so much. Loved I not honor more. — St'r Richard Lovelace. THE RETREATE. Happy those early dayes, when I Shined in my Angell infancy ! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race. Or taught my soul to fancy ought But a white, celestiall thought ; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first Love, And looking back, at that short space. Could see a glimpse of his bright face ; When on some. gilded Cloud or Floivre My gazing soul would dwell an houre. 2i6 PERIOD OP ITaUaM INFLUENCE. And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity ; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinfull sound. Or had the black art to dispence A sev'rall sinne to ev'ry sense, But felt through all this fleshly dresse Bright skootes of everlastingnesse. O how I long to travell back. And tread again that ancient track ! That I might once more reach that plaine, Where first I left my glorious traine ; From whence th' inlightened spirit sees That shady City of Palme trees. But ah ! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way ! Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And, when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return. — Henry Vanghan. JOHN MILTON. Shakespeare, the poet of man, was born in rural England ; John Milton, into whose remote and lofty verse humanity enters so little, was born Boyhood at London, 1608- in Bread Street in the heart of London, 1624. December 9, 1608. His early years were passed in a sober and orderly Puritan household among influences of refinement and culture. His father, John Milton, was a scrivener, an occupation somewhat corresponding to the modern con- veyancer, but he was also well known as a musical composer. The younger Milton's faculty for music had thus an opportunity for early development, a fact of especial interest when we recall the distinctively musical character of his verse. Milton was early destined " for the study of humane JOHN MILTON: 217 letters," and given every educational advantage. He had private instruction, and about 1620 was sent to the famous Grammar School of St. Paul.* Here, to use his own expression, he worked " with eagerness," laying the foundation of his future blindness by intense application. He began to experiment in poetry, and we have para- phrases of two of the Psalms made by him at this time. In 1624 Milton entered Christ's College, Cambridge, where he continued to work with the same steady and regulated enthusiasm. His youth was spot- Cambridge, less and high-minded, with perhaps a touch '^'-t-'^sa. of that austerity which deepened as he grew older. His face had an exquisitely refined and thoughtful beauty; his soft, light brown hair fell to his shoulders after the Cavalier fashion ; his figure was well knit but slender; his complexion, "exceeding fair." From his somewhat delicate beauty and from his blameless life he gained the College nick-name of "the Lady." The year after he entered College he wrote his first original poem. On the Death of a fair Infant Dying of a Cough, and to this period also belong the resonant Hymn to The Nativity, and other short pieces. After leaving Cambridge, Milton spent nearly six years at his father's country house at Horton, a village near Windsor, and about seventeen miles Horton. from London. Here he lived with books '632-1638. and nature, studying the classics and physical science, and leaving his studious quiet only for an occasional trip to town to learn something new in music or in mathematics. Milton's L'Allegro-\ and II Penseroso,X composed at this time, reflect both the young poet and his L'Aiiegro surroundmgs. Rustic life and superstitions seroso. are there blended with idyllic pictures of the Horton * See supra, pp. 67, 209. f See p. 229. % See p. 234. 2 1 8 PERIOD OP ITALIAN INPL UENCE. landscape. In L Allegro we hear the ploughman whis- tle at his furrow, the milkmaid sing at her work; we see the " Meadows trim and daisies pied. Shallow brooks and rivers wide," or mark the neighboring towers of Windsor " Bosomed high in tufted trees." In both poems we detect Milton himself, a refined and serious nature, exquisitely responsive to whatever is best in life, with a quick and by no means narrow appre- ciation of things beautiful. The poems suggest to us a youthful Milton dreaming of gorgeous and visionary splendors in the long summer twilights, delighting in the plays of Jonson and Shakespeare, and spending lonely midnights in the loftiest speculations of phil- osophy ; a Milton whose beauty-loving and religious nature was moved by the solemn ritual of the Church of England under the " high embowed roof " of a cathe- dral. In these poems, especially V Allegro, Milton is very close to the Elizabethans. In their tinge of ro- mance they remind us of Spenser, who, according to Masson, was Milton's poetic master, while in their lyrical movement they strikingly resemble certain songs of Fletcher in his pastoral drama. The Faithful Shepherdess.^ But Comus (16^4), Milton's next work, shows the decided growth of a new and dis- tinctively Puritan spirit. In its form, indeed, Comus be- longs to the earlier age. It is a mask — one of those gorgeous dramatic spectacles which Renaissance Eng- land had learned from Italy, the favorite entertainment at the festivals of the rich, with which Ben Jonson so often delighted the Court of James. Comus has music *See the beautiful lyric, " Shepherds all and Maidens Fair," in act ii. gc. I, and " Song of the River God," in act iv. sc. i of this play. JOHN MILTON. 219 and dancing, and it affords the requisite opportunity for scenic effects, yet there breathes through it the grow- ing strain of moral earnestness. It shows us how purity and innocence can thread the darkest and most tangled ways of earth, unharmed and invincible, through the in- herent might of goodness. In noble and memorable words Milton declares that if we once lose faith in this essential power of righteousness, and in the ultimate tri- umph of good over evil which that power is destined to secure, the very foundations of the universe give way. ■• Against the threats Of malice or of sorcery, or that power Which erring men call chance, this I hold firm : Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt, Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled ; Yea, even that which Mischief meant most harm Shall in the happy trial prove most glory. But evil on itself shall back recoil. And mix no more with goodness, when at last. Gathered like scum, and settled to itself. It shall be in eternal restless change Self-fed and self-consumed. If this fail. The pillared firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble." * We see the powers of heaven descend to protect beleagured innocence, and in the parting words of the attendant spirit we find both the practical lesson of the mask and the guiding principle of Milton : " Mortals, that would follow me, Love Virtue ; she alone is free. She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime ; Or if Virtue feeble were. Heaven itself would stoop to her." * In his next poem, the pastoral elegy of Lycidas (\()'i,'j), *"Comus." 220 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. the space between Milton and the Elizabethans continues to widen. From the enthusiasm for Virtue, ^" "■ he passes to an outburst of wrath and denunciation against those in the Church whom he con- sidered the faithless shepherds of the flock. " The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed," but the hour of retribution is at hand ; already the " two-handed engine at the door. Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more." * The first thirty years of Milton's life had thus been lived almost wholly " in the still air of delightful studies."t Travels. 1638- Industrious and select reading was part of '^^^- his systematic preparation for the life work he set himself. Up to this time he wrote little, although that little was enough to give him an honorable place among the poets of England ; but already he was full of great designs, writing in 1637, " I am pluming my wings for a flight." To all he had learned from books he now added the widening influences of travel. Leaving England in April, 1638, he passed through Paris to Italy, meeting many learned and famous men, among the rest the old astronomer Galileo, to whom he refers in the early part of Paradise Lost. Meanwhile the civil troubles in England seemed gather- ing to a crisis, and Milton resolved to shorten his trip, because, as he wrote, " I considered it base that while my fellow-countrynien were fighting at home, for liberty, I should be travelling abroad for intellectual culture." We learn from the Epitaphum Damonis, a beautiful Latin elegy written at this time (1639), that Milton was already * " Lycidas." For full analysis of this passage see Ruskin's " Sesame and Lilies." f Milton, " The Reason of Church Government," Int. book ii. JOHN MILTON. 221 planning a great epic poem, but this project was to be rudely interrupted. England was on the brink of civil war, and after long years of preparation, HTM • 1 1 • T • 1 1 1 • • ReturntoEng- Milton put aside his cherished ambitions und, and prose Works. 1 639-1660. and pursuits, and freely gave up his life and genius to the service of his country. Except for occa- sional sonnets, the greatest poet in England forced him- self to write prose for more than twenty years. Most of this prose was written in the heat of " hoarse disputes," and is often marred by the bitterness and personal abuse which marked the controversies of that troubled time ; but this is redeemed in many places by earnestness and a noble eloquence. Prominent among the works of this prose period are the Tractate on Education (1644), and the splendid Areo- pagitica, a burning plea for the liberty of the press, of which it has been said : " Its defense of books and the freedom of books, will last as long as there are writers and readers of books." * Meanwhile (1643), Milton had taken a hasty and unfortunate step in marrying Mary Powel, a young girl of less than half his age, of Royalist family, who proved unsuited to him in disposition and edu- cation. After the execution of Charles I. (1649) Milton ranged himself on the side of those who had taken this tremendous step, in a pamphlet on The Tenure of Kings and Magistrates, and a month after its publication, was made the Latin, or foreign. Secretary to the newly established Commonwealth. His pen continued to be busy for the State, until in 1652 his eyes failed him through over-use, and he was stricken with total blindness. In this year his wife died, leav- ing him with three little girls. In 1656 he married - Katharine Woodcock, who lived but little more than ♦ " Milton," Rev, Stopford Brooke, p. 45 (Classical Writers Series). 222 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFL UENCE. a year, and to whom he paid a touching tribute in one of his sonnets.* In these later years of Milton's life, during which he suffered blindness, sorrow, and broken health, the cause The Restora- ^o"" which he had sacrificed so much was l«?' vtxltt. lost, and England brought again under the 1660-1674. rule of a Stuart king. Milton had been so vehement an advocate of the Parliament that we wonder at his escape ; but, from whatever reason, he was not excepted from the general pardon put forth by Charles II. after his return (August 2g, 1660). In the riotous years that followed, when England, casting off decency and restraint, plunged into " the mad orgy of the Restoration," Milton entered in earnest upon the composition of Paradise Lost, singing with voice " unchanged To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days, On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues, In darkness, and with dangers compassed round, And solitude." t In his little house in Bunhill fields, near the London in which the pleasure-loving king jested at faith and honor, and held his shameless court amidst " The barbarous dissonance Of Bacchus and his revellers," \ the old poet lived his life of high contemplation and undaunted labor. At no time does Milton seem to us more worthy of himself ; he is so heroic that we hardly dare to pity him. But wherever the fault lay, his daugh ters, whose privilege it should have been to minister to him, greatly increased his burdens. They are said to * " Methought I saw my late espoused Saint Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave," etc. \ " Paradise Lost," bk, vii. \ Ibid, JOHN MILTON. 223 have sold his books without his knowledge, and two of them counseled his maid-servant to " cheat him in his marketings." When we reflect that the eldest daughter was but four- teen at the Restoration, and that the education of all had been neglected, we are inclined to judge lesshardly, but we can scarcely wonder that Milton should have sought some means of relief from these intolerable dis- comforts. This he happily found through his marriage with Elizabeth Minshall, in 1663. Yet even when matters were at the worst, Milton seems to have borne them with a beautiful fortitude, " having a certain serenity of mind not condescending to little things." His one faithful daughter, Deborah, speaks of his cheerfulness under his sufferings from the gout, and describes him as " the soul of conversation." In the spirit of his Sonnet on his Blindness* he was content to "only stand and wait," sending up the prayer out of his darkness, " So much the rather thou Celestial light shine inward, "t The words of one who visited him at this time help to bring Milton before us, dressed neatly in black, and seated in a large armchair in a room with dark green hangings, his soft hair still falling over his shoulders, his sightless eyes still beautiful and clear. Paradise Lost was published in 1667, to be followed in 1 67 1 by Paradise Regained. With the latter poem ap- peared the noble drama of Samson Agonistes (or the wrestler), and with it Milton's work was ended. He died on November 8, 1674, so quietly that tho.se with him knew not when he passed away. " Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast ; no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise or blame ; nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble." % * See p. 240. t " Paradise Lost," bk. iv. % " Samson Agonistes." 2 24 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. We are stimulated and thrilled by the thought of Mil- ton's life, as at the sight of some noble and heroic action. Milton's Ideal Obviously it is not free from our common of Life. human shortcomings, but in its whole ideal and in its large results, we feel that it moves habitually on the higher levels, and is animated by no vulgar or ordi- nary aims. It is much that as a great poet Milton loved beauty, that as a great scholar he sought after truth. It is more, that above the scholar's devotion to knowl- edge, Milton set the citizen's devotion to country, the patriot's passionate love of liberty; that above even the employment of his great poetic gift, he set the high resolve to make his life "a true poem," and to live: " As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye." * He has accordingly left us an example of solemn self- consecration to a lofty purpose, early undertaken, and steadfastly and consistently pursued. Milton's life was lived at high tension ; he not only set an exacting standard for himself, he was also inclined to impose it upon others. He is so sublime that some of us are in- clined to be a trifle ill at ease in his presence, or are apt to be repelled by a strain of severity far different from the sweet companionableness of Shakespeare. In Mil- ton's stringent and austere ideal, we miss at times the saving grace of Shakespeare's charity, or we are almost moved to exclaim with Sir Toby : " Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale }" \ In Samson Agonistes, when Delilah pleads before her husband that she has sinned through weakness, she is met by an uncompromising reply : * See p. 240, end of Sonnet on his arriving at the age of twenty-three. f " Twelfth Night," actii. sc. 3. JOHN MILl^ON. 225 " if weakness may excuse. What murderer, traitor, parricide, Incestuous, sacreligious, but may plead it ? All wickedness is weakness, that plea therefore With God or man will gain thee no remission." * From such a rigorous insistence on condemnation in strict accord with the offense, our minds revert to Portia's inspired plea for mercy.f or to Isabella's searching question : " How would you be If He which is the top of judgment should But judge you as you are ? " | However we may appreciate these differences in the spirit of two great poets, we do Milton wrong if we fail to honor and reverence him for that in which he was supremely great. We must remember that this intense zeal for righteousness was a master passion in the highest spirits of Milton's time, and that it is hard to combine zeal with tolerance. It is but natural that in the midst of the corrupt England of the Restoration, the almost solitary voice of the nation's better self could not proph- esy smooth things. This Puritan severity is especially marked in the three great poems of Milton's later life. As a young man he had chosen a purely romantic sub- ject for his projected epic, — the story of Arthur ; his maturer interests led him to abandon this for a purely religious and doctrinal one ; he treated of the fall of man and the origin of evil, that he might " justify the ways of God to men." Paradise Lost, with its se- 7 • n ■ 7 • 1 Paradise Lost. quel, Faraatse Regained, constitute the one great contribution of the English genius to the epic poetry of the world. The style of these great works alone shows genius of the highest and rarest kind. By * " Samson Agonistes," 1. 831. f " Merchant of Venice," act iv. so. i. X " Measure tor Measure," act ii. sc. 2. 2 26 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. the incomparable dignity and majesty of the verse, with its prolonged and solemn music, and the curious involu- tion of its slowly unfolding sentences, we are lifted out of the ordinary or the trivial, into the incalculable spaces of that region int.o which it is the poet's object to trans- port us. In Paradise Lost, caught in the tremendous sweep of Milton's imagination, we see our whole uni- verse, with its circling sun and planets hanging suspended in the black abyss of chaos, "In bigness like a star." Heaven, " the deep tract of Hell," and that illimitable and chaotic region which lies between, make up the vast Miltonic background, where legions of rebellious angels strive with God, and wherein is enacted the mysterious drama, not of men, but of the race of Man. The attitude of Shakespeare toward that unseen and mysterious region which lies beyond the limits of our Milton and human experience, was that of the New Shakespeare. Learning. He places us in the midst of our familiar world, and there we only catch at times the half- intelligible whisper of voices coming out of those blank surrounding spaces which no man can enter. Hamlet, slipping out of this little earthly circle of noise and light, can but whisper on the brink of the great blackness of darkness, that " the rest is silence." But Milton, with the new daring of Puritanism, took for his province that " undiscovered country " beyond the walls of this goodly prison, as Shakespeare, through Hamlet, called the world. At the beginning of his great epic he invokes " the Heavenly Muse," " That on the secret top Of Oreb or of Sinai, didst inspire. That Shepherd who first taught the chosen seed, SELECTIONS FROM MILTON. 227 In the beginning how the heaven and earth Rose out of chaos." * He looks to the Hill of Sion, " And Siloa's brook that flowed Fast by the oracle of God," * rather than to Parnassus, and by Celestial guidance intends to soar "above the Aonian mount," and to pursue " Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme." * SELECTIONS FROM MILTON. l'allegro. Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born In Stygian cave forlorn, -1 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy: Find out some uncouth cell Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings And the night raven sings. There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks As ragged as thy locks. In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 But come, thou goddess fair and free. In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne, And by men heart- easing Mirth Whom lovely Venus, at a birth With two sister Graces more, i , To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore : Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing * "Paradise Lost," bk. i. b.Jealous.-1h.i picture is that of a hen brooding on her nest, suspicious or jealous of intrusion. 7. Sings.— Ir, this uncouth cell the only singing is the raven's croak Contrast this with the singing of the lark, the bird of Dawn, 1. 41-42, infra. 10. Cimmerian.— \^h.o were the Cimmerians ? 12. Ycleped. — Named or called. 228 FERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. As he met her once a-Maying, 20 There, 011 beds of violets blue And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, Filled her with thee, a daughter fair. So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 25 Jest, and youthful jollity. Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. Nods, and becks, and wreathdd smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek And love to live in dimple sleek ; 30 Sport that wrinkled Care derides. And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it, as you go On the light fantastic toe ; And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty And, if I give thee honor due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee. In unreprovfed pleasures free : — 40 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 ; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 45 And at my window bid good-morrow. Through the sweet-briar, or the vine. Or the twisted eglantine, While the cock, with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 50 24. Buxom. — Bowsome, flexible, obedient. Cf. use in Chaucer's "Good Counseil" (see p. 59). See also Skeat's Ety. Diet. 25. Nymph. — /. e., Euphrosyne. 38. He is still addressing Euphrosyne or Mirth. 39. Her. — /. e. , Liberty, the mountain nymph. 45. To come. — Probably depends on " to hear " (I. 41), i. e. , to hear the lark begin his flight, and then descending come " in the spite »/ sorrow," etc., to the speaker's window. This description is not true to nature, from which charge Professor Masson attempts to defend Milton by a different interpre- tation. See note in Masson's edition. SELECTIONS FROM MILTON. 229 And to the stack, ov the barn-door. Stoutly struts his dames before ; Oft Hstening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, 55 Through the high wood echoing shrill ; Some time walking, not unseen. By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate Whei-e the great sun begins his state 60 Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight. While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 And the mower whets his scythe. And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures. Whilst the landscape round it measures : 70 Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; Mountains, on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest ; Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 75 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where, perhaps, some beauty lies. The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 80 Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two agSd oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, 85 Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses. And then in haste her bower she leaves, 80. Cynosure. — The Greek name for the constellation of the Lesser Bear, which contains the Pole Star. Phoenician mariners directed their eyes to this in steering, hence any thing or person on whom the eyes were fastened came to be called a cynosure. — Masson's " Notes on L' Allegro." 230 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead. 90 Sometimes, with secure delight, The upland hamlets will invite. When the merry bells ring round. And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid 95 Dancing in the checkered shade, And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holyday. Till the livelong daylight fail : Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 With stories told of many a feat : How fairy Mab the junkets eat ; She was pinched, and pulled, she said ; And he, by friar's lantern led. Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 105 To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn. His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn That ten day-labourers could not end ; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, no And, stretched out all the chimney's length. Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And, crop-full, out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 1 1 J By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, 94. Rebecks. — A rude stringed instrument, afterwards developed into the violin. loi. Stories. — The superstitious rustics tell their various adventures with supernatural beings supposed to haunt the field and farmhouse. Each fairy and goblin has his own name and office. Mab pinches the idle servants ; Friar Rush, used by Milton for Will-o'-the-wisp, leads the rustic into bogs ; the " drudging goblin,'" or " lubber," fiend, performs household tasks in return for a " cream-bowl duly set" for him to drink. Allusions to these beings are frequent in older literature. Cf. " Midsummer Night's Dream," etc., etc. SELECTIONS FROM MILTON. 231 Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, 120 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear 125 In saffron robe, with taper clear. And pomp, and feast, and revelry. With mask and antique pageantry ; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 Then to the well-trod stage anon. If Jonson's learned sock be on. Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever, against eating cares, I35 Lap me in soft Lydian airs Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes with many a winding bout Of linkM sweetness long drawn out, 14° With wanton heed and giddy cunning. The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony ; That Orpheus' self may heave his head, 14S 120. Weeds.— Ytom A.-S. waed, clothing. Weeds of Peace, holidaydress, not armor. 122. Influence.— LsiAisi' eyes are likened to stars, which astrologers sup- posed to influence human events. 132. Sock.—T'he drama of the sock (Comedy, in performing which the actors wore low-heeled shoes) rather than that of the buskin (Tragedy, in which the actors wore high-heeled boots) best suits the mood of "L'AUegro." 136. The Lydians, a people of Asia Minor, were noted for their effemin- acy. Their music was soft and voluptuous, and corresponded to their na- tional character, while the Dorian music was majestic and inspiring (see "Par. Lost," bk. i. 1. 549) adapted to the bass as the Lydian to the tenor voice. See Dryden's " Alexander's Feast," 1. 79 ; Spenser's " Faerie Queene,"bk. iii. cant. i. 1. 40. Why should the speaker in " L'AUegro," prefer this special kind of music ? 232 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. From golden slumber on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice. 15° These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. IL PENSEROSO* Hence, vain deluding joys, t The brood of Folly, without father bred. How little you bested, Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ; Dwell in some idle brain, 5 And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sun-beams, Or likest hovering dreams. The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. lo But, hail ! thou goddess sage and holy. Hail, divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly' visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight. And, therefore, to our weaker view, 15 O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, * Penseroso. — Milton has here made a slip in his Italian; the word should have been pensieroso. II Pensieroso, the meditative or thoughtful man. As the word is here used, one who enjoys the pleasures of quiet contemplation. \ Lines 1-30. — Compare the opening lines of " L' Allegro," and note how carefully the contrast or antithesis is preserved. 3. Bested. — I.e. how little you advantage or assist; a peculiar use. Bested means literally //a«<^, from A.S. stede, a place, and the verb to set fast, to plant. Cf. ill-bested, badly off. Compare "to stand in good stead." In what English compound words is stead found ? Look up use of this word by Shakespeare in Concordance, and see " The Bible Word Book," and Dictionaries of Richardson and Skeat. 6. Fond. — Silly, foolish. Cf. Shakespeare, and give instances of Shake- speare's use of this word. See note to " Merchant of Venice,'' p. 160 SELECTIONS FROM MILTON. 233 Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above 20 The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended : Yet thou art higher far descended. Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore. To soUtary Saturn bore ; His daughter she ; in Saturn's reign 25 Such mixture was not held a stain : Oft in ghmmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove. 30 Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train. And sable stole of cypress lawn 35 Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state. With even step, and musing gait. And looka commercing with the skies. Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 40 There, held in holy passion still. Forget thyself to marble, till, With a sad leaden downward cast. Thou fix them on the earth as fast. And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, 45 Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet And hears the Muses, in a ring, Aye round about Jove's altar sing. And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure. 50 But first, and chiefest, with thee bring, 19. Elhiop queen. — See Cassiepea, or Cassiopea, in Class. Diet. Explain allusions and the peculiar force of " starred." 33. Grain. — Red or purple ; so used by older writers. This color was obtained from a small insect which, when dried, had the appearance of a seed or grain. See " Par. L.," bk. v. I. 285. " Mid. N. D.,"act i. sc. 2, 1. 95. 35. Stole. — The Stola was a long robe worn by Roman ladies. Stole also means the scarf worn by a priest. Spenser uses stole for hood or veil, in which sense Hales understands it here throughout. 234 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheelM throne, The cherub Contemplation ; And the mute silence hist along, 55 'Less Philomel will deign a song, In her sweetest saddest plight, Smoothing the lugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 60 Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy, Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song ; And, missing thee, I walk unseen 65 On the dry smooth-shaven green. To behold the wandering moon Riding near her highest noon. Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 70 And oft, as if her head she bowed. Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide watered shore, 75 Swinging slow with sullen roar ; Or, if the air will not permit. Some still, removM place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; 80 Far from all resort of mirth. Save the cricket on the hearth, 54. Contemplation. — See Ezekiel, ch. x. ; also "Paradise Lost," bk. vi. 1. 750-759. Milton here names one of the cherubs in Ezekiel's vision. Contem- plation. It was, with writers of this time, a word of high meaning, denoting the faculty by which the clearest notion of Divine things could be attained. See Masson's Ed. 74. Curfew, — What was the « di „° Ph O 00 i2 o a o ^ V M « EJ w O "S E -» « f* \o u s " « I o lit > ^ «!;?=' -S ^ Si c rt .a o -a ^ o Ctj OJ » < Oh - E > < c tn "T o c -o £■ J! w o C e c S O IK i i^ o o .s H S 6 ' I ^ *. O ^ S «) j< a s n J= ffl j3 .g « -4-» H H o '5 o iH j- « M S fe. s o (T. 3 'a d I-) Pi « oj <^ H d- V .- ^ S -.r w ffi T -8 8 "^ "-- .<^^-§ S » *• -'^ ^ rt -C >» C ^- o ^ i S _■ " E J tf.g I I H 5 O S ■= g 00 g vo Pi en JS n .5 U c S- : < Ph ' E cj o Pi ^ S 3 S 5-£-§ SO •i 1-1 S I- ^ "-1 w fe ■< ■g 3, Ph •2 S M ,„ 13 M ClJ M « (u *^ rt c V E E . e E'-S M R H •iz; o E sil^ :-s' „ .. 5 B c a E ■« E w,pl -c rt .2 rt « Cu '^ I- 0) . 3 O = » bJ) u 01 tJ- a u V >,vo O X JS O H J W r" Pi : ^o 4-1 i bjg'rt ] 3^ ) rJ= O ^ ^ ^ « c C^ ^ o o o w ^ . o g fq W M C W ta O 5) 2 TABLE OF THE PURITAN PERIOD. 241 s 8 d" o w PM o yD H ■5 -^ ^ ^ bo bJ)73 •« " B S .£ ,S B S «) E «) ^^ 3 • Zi J= u ^ o o c «tH shkw s '-^ o o V £■ .Ji ' ■y- > ft "S -S H J ..{Qui - . ir J= ; 15 =•! w o d- m w Ml o ■^^^^ oil i ft iS S E fci rt d rt o ft ft 03 rt : 3 3 U •sfi O " O ? ° ^ . Jj « « -J 242 PERIOD OF ITALIAN INFLUENCE. NOTES AND REFERENCES. 1. History. — S. R. Gardiner's series o\ Histories cover this period. Masson's " Life and Times of Milton "; Macaulay's " History of England." 2. Literature. — For admirable review of state of literature in 1630, see Masson's Life, etc., supra, vol. i. chap, vi.; Saintsbury's "Seventeenth Century Lyrics"; Saintsbury's "Elizabethan Lite'rature"; Minto's Eng. Poets. Palgrave's " Chrysomela," a selection from lyrical poems of Herrick, is suitable for school use. 3. Milton. — Lives: Garnett's, in Great Writers Series, Pattison's, in Eng. Men of Letters Series; Milton, in Johnson's " Lives of the Poets "; Masson's " Three Devils, and Other Essays," Luther's, Milton's, and Goethe's. The essay in same volume on the youth of Milton contains interesting compari- son between Milton and Shakespeare. Essay on Milton in Seeley's " Lectures and Essays "; Stopford Brooke's ." Milton " in Student's Library Series; Macaulay's Essay on Milton. PART III. THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. (1660 to cir. 1750.) THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. 1660 to cir. 1750. The England of the Restoration. The Restoration is one of the great landmarks in the history of England. It means more than a change in government; it means the beginning of a changesatthe new England, in life, in thought, and in Restoration, literature. On every side we find outward signs of the nation's different mood. The theatres were reopened, and frivolous crowds applauded a new kind of drama, light, witty, and immoral. The Maypoles were set up again, bear baiting revived, the Puritan Sabbath disre- garded. The king had come to enjoy his own again, and thousands who had grown restive under Puritanic restraints flung aside all decency to recklessly enjoy it with him. Those whom the Puritan had overthrown were again uppermost, and they knew no moderation in the hour of their triumph. The cause and faith of Crom- well and of Milton were loaded with insult and contempt, and the snuffling Puritan was baited and ridiculed, as in the clever but vulgar doggerel of Butler's Hudibras, Had Cromwell lived, or had England remained a Puritan Commonwealth, the spirit which produced Withers, Mil- ton, and Bunyan, might have continued to enrich the literature; but with the return of Charles II. we pass abruptly into a new literary period expressive of the na- tion's altered mood. 246 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. During the two centuries preceding the Restoration, the genius of England had been inspired and directed by The French '^^^Y ^ t)ut about the time of that event Influence. English Writers began to turn for guidance to the brilliant and polished literature of France. This seems to have been due to a combination of causes. Throughout the whole of Europe the literary influence of Italy had sensibly declined, and at this time was being partially replaced by that of France. Politically, France had gained great ascendancy through the ability of her famous statesmen, Richelieu and Mazarin ; and Louis XIV. (1643-1715), the most splendid living embodiment of despotic kingship, had gathered about his court a brilliant group of writers. Theological eloquence was represented by Bossuet and Fenelon, meditative prose by Pascal, tragedy by Corneille and Racine, and comedy by Moliire, with the single exception of Shakespeare, the greatest dramatist of the modern world. It was but natural that England, in common with other nations, should respond to the example of this rising literature ; but her readiness to learn from France seems to have been heightened by other causes. Charles II. had brought with him from his exile on the Continent a fond- ness for things French, and, in particular, a liking for the French style of tragedy. France was powerful in the very heart of Charles's court, and his reign shows us the shameful spectacle of an English king seeking to under- mine English liberty by the aid of a French king's gold. Doubtless the French tastes of the king were not with- out their effect on literature ; but a still more important reason for the English following of French The French , , . '^ , . , ^ Attention to Lit- models remains to be noticed. One ereat erary Form. ,.-,_, characteristic of the French literature of this period was the importance it attached to literary form, that is, to the finish, elegance, and correctness with THE ENGLAND OF THE RESTORA TION. 247 which the thought was expressed. Recent efforts had been made to improve and purify the language, and from this task the French scholars turned theirattention tothe rules of literary composition. Boileau became the lit- erary lawgiver of the day by his Art of Poetry (1674), in which he urged writers to avoid the brilliant extrava- gancies of the Italians, and strive to write with exactness and "good sense." Now this doctrine met with especial favor, because it exactly suited the general trend and tendency of the times. Throughout Europe the creative impulse of the Renaissance was dying. No longer sustained by that overmastering desire to create, which, by its very truth and intensity, leads genius to an artistic expression, men came to rely more on such external guidance as could be had from the max- ims of composition. England shared in this prevailing tendency, and naturally took for her pattern the great French exponents of the congenial doctrine. Edmund Waller (1605-1687) was one of the earliest of these followers of the French, and was for some time looked up to as the great refiner of language and versi- fication ; but the real head of The Critical School, as this group of writers is called, wa.s John Dryden (1631-1700), a man of logical and masculine intellect, and 1 Ml I--. 1 • John Dryden. of finished literary skill. Dryden rises above the smaller men of his day by the weight of sheer intel- lectual force. From the Restoration to the close of the century he dominated English letters, " the greatest man of a little age." He represents the new critical spirit and the desire for moderation and correctness of literary form. " Nothing," he declared, " is truly sublime that is not just and proper " ; and he brought to his work a cold and critical intellect, and the most exacting and conscientious care. In his adaptation of an English translation of Boileau's Art of Poetry, he announces his 248 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. own principles of composition — principles which distin- guish the writers of his school : " Gently make haste, of labour not afraid : A hundred times consider what you've said ; Polish, repolish, every colour lay. And sometimes add, but oftener take away." * Dryden's careful study of literature as an art is further shown by his prose criticisms. It was his custom to pref- Dryden as ^^^ ^'^ plays and poems with a discussion, Critic. explaining or defending the methods upon which the work had been composed ; and his Essay on Dramatic Poetry (1668), in which he advocates the use of rhyme in serious plays, holds an assured place in the history of English criticism. Immense intellectual force, and an ability to argue in verse, two of the most obvious elements of Dryden's Drydenas geuius, lift liis Satires and didactic poems Satirist. j^^.^ ^ foremost place in the literature. His Absalom and Achitophel (168 1), the greatest political satire of the language, was written in the interests of the Court party, and contains a masterly attack upon the Earl of Shaftesbury, who was then on trial for high trea- son. The portrayal of Shaftesbury, under the name of Achitophel, is justly famous, and is a good illustration of Dryden's peculiar power : " 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, impatient of disgrace : A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pigmy-body to decay, And o'er informed the tenement of clay. * " The Art of Poetry," canto i, 1. 171. THE ENGLAND OF THE RESTORATION. 249 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 honour 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 unfeather'd two-legged thing, a son." * This masterpiece, which established its author's fame as a satirist, was followed by The Medal {\6%2), a second attack on Shaftesbury, and by Mac Flecknoe (1682). In the latter, Sliadwell, an otherwise obscure writer of the political faction opposite to that of Dryden, is immorta- lized by the stinging lash of the poet's ridicule. Flecknoe, who is about to abdicate from the throne of Dulness in favor of Shadwell, is made to declare : " Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he. Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense. Some beams of wit on other souls may fall. Strike through, and make a lucid interval ; But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray. His rising fogs prevail upon the day."t ThtReligto Laici (1682), and The Hind and the Panther (1687), are the great examples of Dryden's power of reason- ing in verse. The first is a defense of the 1 /• T-» 1 , 1 1 ■ Dryden's Church of England, the second, written- Power of Rea- • r 1 T> /-■ I !• soning in Verse. after the accession of the Roman Catholic James, and after Dryden's change of faith, is an elaborate argument in behalf of the Church of Rome. * " Absalomand Achitophel,"pt. i, 1. 150. f" Mac Flecknoe,"!. 17. 25° THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. In lyric poetry Dryden is known by his majestic odes on St, Cecilia's Day and Alexander s Feast, and by the beautiful Memorial Ode on Mistress Anne Killegrew* in which he speaks with touch- ing humility of his own shortcomings. Dryden is emphatically a representative English poet. By his life, character, and the spirit of his work, he be- Drydenand lo^gs to the changed England which had his Time. risen out of the Overthrow of Puritanism, and he embodies with unmistakable vigor and distinctness many of those marked features which were to character- ize the nation and its literature for years to come. Out- side the immediate circle of literature there are many in- dications of this change. The more coldly speculative and intellectual temper of the time is shown in the growth of a scientific spirit, shared even by the flippant king. The foundation of the Royal Society, in 1662, is one of the outcomes of this new science, while among the men busy in extending the knowledge of the phys- ical world, towers the great figure of Sir Isaac Newton (1642-1727). It was an age of unimpassioned logic, of intellectual curiosity ; its keen-edged intelligence occupied itself with theories of government and with the specula- tions of philosophy; its frigid good sense turned to biog- raphy and memoirs, to history, criticism, and letters. Thus, as we should expect, it was emphatically an age of prose. The relations of Dryden to such a time are close and obvious, and he plainly defines for us its mental tem- per. He had clearness, mental grasp, great ease and finish of style, and a hard-headed and masculine power ; but we miss in him the glowing imagination of the Elizabethans, their mounting ardor of emotion, their love of nature and of beauty, their moods of exquisite tender- ness. With Dryden, poetry became the coadjutor of poli- * " This beautiful Ode is given in Ward's " English Poets.'' SELECTION FROM DR YDEN. 25 1 tics, and the handmaid of religious controversy. We leave behind us the passion of Lear, or the rapt visions of Paradise Lost, to pass into a new world of fashion and wit, of logic and vituperation. SELECTION FROM DRYDEN. A SONG For St. Cecilia's Day, 1687. \. From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began : When nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay, And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead. Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap. And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began : From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran. The diapason closing full in Man. What passion cannot Music raise and quell.' When Jubal struck the chorded shell. His listening brethren stood around. And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell. That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? 2$i THE FRENCH I NFL UENCE. III. The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger, And mortal alarms. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, hark ! the foes come ; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat, IV. The soft complainirjg flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers. Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. V. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs, and desperation. Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passion. For the fair, disdainful dame. VI. But oh ! what art can teach. What human voice can reach. The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love. Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above. VII. Orpheus could lead the savage race ; And trees uprooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre : But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher : When to her organ vocal breath was given. An angel heard, and straight appear'd Mistaking earth for heaven. THE EIGHTEENTH CENTUR Y ESSA VS. 253 Grand Chorus. As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the bless'd above ; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high. The dead shall live, the living die. And Music shall untune the sky. THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY ESSAYS. With new popular needs and a wider reading public, came important changes in literature and in the position of the author. Before this, authorship, as ■ , ,,. ,. , . • , r Changed a recognized calling, did not exist outside of Position of the ^ ="' Author. the writers for the stage ; but from about the reign of Queen Anne (1702-1714) we note the signs of change. During the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. the successful playwright reached a large public, but for the writer of books the circle of readers was comparatively- small. Men did not attempt to make a living by author- ship alone, and writing was accordingly an occasional occupation, an amusement, or a mere graceful accom- plishment. Hooker was a clergyman ; Bacon unhappily gave to knowledge only such time as he could spare from law and politics ; Raleigh and Sidney represent the large class of courtiers and gentlemen who wrote in the elegant leisure of brilliant and active lives, while Milton in his prose, with Prynne and Collier, are ex- amples of those who used books as a means of contro- versy. That large reading public which in our own day enables the author to live solely by his pen did not then exist, and before the Civil War books were commonly 254 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. published through some powerful patron. But as wealth and leisure increased, the general intelligence widened, and the author gradually gained the support of a large number of readers. Publishing became more profitable, and in the reign of Charles II. the number of publishing houses greatly increased. In Queen Anne's reign a close connection existed between literature and politics, and many authors were encouraged by the gift of government positions.* The author was still dependent on a powerful patron, but he was gradually struggling towards direct reliance on the public support. During Anne's reign the greater towns, and especially London, became more and more centres of social and intellectual activity. Coffeehouses were established in great numbers, and there the leading men in politics, literature, or fashion, habitually met to smoke and discuss the latest sensations over the novel luxury of coffee. Such friction made men's minds more alert, witty, and alive to the newest thing. Before 171 5 there were nearly two thousand of these coffeehouses in London alone, representing an immense variety of social classes and political opinions. f With the spread of in- telligence and the life of the club and coffeehouse the * " The splendid efflorescence of genius under Queen Anne was in a very great degree due to ministerial encouragement, which smoothed the path of many whose names and writings are familiar in countless households where the statesmen of that day are almost forgotten. Among those who obtained assistance from the government, either in the form of pensions, appoint- ments, or professional promotion, were Newton and Locke, Addison, Swift, Steele, Prior, Gay, Rowe, Congreve, Tickell, Parnell, and Phillips, while a secret pension was offered to Pope, who was legally disqualified by his re- ligion from receiving government favours." — " Eng. in the l8th Cent.," by W. E. H. Lecky, vol. vi. p. 462. f Sidney's "Eng. in the i8th Cent.," vol. i. p. 186. According to Hal- ton, " New View of London,'' vol. i. p. 30, there were nearly three thou- sand coffeehouses in England in 170S. See Lecky's " Eng. in the 18th Cent.," vol. i. p. 616. THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY ESSA VS. 255 rise of periodical literature is directly connected. More- over, the liberty of the press, for which Milton strove, had been established since 1682, so that Rise of Period- many things favored the rise of journalism. '"' literature. The first daily newspaper, the Daily Courant, was started in 1702, and The Tatler (1709), part newspaper and part magazine, began a distinctly new order of periodical literature.* The Tatler came out on Tuesdays, Thurs- days, and Saturdays ; it was sold for a penny, and in ad- dition to theatre notices, advertisements, and current news, it contained an essay which often treated lightly and good-humoredly of the day. Such a paper was pre- cisely what the new conditions of town life required. The floating talk of the clubs and coffeehouses was caught by the essayist and compressed into a brief, witty, and graceful literary form. In the place of ponderous sentences, moving heavily under their many-syllabled words and their cumbrous weight of learning, we have a new prose, deft, quick, sparkling, and neither too serious nor too profound. It is as though the age had aban- doned the massive broadsword of an earlier time, to play at thrust and parry with the foils. The creators of this new periodical literature are Sir Richard Steele and his friend Joseph Addison. Richard Steele (1672-1729) was a warm-hearted, lov- able, and impulsive Irishman. Left fatherless before he was six years old, he gained admission Steele. to the Charterhouse school in London', through the influence of his uncle. Here he met Addison, his junior by two months, but greatly his senior in discretion ; and the two schoolboys began a beautiful and almost lifelong friendship. Thackeray writes of this period of Steele's life : " I am afraid no good * A good account of this will be found in Courthope's " Life of Addison," chap, i., in Eng. Men of Letters Series. ^56 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. report could be given by his masters and ushers of that thick-set, square-faced, black-eyed, soft-hearted little Irish Thackeray on t)oy. He was very idle. He was whipped *^^ ^' deservedly a great number of times. Though he had very good parts of his own, he got other boys to do his lessons for him, and only took just as much trouble as should enable him to scuffle through his exer- cises, and by good fortune escape the flogging block. One hundred and fifty years after, I have myself in- spected, but only as an amateur, that instrument of righteous torture still existing, and in occasional use, in a secluded private apartment of the old Charterhouse school ; and have no doubt it is the very counterpart, if not the ancient and interesting machine itself, at which poor Dick Steele submitted himself to the tormentors. " Besides being very kind, lazy, and good-natured, this boy went invariably into debt with the tartwoman ; ran out of bounds, and entered into pecuniary, or rather promissory, engagements with the neighboring lollipop venders and piemen — exhibited an early fondness for drinking mum and sack, and borrowed from all his com- rades who had money to lend. I have no sort of author- ity for the statements here made of Steele's early life ; but if the child is father of the man, the father of young Steele of Merton, who left Oxford without taking a de- gree, and entered into the Life Guards — the father of Captain Steele of Lucas's Fusiliers, who got his company through the patronage of my Lord Cutts — the father of Mr. Steele, the Commissioner of Stamps, the editor of the Gazette, the Tatler, and Spectator, the expelled member of Parliament, and the author of the Tender Husband and the Conscious Lovers, if man and boy resembled each other, Dick Steele, the schoolboy, must have been one of the most generous, good-for-nothing, amiable little creatures that ever conjugated the verb THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY ESSA YS. 257 tupto, I beat, tuptomai, I am whipped, in any school in Great Britain. "Almost every gentleman who does me the honor to hear me will remember that the very greatest character which he has seen in the course of his life, and the person to whom he has looked up with the greatest wonder and reverence, was the head boy at his school. ... I have seen great men in my time, but never such a great one as that head boy of my childhood ; we all thought he must be Prime Minister, and I was disappointed on meeting him in after life to find he was no more than six feet high. " Dick Steele, the Charterhouse gownboy, contracted such an admiration in the years of his childhood, and re- tained it faithfully through his life. Through the school, and through the world, whithersoever his strange fortune led this erring, wayward, affectionate creature, Joseph Addison was always his head boy. Addison wrote his exercises. Addison did his best themes. He ran on Addison's messages ; fagged for him and blacked his shoes ; to be in Joe's company was Dick's greatest pleas- ure ; and he took a sermon or a caning from his monitor with the most boundless reverence, acquiescence, and affection." * Leaving school, Steele went to Oxford, then entered the army, and ultimately rose^ to the rank of captain. He wrote a religious work, The Christian Hero, by which he complained he gained a reputation for piety which he found it difificult to live up to. To counteract this, and to " enliven his character," he wrote a com- Steele founds edy called The Funeral (1701). After pro- "The Tatur," ducing several other plays, Steele drifted into journalism, and after writing for a paper called The Gazette, founded The Tatler. After a few weeks * Thackeray's "English Humorists," p. 200, 25 8 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. Addison became a contributor, but even before this the success of the paper was assured. The Tatler was discon- tinued in 171 1 to make way for The Spectator, a joint enter- prise of Addison and Steele. This ran until 1713, when it was succeeded by The Guardian, the last periodical for which the friends worked together. Steele was extrav- agant, good-natured, and fond of fine clothes. When he had money he spent it like a prince, and so did not have it long. He " outlived his wife, his income, his health, almost everything but his kind heart. That ceased to trouble him in 1729, when he died, worn out and almost forgotten by his contemporaries, in Wales, where he had the remnant of a property." * Joseph Addison (1672-1719) was more reserved, shy, and dignified than his rollicking friend Dick Steele. He was the son of a clergyman, and he had Addison. ,. ,. , ^.i i-i himself so much of the clerical gravity that a contemporary called him " a parson in a tyewig." Like Steele he went to Oxford after leaving the Charter- house school, but unlike Steele won a scholarship by some Latin verses. Like most of the authors of the time Ad- dison was obliged to depend on patronage for a living. He was granted a pension in return for a laudatory poem on the Peace of Ryswick (1697). This he lost on the king's death (William HL, 1702), and in the following year he returned to England from a Continental tour, with no certain prospects. Poetry came a second time to his aid. He made a great hit by a poem called The Campaign, in which he celebrated the Duke of Marl- borough's great victory at Blenheim, and was appointed to a government position. In 171 3 he brought out his tragedy of Cato, which gave him a prodigious reputa- tion, but, as we know, he had before this begun a work of even more permanent importance in his contributions * Thackeray's " English Humorists," p. 210. THE EIGHTEENTH CENTUR Y ESSA YS: 259 to the Tatler and Spectator. As an essayist, Addison possessed a finer art than that of Steele, yet it was Steele who first suggested what Addison brought to per- fection. This was the case with the famous character of Sir Roger de Coverley, the typical country gentleman of the time. Both Steele and Addison wrote i. ^ , . , , , , Addison and as moralists, and in their work one sees that Steele social , . . , . , Reformers. the reaction against the excesses of the Restoration had already begun. Their method as reform- ers is in keeping with the spirit of the time. They did not assail vice and folly with indignant eloquence, but, with delicate tact and unvarying good humor, they gently made them ridiculous. Addison regretted the emptiness and frivolity of the fashionable women, and set himself to bring a new interest into their lives. "There are none," he says, " to whom this paper will be more useful than to the female world,"* and his direct appeal to the women readers is memorable in the history of the literature. Such papers as " The Fine Lady's Journal," "The Exercise of the Fan," " The Dissection of a Beau's Head," and of a " Coquette's Heart," with their minute observation and kindly satire of manners, are highly repre- sentative. In " Ned Softly," Addison laughs at the liter- ary doctrines of the day, showing us against a background of club life a " very pretty poet," who studies the approved maxims of poetry before sitting down to write, and who spends a whole hour in adapting the turn of the words in two lines. Finally, we see in these early eighteenth century essays the forerunners of a new art. The faithful description of life and manners, the feeling for character , . . , , , , , , The Essay the and incident, show that the essavs have only Precursor of the . Novel. to be thrown into the form of a continued narrative to give us the modern novel. Before the eigh- * " Spectator," No lo, Read this entire paper. 26o THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. teenth century was half over, Samuel Richardson and Joseph Fielding had continued in the novel that paint- ing of contemporary life which the essayist had begun. The character and work of Addison cannot be better summed up than in the famous tribute of Macaulay, who Macauiay on calls him " the unsuUied statesman ; the ac- Addison. compHshed scholar, the great satirist who alone knew how to use ridicule without abusing it ; who, without inflicting a wound, affected a great social reform, and who reconciled wit and virtue after a long and pain- ful separation, during which wit had been led astray by profligacy and virtue by fanaticism." * SELECTIONS FROM ADDISON. NED SOFTLY THE POET. Idem inficeto est inficetior rure, Simul poemata attigit ; neque idem unquam .^que est beatus, ac poema quum scribit : Tam guadet in se, tamque se ipse miratur. Nimirum idem omnes fallimur ; neque est quisquam Quem non in aliqua re videre Suffenum Possis — — Catul. I yesterday came hither about two hours before the company generally make their appearance, with a design to read over all the newspapers ; but upon my sitting down, I was accosted by Ned Softly, who saw me from a corner in the other end of the room, where I found he had been writing something. " Mr. Bickerstaft," says he, " I observe by a late paper of yours, that you and I are just of a humour ; for you must know, of all impertinences there is nothing which I so much hate as news. I never read a gazette in my life; and never trouble my head about our armies, whether they win or lose ; or in what part of the world they lie encamped." Without giving me time to reply, he drew a paper of verses out of his pocket, telling me that he had something which would entertain me more agreeably; and that he would desire my judgment upon every line, for that we had time enough before us until the company came in. Ned Softly is a very pretty poet, and a great admirer of easy lines. * Macaulay, Essay on " Life and Writings of Addison." SELECTIONS FROM ADDISON: 261 Waller is his favorite ; and as that admirable writer has the best and worst verses of any among our great English poets, Ned Softly has got all the bad ones without book ; which he repeats upon occasion, to shew his reading and garnish his conversation. Ned is indeed a a true English reader, incapable of relishing the great and masterly strokes of this art ; but wonderfully pleased with the little Gothic orna- ments of epigrammatical conceits, turns, points, and quibbles, which are so frequent in the most admired of our English poets, and prac- tised by those who want genius and strength to represent, after the manner of the ancients, simplicity in its natural beauty and perfection. Finding myself unavoidably engaged in such a conversation, I was resolved to turn my pain into a pleasure, and to divert myself as well as I could with so very odd a fellow. " You must understand," says Ned, " that the sonnet I am going to read to you was written upon a lady who showed me some verses of her own making, and is, perhaps, the best poet of our age. But you shall hear it." Upon which he began to read as follows : TO MIRA, ON HER INCOMPARABLE POEMS. When dress'd in laurel wreaths you shine. And tune your soft melodious notes. You seem a sister of the Nine, Or Phoebus' self in petticoats. 11. I fancy, when your song you sing (Your song you sing with so much art). Your pen was pluck'd from Cupid's wing ; For ah ! it wounds me like his dart. " Why," says I, " this is a little nosegay of conceits, a very lump of salt; every verse hath something in it that piques; and then the dart in the last line is certainly as pretty a sting in the tail of an epigram (for so I think your critics call it) as ever entered into the thought of a poet." " Dear Mr. Bickerstaff," says he, shaking me by the hand, "everybody knows you to be a judge of these things ; and to tell you truly, I read over Roscommon's translation of Horace's Art of Poetry three several times, before I sat down to write the sonnet which I have shewn you. But you shall hear it again, and pray ob- serve every line of it, for not one of them shall pass without your approbation. 262 THE FRENCH I NFL UENCE. " When dress'd in laurel wreaths you shine. " This is," says he, " when you have your garland on ; when you are writing verses." To which I replied, " I know your meaning : a metaphor ! " — " The same," said he, and went on : ' ' And tune your soft melodious notes. " Pray observe the gliding of that verse ; there is scarce a con- sonant in it : I took good care to make it run upon liquids. Give me your opinion of it." " Truly," said I, " I think it as good as the former." " I am very glad lO hear you say so," says he ; " but mind the next : ' ' You seem a sister of the Nine. " That is," says he, " you seem a sister of the Muses ; for, if you look into ancient authors, you will find it was their opinion, that there were nine of them." " I remember it very well," said I, " but^pray proceed." " Or Phoebus' self in petticoats. " Phcebus," says he, " was the god of poetry. These little instances, Mr. Bickerstaff, shew a gentleman's reading.' Then to take off from the air of learning which Phoebus and the Muses have given to this first stanza, you may observe how it falls, all of a sudden, into the familiar — ' in petticoats ! ' " Or Phoebus' self in petticoats.'' " Let us now," says I, " enter upon the second stanza • I $nd the first line is still a continuation of the metaphor." " I fancy, when your song you sing. " It is very right," says he ; " but pray observe the turn of words in those two lines. I was a whole hour in adjusting of them, and have still a doubt upon me whether, in the second line, it should be — ' Your song you sing,' or, ' You sing your song.' You shall hear them both : " I fancy when your song you sing (Your song you sing with so much art) ; or, I fancy when your song you sing (You sing your song with so much art)." " Truly," said I, " the turn is so natural either way that you have made me almost giddy with it." " Dear sir," said he, grasping me SELECTIONS FROM ADDISON. 263 by the hand, " you have a great deal of patience ; but pray what do you think of the next verse ? "Your pen was pluck'd from Cupid's wing." " Think ! " says I ; " I think you have made Cupid look like a little goose." "That was my meaning," says he : "I think the ridicule is well enough hit off. But we come now to the last, which sums up the whole matter. " For ah ! it wounds me like his dart. Pray how do you like that ah ! Doth it not make a pretty figure in that place ? Ah ! — it looks as if I felt the dart, and cried out at being pricked with it. ' ' For, ah ! it wounds me like his dart. " My friend Dick Easy," continued he, " assured me he would rather have written that ah ! than to have been the author of the ' .i^neid.' He indeed objected that I made Mira's pen like a quill in one of the lines, and like a dart in the other. But as to that '' " Oh ! as to that," says I, " it is but supposing Cupid to be like a porcupine, and his quills and darts will be the same thing." He was going to embrace me for the hint ; but half a dozen critics coming into the room, whose faces he did not like, he conveyed the sonnet into his pocket, and whispered me in the ear, he would show it me again as soon as his man had written it over fair. April 25, 1710. SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY ; SIR ROGER AT CHURCH. I am always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it would be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the 264 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the church- yard, as a citizen does upon the 'Change, the whole parish politics being generally discussed in that place either after sermon or before the bell rings. My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing ; he has likewise given a handsome pulpit cloth, and railed in the communion table at his own expense. He has often told me, that at his coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular ; and that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a common-prayer book : and at the same time employed an itinerant singing master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the psalms ; upon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard. As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer no one to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them himself or sends his servants to them. Several other of the old knight's particularities break out upon these occasions ; sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing-psalms half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it ; sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces Amen three or four times to the same prayer ; and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John Mat- thews it seems is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish, who are not pohte enough to see anything ridiculous in his behavior ; besides that the general good sense and worthiness of his character makes his friends observe these little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities. As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his SELECTIONS FROM ADDISON. 265 seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each side ; and every now and then inquires how such an one's wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church ; which is understood as a secret reprimand to the per- son that is absent. The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechizing day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has or- dered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement ; and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon for his mother. Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's place ; and that he may encourage the young fellows to make themselves perfect in the church service, has promised, upon the death of the present in- cumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to merit. The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the more remarkable, be- cause the very next village is famous for the differences and conten- tions that rise between the parson and the 'squire, who live in a per- petual state of war. The parson is always preaching at the 'squire, and the 'squire to be revenged on the parson never comes to church. The 'squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe-stealers ; while the parson instructs them every Sunday in the dignity of his order, and insinuates to them in almost every sermon that he is a better man than his patron. In short matters are come to such an extremity that the 'squire has not said his prayers either in public or private this half year ; and that the parson threatens him, if he does not mend his manners, to pray for him in the face of the whole congregation. Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, are very fatal to the ordinary people; who are so used to be dazzled with riches, that they pay as much deference to the understanding of a man of an estate, as of a man of learning : and' are very hardly brought to regard any truth, how important soever it may be, that is preached to them, when they know there are several men of five hundred a year who do not believe it. THE FINE lady's JOURNAL. Modo vir, modo fcemina. — Virg. The journal with which I presented my reader on Tuesday last, has brought me in several letters, with accounts of many private lives cast into that form. I have " The Rake's Journal," " The Sot's Journal," 266 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. and among several others a very curious piece, entitled " The Journal of a Mohoclc." By tliese instances I find that the intention of my last Tuesday's paper has been mistaken by many of my readers. I did not design so much to expose vice as idleness, and aimed at those persons who pass away their time rather in trifles and impertinence, than in crimes and immoralities. Offences of this latter kind are not to be dallied with, or treated in so ludicrous a manner. In short, my journal only holds up folly to the light, and shews the disagreeable- ness of such actions as are indifferent in themselves, and blamable only as they proceed from creatures endowed with reason. My following correspondent, who calls herself Clarinda, is such a journalist as I require ; she seems by her letter to be placed in a modish state of indifference between vice and virtue, and to be sus- ceptible of either, were there proper pains taken with her. Had her journal been filled with gallantries, or such occurrences as had shown her wholly divested of her natural innocence, notwithstanding it might have been more pleasing to the generality of readers, I should not have published it ; but as it is only the picture of a life filled with a fashionable kind of gaiety and laziness, I shall set down five days of it, as I have received it from the hand of my fair correspondent. Dear Mr. Spectator: You having set your readers an exercise in one of your last week's papers, I have performed mine according to your orders, and herewith send it you inclosed. You must know, Mr. Spectator, that I am a maiden lady of a gjood fortune, who have had several matches offered me for these ten years last past, and have at present warm applications made to me by a very pretty fellow. As I am at my own disposal, I come up to town every winter, and pass my time in it after the manner you will find in the following journal, which I began to write upon the very day after your Spectator upon that subject. Tuesday night. — Could not go to sleep till one in the morning for think- ing of my journal. Wednesday. — From eight till ten. Drank two dishes of chocolate in bed, and felfasleep after them. From ten to eleven. Eat a slice of bread and butter, drank a dish of bohea, read the Spectator. From eleven to one. At my toilette, tried a new head. Gave orders for Veny to be combed and washed. Mem. I look best in blue. From one till half an hour after two. Drove to the Change. Cheapened a couple of fans. ^ . Till four. At dinner. Mem. Mr. Froth passed by in his new liveries. SELECTIONS FROM ADDISON 267 From four to six. Dressed, paid a visit to old Lady Blitlie and her sister, having before heard they were gone out of town that day. From six to eleven. At Basset. Mem. Never set again upon the ace of diamonds. Thursday.— From eleven at night to eight in the morning. Dreamed that I punted to Mr. Froth. From eight to ten. Chocolate. Read two acts in Aurengzebe a-bed. From ten to eleven. Tea-table. Read the play-bills. Received a letter from Mr. Froth. Mem. Locked it up in my strong box. Rest of !the morning. Fontange, the tire-woman, her account of my Lady Blithe's wash. Broke a tooth in my little tortoise-shell comb. Sent Frank to know how my Lady Hectic rested after her monkey's leaping out at window. Looked pale. Fontange tells me my glass is not true. Dressed by three. From three to four. Dinner cold before I sat down. From four to eleven. Saw company. Mr. Froth's opinion of Milton. His account of the Mohocks. His fancy for a pin-cushion. Picture in the lid of his snug-box. Old Lady Faddle promises me her woman to cut my hair. Lost five guineas at crimp. Twelve o'clock at night. Went to bed. Friday.— Eight in the morning. A-bed. Read over all Mr. Froth's letters. Ten o'clock. Stayed within all day, not at home. From ten to twelve. In conference with my mantua-maker. Sorted a suit of ribbons. Broke my blue china cup. From twelve to one. Shut myself up in my chamber. Practised Lady Betty Modely's skuttle. One in the afternoon. Called for my flowered handkerchief. Worked half a violet leaf in it. Eyes ached, and head out of order. Threw by my work, and read over the remaining part of Aurengzebe. From three to four. Dined. From four to twelve. Changed my mind, dressed, went abroad, and played at crimp till midnight. Found Mrs. Spitely at home. Conversation: Mrs. Brilliant's necklace false stones. Old Lady Loveday going to be married to a young fellow that is not worth a groat. Miss Prue gone into the country. Tom Townley has red hair. Mem. Mrs. Spitely whispered in my ear that she had something to.tell me about Mr. Froth ; I am sure it is not true. Between twelve and one. Dreamed that Mr. Froth lay at my feet, and called me Indamora. Saturday.— Rose at eight o'clock in the morning. Sat down to my toilette. From eight to nine. Shifted a patch for half an hour before I could de- termine it. Fixed it above my left eyebrow. 268 THE FRENCH I NFL UENCE. From nine to twelve. Drank my tea and dressed. From twelve to two. At chapel. A great deal of good company. Mem. The third air in the new opera. Lady Blithe dressed fright- fully. From three to four. Dined. Miss Kitty called upon me to go to the opera before I was risen from table. From dinner to six. Drank tea. Turned off a footman for being rude to Veny. Six o'clock. Went to the opera. I did not see Mr. Froth till the be- ginning of the second act. Mr. Froth talked to a gentleman in a black wig. Bowed to a lady in the front box. Mr. Froth and his friend clapped Nicolini in the third act. Mr. Froth cried out Aucora. Mr. Froth led me to my chair. I think he squeezed my hand. Eleven at night. Went to bed. Melancholy dreams. Methought Nicolini said he was Mr. Froth. Sunday. — Indisposed. Monday. — Eight o'clock. Waked by Miss Kitty. Aurengzebe lay upon the chair by me. Kitty repeated without book the eight best lines in the play. Went in our mobs to the dumb man according to appointment. Told me that my lover's name began with a G. Mem. The conjurer was within a letter of Mr. Froth's name, etc. Upon looking back into this my journal, I find that I am at a loss to know whether I pass my time well or ill ; and indeed never thought of consider- ing how I did it before I perused your speculation upon that subject. I scarce find a single action in these five days that I can thoroughly approve of, except the working upon the violet leaf, which I am resolved to finish the first day I am at leisure. As for Mr. Froth and Veny, I did not think they took up so much of my time and thoughts as I find they do upon my journal. The latter of them I will turn off, if you insist upon it ; and if Mr. Froth does not bring matters to a conclusion very suddenly, I will not let my life run away in a dream. Your humble servant, Clarinda. To resume one of the morals of my first paper, and to confirm Clarinda in her good inclinations, I would have her consider what a pretty figure she would make among posterity were the history of her whole life published like these five days of it. I shall conclude my paper with an epitaph written by an uncertain author on Sir Philip Sidney's sister, a lady who seems to have been of a temper very much different from that of Clarinda. The last thought of it is so very noble, that I dare say my reader will pardon me the quota- tion. ALEXANDER POPE. 269 ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE. Underneath this marble hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother ; Death, ere thou hast kill'd another, Fair, and learned, and good as she. Time shall throw a dart at thee. March 11, 1712. ALEXANDER POPE.— 1688-1744. Alexander Pope is the lawful successor to Dryden in the line of representative English poets. About this ex- traordinary personage centres the literary and social ac- tivity o{t\^& Augustan Age, with its thin veneer of elegance and fashion, and its inherent coarseness and brutality; with its spiteful literary rivalries, its stratagems, its rancor, and its unmeasured slanders. The sturdy Dryden, robust enough to shoulder his way to the front by sheer force, had gone, and this fragile, deformed, and acutely nervous invalid reigned in his stead. The story of Pope's life is a painful one. He was weak and sickly from his infancy, and his life was " a long disease." He is said to have had a naturally sweet and gentle disposition, but he grew up to be petulant and embittered. His father, a rich and retired merchant, was a Roman Catholic, and the preju. dice against persons of that faith was so strong at this time that Pope was prevented from attending the public schools. His education was consequently superficial and irregular. He had some instruction from a Roman Catholic priest, and afterward went to several small schools in succession, remaining a short time at each and learning but little. At one of these, the Roman Catholic seminary at Twyford, he began his career as a satirist by writing a lampoon on the master. When 270 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. Pope was about twelve years old he was taken from school to live with his father at Binfield, a straggling village in Windsor Forest. Here he read much poetry, but in a rambling and desultory fashion. " I followed," he says, " everywhere as my fancy led me, and was like a boy gathering flowers in the field just as they fell in his way."* He also wrote many verses imitating the style of one or another of his favorite poets. He made metri- cal translations of the classics, and when between thirteen and fifteen years of age composed an epic poem of four thousand lines. By this early and incessant practice, Pope was acquiring that easy mastery of smooth and fluent versification which is characteristic of his mature work. His first published poem, The Pastorals (1709), represents shepherds and shepherdesses in The Pastorals. . . , , . . an imagmary golden age, conversing in flowing couplets, and with wit and refinement. Even in that polite and artificial time, the unnaturalness of this did not pass unnoticed, and a writer in The Guardian held that the true pastoral should give a genuine picture of English country life. Pope's next publication. The Essay on Criticism (pub- lished 171 1), took London by storm. It is a didactic poem Essay on Grit- i" which the established rules of composi- "^"'"' tion are restated by Pope in terse, neat, and often clever, couplets. Poetry of this order was especi- ally in accord with the reigning literary fashions, and in The Essay Pope was but following the lead of Boileau and of Dryden. Originality was neither possible nor desirable in a work which undertook to express the set- tled principles of criticism, yet the poem possesses a merit eminently characteristic of Pope — it is quotable. All through it we find couplets in which an idea, often com- monplace enough, is packed into so terse, striking, and *Spence's "Anecdotes," p. 193. ALEXANDER POPE. 2 7 1 remarkable a form, that it has become firmly imbedded in our ordinary thought and speech. Through his power to translate a current thought into an almost proverbial form, Pope has probably enriched the language with more phrases than any writer save Shakespeare. A little learning is a dangerous thing ; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring. To err is human, to forgive divine. For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.* Such quotable bits as these are used by thousands who are entirely ignorant of their source. Pope gave a brilliant proof of the versatility of his powers by The Rape of The Lock (17 12), the religious poem of The Messiah, and Windsor Forest. ,,,. . ^ ' Windsor In the last poem the woodland about Bin- Forest, field is withdrawn from all danger of recognition, in accordance with the peculiar taste of the time. Pan, Pomona, Flora, and Ceres, and other classic deities are domesticated in an English landscape, and Queen Anne compared with Diana. Vulgar realities are carefully avoided, as when the hunter, instead of taking aim, is made to Lift the tube and level with his eye.t The poem shows great ease and elegance, but what we admire in it is the artist's self-conscious and obtrusive skill. So elaborate is Pope's art here and elsewhere, that we are less occupied with what he says than with his practiced dexterity in saying it. Soon after the publi- cation of this poem, Pope plunged into the midst of the fashionable society of the day. He frequented the theatres and club houses, loitered with the gay throngs at Bath, and was entertained at the country places of ♦All these quotations will be found in the " Essay on Criticism." f "Windsor Forest." 272 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. the nobility. After living for two years at Chiswick on tlie Tliames (1716-1718), Pope leased a villa at Twicla.— Pronounced tay until the middle of the eighteenth century. See " English, Past and Present," by R. C. Trench, p. 182. In canto iii. I. 8, tea rhymes with obey. 66. See letter of dedication, for Rosicrucians. The idea of making the spirits of the elements deceased mortals is an ingenious variation of Pope's own. The passage is a good example of Pope's habitual contempt for women . 70. Parody on "Paradise Lost," bk. i. I. 423. 284 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. What guards the purity of melting maids, In courtly balls and midnight masquerades, Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark. The glance by day, the whisper in the dark. When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, 75 When music softens, and when dancing fires ? 'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know, Tho' honor is the word with men below. Some nymphs there are too conscious of their face, For life predestin'd to the gnomes embrace. 80 These swell their prospects and exalt their pride. When offers are disdain'd, and love deny'd; Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train. And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 85 And in soft sounds, ' Your Grace ' salutes their ear. 'Tis these that early taint the female soul. Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll. Teach infant-cheeks a hidden blush to know. And little hearts to flutter at a beau. 90 Oft', when the world imagine women stray. The sylphs thro' mystic mazes guide their way ; Thro' all the giddy circle they pursue. And old impertinence expel by new. What tender maid but must a victim fall 95 To one man's treat, but for another's ball ? When Florio speaks what virgin could withstand. If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand ? With varying vanities, from ev'ry part. They shift the moving toyshop of their heart 100 Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, Beaus banish beaus, and coaches coaches drive. This erring mortals levity may call ; Oh, blind to truth ! the sylphs contrive it all. Of these am I, who thy protection claim, 105 A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. Late, as I rang'd the crystal wilds of air, 105. I.e., "claim to protect thee." The language here is, to say the least, ambiguous ; on their face the words might mean ' ' claim to be protected by thee." THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 285 In the clear mirror of thy ruling star I saw, alas ! some dread event impend, Ere to the main this morning sun descend, no But heav'n reveals not what, or how, or where. Warn'd by the sylph, oh, pious maid, beware ! This to disclose is all thy guardian can : Beware of all, but most beware of man ! " He said ; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, 115 Leap'd up, and wak'd his mistress with his tongue. 'Twas then, Belinda ! if report say true. Thy eyes first open'd on a billet-doux ; Wounds, charms, and ardors were no sooner read. But all the vision vanished from thy head. 120 And now, unveil'd, the toilet stands displayed. Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores, With head uncover'd, the cosmetic pow'rs. A heav'nly image in the glass appears ; To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears. Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side. Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here The various oftVings of the worid appear ; From each she nicety culls with curious toil. And decks the goddess with the glitt'ring spoil. This casket Indias glowing gems unlocks. And all Arabia breathes from yonder box ; The tortoise here and elephant unite, 13c Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white, Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches. Bibles, billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms ; The fair each moment rises in her charms, 140 115. The lap-dog was an important part of the fine lady's outfit. Compare " Fine Lady's Journal," supra, p. 265. 130. Apparently imitated from Spectator, No. 69, May, 1711. "The single dress of a woman of quality," etc. With this account of the toilet compare Taine's " Eng. Lit.," vol. iii. p. 346; Stephen's "Life of Pope," Eng. Men of Letters Series, p. 40, and " Ency. Brit.," art. on "Pope," vol. xix. 125 130 286 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. Repairs her smiles, awalcens ev'ry grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face ; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. The busy sylphs surround their darling care, 145 These set the head, and those divide the hair. Some fold the sleeve, while others plait the gown ; And Betty's prais'd for labors not her own. CANTO II. Not with more glories, in th' etherial plain, The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, 150 Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams Lanch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames. Fair nymphs, and well-dress'd youths around her shone. But ev'ry eye was fixed on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 155 Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose. Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those. Favors to none, to all she smiles extends ; Oft' slie rejects but never once offends. 160 Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike. And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide ; If to her share some female errors fall, 165 Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behind In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck. 170 Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains. And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. With hairy sprindges we the birds betray. Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, 166. A better rendering has been suggested by Wakefield : " Look in her face, and you forget them all." THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 287 Fair tresses man's imperial race insnare, 175 And beauty draws us with a single hair. Th' advent'rous baron the bright locks admir'd ; He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspir'd ; Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way, By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; 180 For when success a lover's toil attends. Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends. For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had iniplor'd Propitious Heav'n and ev'ry pow'r ador'd. But chiefly Love — to Love an altar built 185 Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves ; And all the trophies of his former loves ; With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre. And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire. 190 Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize : The pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r ; The rest the winds dispers'd in empty air. But now secure the painted vessel glides, 195 The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides, While melting music steals upon the sky. And soften'd sounds along the waters die. Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay, 2C)0 All but the sylph ; with careful thoughts oppressed, Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. He summons strait his denizens of air ; The lucid squadrons round the sails repair : Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, 205 That seem'd but zephyrs to the train beneath. Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold. Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold ; Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light, 210 Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew. Dipped in the richest tincture of the skies, Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, 183. See Taine on this passage, " Eng. Lit.," vol. iii. p. 348. 288 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. While ev'ry beam new transient colors flings, 215 Colors that change whene'er tliey wave their wings. Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, Superior by the head, was Ariel plac'd ; His purple pinions opening to the sun. He raised his azure wand, and thus begun : 220 " Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear ! Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Demons, hear ! Ye know the spheres and various tasks assigned By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. Some in the fields of purest ether play, 225 And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. Some guide the course of wand'ring orbs on high. Or roll the planets thro' the boundless sky ; Some, less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, 230 Or suck the mists in grosser air below, Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main. Or o'er the glebe distill the kindly rain. Others on earth o'er human race preside, 235 Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide ; Of these the chief the care of nations own. And guard with arms divine the British throne. Our humbler province is to tend the fair. Not a less pleasing, tho' less glorious care, 240 To save the powder from too rude a gale. Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale, To draw fresh colors from the vernal flow'rs, To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in show'rs A brighter wash, to curl their waving hairs, 245 Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs. Nay, oft', in dreams invention we bestow. To change a flounce, or add a furbelow. This day black omens threat the brightest Fair That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care ; 250 248. Furbelow. — A pleated or gathered flounce, Dr. Johnson gives an impromptu derivation of this word [fur and below], with the following definition : " fur sewed on the lower part of the garment, an ornament." — Diet. %^&3\s,o Spectator, No. 129. THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 289 Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight ; But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night. Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, Or some frail China jar receive a flaw. Or stain her honor, or her new brocade, 255 Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade. Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball. Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall. Haste, then, ye spirits ! to your charge repair : The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care ; 260 The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign ; And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine ; Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite lock ; Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note, 265 We trust the important charge, the petticoat : Form a strong line about the silver bound. And guard the wide circumference around. Whatever spirit, careless of his charge, His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large, 270 Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins, — Be stopped in vials, or transfix'd with pins, Or plung'd in lakes of bitter washes lie, Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye ; Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, 275 While clog'd he beats his silken wings in vain ; Or alum styptics with contracting pow'r Shrink his thin essence like a rivel'd flower; Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel The giddy motion of the whirling mill, 280 In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, And tremble at the sea that froths below ! " He spoke ; the spirits from the sails descend. Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend ; 261. That is, her eardrops, set with brilliants. — Wakefield. 263. Note that the names of these spirits correspond to their several charges. Wakefield says that "to crisp" was frequently used by the earlier writers lot " to curl." ZiZtin, crispo. 276. Compare, in " The Tempest," Ariel in the cloven pine. Agt i. so. 2. 290 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair ; 285 Some hang upon the pendants of her ear. With beating hearts the dire event they wait, Anxious, and trembhng for the birth of Fate. CANTO III. Close by those meads, forever crown'd with flow'rs Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs, 290 There stands a structure of a majestic frame. Which from the neighb'ring Hampton talies its name. Here Britain's statesmen oft' the fall foredoom Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home ; Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey, 295 Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes tea. Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort. To taste a while the pleasures of a court. In various talk th' instructive hours they past, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last. 300 One speaks the glory of the British queen. And one describes a charming Indian screen ; A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes ; At ev'ry word a reputation dies. 292. Hampton Court, a palace begun by Wolsey, and presented by him to Henry VIII. Additions were made to it by William III., who spent much time there ; during his reign and that of Anne, Cabinet meetings were often held there. It stands about a mile from Hampton village, and directly on the Thames. Consult Macaulay," Hist, of Eng.," chap. ii. ; " Ency. Brit.," 9th ed., title " Hampton." 296. See note on line 62, supra. 302. India goods were very fashionable at this time, and bazaars called " India shops " made a business of dealing in them. One poet, writing in 1735, describes the fashionable ladies as taking *' Their wonted range Through India shops, to Motteaux's or the Change, Where the tall jar erects his stately pride. With antic shapes in China's azure dyed; There careless lies a rich brocade unrolled. Here shines a cabinet with burnished gold." — Dodsley, "The Toy Shop." THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 291 Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, 305 With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day. The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray ; The hungry judges soon the sentence sign. And wretches hang that jury-men may dine ; 310 The merchant from the Exchange returns in peace, And the long labors of the toilet cease. Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, Burns to encounter two adventrous knights. At Ombre singly to decide their doom ; 315 And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. Strait the three bands prepare in arms to join. Each band the number of the sacred nine. Soon as she spreads her hand, the aerial guard Descend, and sit on each important card : 320 First Ariel perch'd upon a matadore. Then each according to the rank they bore ; For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race. Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. Behold four kings in majesty rever'd, 325 With hoary whiskers and a forky beard. And four fair queens, whose hands sustain a flower, Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r, Four knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band. Caps on their heads, and halberds in their hand, 330 305. " The snuffbox of the beau, and the fan of the^woman of fashion, are frequent subjects of ridicule in the Spectator. The fan was employed to execute so many little coquettish manceuvres that Addison ironically pro- posed that ladies should be drilled in the use of it, as soldiers were trained to the exercise of arms." — Elwin. The essays referred to may be read in the class ; see Spectator, Nos. 102 and 138. Political emblems, or scenes from the reigning sensation, were sometimes painted on fans. See Sidney's ' ' Eng. in the 18th Cent.," vol. i. p. loi. 312. From Swift's "Journal of a Modern Lady ," written in 1728, we learn that the fashionable dinner hour, when "the long labors of the toilet cease," was four o'clock. — Elwin. See also "The Fine Lady's Journal," p. 265. Clarinda seems to have usually dined " from three to four." 315. Ombre. — A game of cards of Spanish origin. It was played by three persons, the one who named the trump (in this case Belinda) playing against the other two. 29^ THE FRENCH INFLUENCE And particolor'd troops, a shining train, Drawn forth to combat on the velvet plain. The skillful nymph reviews her force with care ; Let spades be trumps ! she said ; and trumps they were. NcKv move to war her sable matadores, 335 In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. SpadiUio first, unconquerable lord ! Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. As many more Manillio forced to yield, And march'd a victor from the verdant field. 34° Him Basto followed, but his fate more hard Gain'd but one trump and one plebian card. With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, The hoary majesty of spades appears. Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal'd ; 345 The rest his many color'd robe conceal'd. The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage. Proves the just victim of his royal rage. Ev'n mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'erthrew And mow'd down armies in the fights of Lu, 350 Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid. Falls undistinguish'd by the victor spade ! Thus far both armies to Belinda yield ; Now to the baron fate inclines the field. His warlike amazon her host invades, 355 Th' imperial consort of the crown of spades. The club's black tyrant first her victim dy'd. Spite of his haughty mien, and barb'rous pride. What boots the regal circle on his head. His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread, 360 341. To understand the following passage, some knowledge of the game of ombre is required, for description of which see " Hoyle's Games," under '■ Quadrille." The Matadores — Spadille or " Spadillio," Manille or " Manillio," and Basto — were the three principal cards, and ranked respectively as first, sec- ond, and third in power. Spadille was always the ace of spades, and Basto the ace of clubs; but Manille depended upon the trump. With a black trump' (spades or clubs) Manille was the two of trumps ; with a red trump (hearts or diamonds) Manille was the seven of trumps. 349. Pam. — The highest card in the game of Loo is the knave of clubs, or sometimes the knave of the trump suit. THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 293 That long behind he trails his pompous robe. And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? The baron now his diamonds pours apace ; Th' embroider'd king who shows but half his face. And his refulgent queen, with pow'rs combin'd, 365 Of broken troops an easy conquest find. Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen. With throngs promiscuous strow the level green. Thus when dispersed a routed army runs Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, 370 With like confusion different nations fly, Of various habit, and of various dye ; The pierc'd battalions dis-jnited fall. In heaps on heaps ; one fate o'erwhelms them all. The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts, 375 And wins (oh, shameful chance !) the queen of hearts. At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look ; She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill. Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille. 380 And now (as oft in some distemper'd state) On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate ; An ace of hearts steps forth ; the king unseen Lurked in her hand, and mourned his captive queen. He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, 385 And falls like thunder on the prostrate ace. The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky ; The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. Oh, thoughtless mortals ! ever blind to fate. Too soon dejected, and too soon elate. 390 Sudden these honors shall be snatch'd away. And curs'd forever this victorious day. For lo ! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd. The berries crackle, and the mill turns round ; On shining altars of Japan they raise 395 380. "If either of the antagonists made more tricks than the ombre (see note to line 315, p. 2gi) the winner took the pool and the ombre had to replace it for next game. This was called codille." — Elwin. 394. " Coffee was introduced into England shortly before the middle of the seventeenth century. The first coffeehouse is said to have been opened at 2 94 THE FRENCH INFL UENCE. The silver lamp ; the fiery spirits blaze ; From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, While China's earth receives the smoking tide. At once they gratify their scent and taste, And frequent cups prolong the rich repast, 400 Straight hover round the fair her airy band ; Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd, Some o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd, Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. Coffee (which makes the politician wise, 405 And see thro' all things with his half-shut eyes) Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain. Ah, cease, rash youth ! desist ere 'tis too late. Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate ! 410 Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air, She dearly pays for Nisus' injur'd hair ! But when to mischief mortals bend their will, How soon they find fit instruments of ill! Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace 415 A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case ; So ladies in romance assist their knight. Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends The.little engine on his fingers' ends ; 420 This just behind Belinda's neck he spread. As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. Oxford by a man named Jacobs, in 1650. See D'Israeli's 'Cur. of Lit.'; Chambers' ' Book of Days '; the Tatler and Spectator, passim, Macaulay's ' Hist, of Eng.,' etc." — Hales. 405. For coffeehouses see note to line 394, supra. Coffeehouses were thought to play so important a part in politics that in 1675 Charles II. at- tempted to suppress them by royal proclamation. An official report made at this time declared " that the retailing of coffee might be an innocent trade, but as it was used to nourish sedition, spread lies, and scandalize great men, it might also be a common nuisance." 409. For Scylla, see Anthon's Class. Die. under "Nisus," and Ovid's "Metam.," viii. The Scylla here mentioned must be distinguished from the monster of that name associated with Charybdis in the " Odyssey " and else- where. 416 and 420. Compare Milton's " Lycidas," 1. 130. THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 295 Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair ; A thousand wings by turns blow back the hair ; And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear ; 425 Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near. Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought The close recesses of the Virgin's thought ; As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd, He watch'd th' ideas rising in her mind 430 Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art. An earthly lover lurking at her heart. Amaz'd, confused, he found his pow'r expir'd ! Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd. The peer now spreads the glitt'ring forfex wide, 43S T' inclose the lock ; now joins it, to divide. Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd A wretched sylph too fondly interposed ; Fate urg'd the shears, and cut the sylph in twain (But airy substance soon unites again). 440 The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair head, for ever, and for ever ! Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies. Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast, 445 When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last ; Or when rich China vessels fall'n from high, In glittering dust and painted fragments lie. Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine. The victor cried ; the glorious prize is mine ! 450 While fish in streams, or birds delight in air. Or in a coach and six the British fair. As long as Atalantis shall be read, 426. The frequent imitation of the classic epic should be noted. " Thrice she looked back," etc., corresponds to Latin ter. Elwin quotes Virg. " .iEneid," vi. 1. 950, Dryden's Trans. The same construction is imitated by Macaulay: " Thrice looked he at the city. Thrice looked he at the dead ; And thrice came on in fury, And thrice turned back in dread." — HoraiiuSy stanza 42. 440. See " Paradise Lost," bk. vi. 1. 330. 453. Atalantis. — "The New Atlantis," pub. 1709, was a popular and 296 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, While visits shall be paid on solemn days, 455 When num'rous waxlights in bright order blaze, While nymphs take treats, or assignations give. So long my honor, name, and praise shall live ! What time would spare, from steel receives its date. And monuments, lilce men, submit to fate ! 460 Steel could the labor of the gods destroy. And strike to dust the imperial towrs of Troy ; And hew triumphal arches to the ground. What wonder then, fair nymph ! thy hair should feel The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel ? 465 CANTO IV. But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed. And secret passions labor'd in her breast. Not youthful kings in battle seiz'd alive. Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, 470 Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss. Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry. E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair. As thou, sad virgin ! for thy ravish'd hair. 475 For that sad moment, when the sylphs withdrew And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew. Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite. As ever sullied the fair face of light, Down to the central earth, his proper scene, 480 Repairs to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. scandalous book, suited, according to Warburton, to the taste of the " better vulgar.'' Hales reminds us that it was one of the works in Leonora's library. — Spectator, No. 37. 454. Construction here probably in imitation of Virg. " .lEneid," i. 1. 607. 465. Unresisted. — That which cannot be resisted ; irresistible. 478. Umbriel. — Lat. umbra, a shade, and umbrifer, shade bringing. 481. Spleen. — An organ of the body whose function is uncertain ; formerly supposed to be the seat of anger, caprice, and particularly low spirits, or, as we should say, " the blues.'' In Pope's time, spleen was frequently used in • THE RAPE OF THE LOCft. It^l Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome, And in a vapor reach'd the dismal dome. No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, The dreaded east is all the wind that blows. 485 Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air, And screen'd in shades from day's detested glare, She sighs for ever on her pensive bed. Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. Two handmaids wait the throne; alike in place, 490 But diff'ring far in figure and in face. Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid, Her wrinkled form in black and white array 'd ; With store in pray'rs for mornings, nights, and noons, Her hand is fill'd, her bosom with lampoons. 495 There Affectation, with a sickly mien. Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, Practis'd to lisp and hang the head aside. Faints into airs, and languishes with pride, On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, 500 Wrapt in a gown for sickness and for show. The fair ones feel such maladies as these, When each new night-dress gives a new disease. A constant vapor o'er the palace flies. Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise, 505 Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted shades. Or bright, as visions of expiring maids : Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires ; Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, 510 And crystal domes, and angels in machines. the last sense, and Austin Dobson calls it "the fashionable eighteenth century disorder." Matthew Green'spoem, "The Spleen "(pub. i737)throws much light on the subject ; see also Lady Winchelsea's Ode on the same subject (pub. 1701). Extracts from these poems will be found in Ward's "Eng. Poets," vol. iii. pp. 32 and ig7 ; see also Tatler and Spectator, fassim. 485. Why the " east" wind ? See Cowper's " Task," bk. iv. 1. 363. 503. "The 'gown' or ' night dress' of Pope is the dressing gown of our day." — Elwin. How is this word used by Shakespeare ? See note in "Mac- beth," Furness Var. Ed., act ii. so. 2, I. 70. 511. Angels in machines. — /. e., coming to the aid of mankind. In Pope's time " machine " signified the supernatural agency in a poem ; thus in 298 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. Unnumber'd throngs on every side are seen, Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen. Here living teapots stand, one arm held out, One bent ; the handle this, and that the spout ; 51S A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks ; Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks : Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works. And maids turn'd bottles call aloud for corks. Safe passed the gnome thro' this fantastic band, S^o A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. Then thus address'd the pow'r — " Hail, wayward queen ! Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen ; Parent of vapors, and of female wit, Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit ; 5^5 On various tempers act by various ways, — Make some take physic, others scribble plays ; Who cause the proud their visits to delay, And send the godly in a pet to pray ! A nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains, 53° And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. But, oh ! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace, Or raise a pimple on a beauteous. face. Like citron-waters matrons cheeks inflame. Or change complexions at a losing game ; 535 Or caus'd suspicion when no soul was rude, Or decompos'd the head-dress of a prude. Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease. Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease. Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin ; 540 That single act gives half the world the spleen." " The Rape of the Lock," the machinery consists of sylphs and sylphides ; in the " Iliad," of gods and goddesses. "The changing of the Trojan fleet into waternymphs is the most violent machine in the whole ' ^neid.'" — Addi- son. Hales compares Lat. Deus ex machina, and Greek Qedf otto jirixainj^. 516. See " Iliad," xviii. 1. 440, Pope's Trans. 524. Vapors. — Spleen. Elwin says the disease was probably named from the atmospheric vapors which were reputed to be a principal cause of English melancholy. He quotes Cowper's ' ' Task," bk. vi. 1. 462. 534. Citron-water. — A drink composed of wine, with the rind of lemons and citron. Swift's " Modern young lady " takes a large dram of citron- water to cool her heated brains. THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 299 The goddess with a discontented air Seems to reject him, tho' she grants his pray'r. A wond'rous bag with both her hands she binds, Lilce that where once Ulysses held the winds ; 545 There she collects the force of female lungs, Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues, A vial next she fills with fainting fears. Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. The gnome rejoicing bears her gift away, 550 Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found. Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound. Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent. And all the furies issued at the vent. 555 Belinda burns with more than mortal ire. And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. " O wretched maid ! " she spread her hands, and cried, (While Hampton's echoes " Wretched maid ! " replied,) " Was it for this you took such constant care 56a The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare ? For this your locks in paper durance bound .' For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around ? For this with fillets strain'd your tender head. And bravely bore the double loads of lead ? 565 Gods ! shall the ravisher display your hair. While the fops envy, and the ladies stare ? Honor forbid ! at whose unrival'd shrine Ease, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign. Methinks already I your tears survey, 570 Already hear the horrid things they say, Already see you a degraded toast. And all your honor in a whisper lost ! How shall I then your helpless fame defend ? 'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend ! 575 And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, Expos'd through crystal to the gazing eyes. And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays. On that rapacious hand for ever blaze ? 562. The curl papers of ladies' hair used to be fashioned with strips of pliant lead. — Croker. For fashionable head-dresses, see Spectator, No. 98 ; Sidney's " Eng. in the i8th Cent.," vol. i. p. 90. 3o<^ THE FRENCH mFLVENCE. Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow, 580 And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow ; Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall. Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all." She said ; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, And bids the beau demand the precious hairs : 585 (Sir Plume, of amber snuffbox justly vain. And the nice conduct of a clouded cane.) With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, He first the snuffbox open'd, then the case. And thus broke out — " My Lord ! why, what the devil ! 590 Zounds ! damn the lock ! 'fore Gad, you must be civil ! Plague on 't ! 'tis past a jest to plunder locks : Give her the hair" — he spoke, and rapp'd his box. " It grieves me much," reply'd the peer again, " Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain ; 595 But by this lock, this sacred lock I swear, (Which never more shall join its parted hair ; Which never more its honors shall renew, Clipped from the lovely head where late it grew,) That, while my nostrils draw the vital air, 600 This hand, which won it, shall forever wear.'' He spoke ; and speaking, in proud triumph spread The long-contended honors of her head. But Umbriel, hateful gnome ! forbears not so ; He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. 605 Then see ! the nymph in beauteous grief appears. Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears ; On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head. Which, with a sigh, she rais'd ; and thus she said. 581. In the sound of Bow. — /. e., within the sound of the bells of St. Mary le Bow, an old and famous church in the heart of London. These were the bells which bade Dick Whittington " turn again." In Pope's time the City, or old part of London in the vicinity of this church, was avoided by fashion and the " wits." In Grub street, in this locality, many starving hack writers and scribblers, of the class Pope scourged in the " Dunciad," had lodgings. See Hare's " Walks in London,'' p. 232 ; Spectator, No. 34. 584. Sir Plume. — Sir George Brown. Speaking of the effect of the poem, Pope says: " Nobody but Sir George Brown was angry, and he was a good deal so, and for a long time. He could not bear that Sir Plume should talk nothing but nonsense." — Spence's "Anecdotes.'' THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. ZO\ " For ever curs'd be this detested day, 6io Which snatch'd my best, my fav'rite curl away ! Happy ! ah ten times happy had I been. If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen ! Yet am not I the first mistaken maid. By love of courts to numerous ills betray'd. 615 Oh, had I rather unadmir'd remain'd In some lone isle, or distant northern land. Where the gilt chariot never marks the way. Where none learn Ombre, none e'er taste Bohea ! There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye, 620 Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. What mov'd my mind with youthful lords to roam ? Oh, had I stay'd, and said my pray'rs at home ! 'Twasthis, the morning omens seem'd to tell : Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell ; 625 The tottering china shook without a wind ; Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind ! A sylph too warn'd me of the threats of fate, In mystic visions, now believ'd too late ! See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs ! 630 My hand shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares. These, in two sable ringlets taught to break. Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck ; The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone, And in its fellow's fate foresees its own ; 635 Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands, And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands. Oh, hadst thou, cruel ! been content to seize Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these." CANTO V. She said ; the pitying audience melt in tears ; 640 But fate and Jove had stopp'd the baron's ears. In vain Thalestris with reproach assails ; For who can move when fair Belinda fails ? Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain, While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain. 645 619. Bohea. — Pronounced bohay. Compare tea, note to line 62, 645. Look up this allusion in "^neid," bk. iv, 302 THE FREHCH INFLUENCE. Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan ; Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began : " Say, why are beauties prais'd and honor'd most, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast ? Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford, 650 Why angel's call'd, and angel-like ador'd ? Why round our coaches crowd the white-gloved beaus ? Why bows the side box from its inmost rows ? How vain are all these glories, all our pains, Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains, 655 That men may say, when we the front box grace, ' Behold the first in virtue as in face ! ' Oh ! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the smallpox, or chas'd old age away ; Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, 660 Or who would learn one earthly thing of use ? To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint ; Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. But since, alas ! frail beauty must decay, Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to gray; 665 Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade. And she who scorns a man, must die a maid ; What then remains but well our pow'r to use. And keep good-humor still whate'er we lose ? And trust me, dear ! good-humor can prevail, 670 When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll ; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul." So spoke the dame, but no applause ensu'd ; Belinda frowned, Thalestris call'd her prude. 675 " To arms, to arms ! " the fierce virago cries. And swift as lightning to the combat flies. ■ All side in parties, and begin th' attack ; 646. Clarissa. — ' 'A new character introduced in the subsequent editions, to open more clearly the moral of the poem, in a parody of the speech of Sarpedon toGlaucus in Homer." — Pope. See " Iliad," xii. 1. 310-328. 653. In the theatres the gentlemen occupied the side, and ladies the front boxes. Cunningham quotes Steele's " Theatre," No. 3, January g, 1720, where the representatives of a British audience are thus distributed : " Three of the fair sex for the front boxes, two gentlemen of wit and pleasure for the side boxes, and three substantial citizens for the pit." THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 303 Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack ; Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise, 680 And base, and treble voices strike the skies. No common weapons in the hands are found ; Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. So when bold Homer makes the gods engage. And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage ; 685 'Gainst Pallas, Mars ; Latona, Hermes arms ; And all Olympus rings with loud alarms ; Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around ; Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound ; Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way, 690 And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day ! Triumphant Umbriel, on a sconce's height. Clapped his glad wings, and sate to view the fight. Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey The growing combat, or assist the fray. 695 While thro' the press enrag'd Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and witling perished in the throng ; One died in metaphor, and one in song. " O cruel nymph ! a living death I bear," 700 Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. A mournful glance Sir Fopling upward cast ; " Those eyes are made so killing " — was his last. Thus on Mseander's flow'ry margin lies Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. 705 When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown ; She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain, But at her smile the beau revived again. Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, 710 Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair, The doubtful beam long nods from side to side ; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. See, fierce Belinda on the baron flies, With more than usual lightning in her eyes ; 715 Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try. Who sought no more than on his foe to die. But this bold lord, with manly strength endued, 684. Compare " Iliad," viii. I. 69-75 ; Virg. ".^Eneid," xii. 1. 725-727. 304 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. She with one finger and a thumb subdued, Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, 720 A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw ; The gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just, The pungent grains of titillating dust. Sudden with starting tears each eye o'erflows. And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. 725 " Now meet thy fate," incens'd Belinda cried. And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. (The same, his ancient personage to deck. Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, In three seal-rings, which after, melted down, 730 Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown ; Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew. The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew ; Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs. Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) 735 " Boast not my fall," he cried, " insulting foe ! Thou by some other shall be laid as low. Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind ; All that I dread is leaving you behind ! Rather than so, ah let me still survive, 74" And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive." " Restore the lock ! " she cries ; and all around " Restore the lock ! " the vaulted roofs rebound. Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain Roar'd for the handkerchief that caused his pain. 745 But see how oft' ambitious aims are cross'd. And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost ! The lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain. In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain. With such a prize no mortal must be blest, 75° So Heav'n decrees ! with Heav'n who can contest ? Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, 727. Bodkin. — A large ornamented hairpin. 741. Dennis, a well-known critic and an. enemy of Pope's, added with some point : " Whoever heard of a dead man that burnt in Xlupid's flame?" 744. Look up and explain this allusion, THE RAPE OF THE LOCK. 305 Since all things lost on earth are treasured there. There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases, And beaus' in snuffboxes and tweezer-cases. 755 Tiiere broken vows and deathbed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound, The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs. The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs. Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, 760 Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise, Tho' mark'd by none but quick poetic eyes ; (So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, To Proculus alone confess'd in view.) 7^5 A sudden star, it shot thro' liquid air. And drew behind a radiant trail of hair ; Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright. The heav'ns bespangling with dishevel'd light. The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, 77° And pleas'd pursue its progress thro' the skies. This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey. And hail with music its propitious ray. This the blest lover shall for Venus take. And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake ; 775 This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies. When next he looks thro' Galileo's eyes ; And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. Then cease, bright nymph ! to mourn thy ravish'd hair ' 780 Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost : 753. See " Ariosto," canto xxxiv. (Pope). Compare " Paradise Lost," bk. iii. 1. 459-462, and bk. li. 1. 418-497. 775. Rosamonda's Lake was a small oblong piece of water near the Pimlico gate of St. James Park. — Croker. 776. John Partridge, an almanac maker and astrologer noted for his ridiculous predictions. He was ridiculed by Swift, Steele, Addison, and others. See Swift's "Bickerstaff Papers." For account of Partridge see Sidney's " Eng. in the i8th Cent.," vol. i. p. 268. 777. Galileo's eyes. — Explain this allusion. 3o6 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. For after all the murders of your eye, When, after millions slain, your self shall die : 785 When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, This lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame, And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 789 TABLE OF PERIOD OF FRENCH INFLUENCE. 307 o 00 >. Y t-^ m M , t\ Ss ,-H 1 Q n UJ 1— ( VU C!i •-• w ^ 3h w u y, "^ oS w H u> Q 1-1 n Iz; t— t t w H >• ;z "C S OS tt] J. Gottsched, 1700-1766. Poems, 1736. Plays. Louise Gottsched (his wife), translated Pope's " Rape of the Lock," also the Specta^ tor. Klopstock, 1724-1803. " The Messiah," Books I.-III., 1748. Odes and Dramas. Kant, 1724-1804. " Critique of Pure Reason." Ethics. Lessing, 1729-1781. ." Laocoon," 1766. " Minna von Barnhelm," 1767. Herder, 1744-1803. "TheCid." "The Idea of the Philosophy of History." Biirger, 1748-1794. Ballads. Goethe, 1749-1832. " Wilhelm Meister," Part L, 1795; complete, 1829. " Faust," Part I., 1808. td U z OS b. Culmination of French comedy under Mol- iere, 1622-1673. "Tartuffe." "Le Misanthrope." Pierre Corneille, 1606-1684. " Med^e." "LeCid." Bossuet, 1627-1704. " L'Histoire Univer- selle." M. Boileau Des- preaux, 1636-1711. Racine, 1639-1699. " Phedre." " Iphig^nie." La Fontaine, 1621- " Contes." Fenelon, 1651-1715. " T^lemaque." Malebranche, 1631- " Recherche de la Verity." Le Sage, 1668-1747. " Gil Bias." Ed X u r. Allan Ramsay, 1685-1758. Poems, 1721. " The Gentle Shepherd," 1725. James Thomson, 1700-1748. " The Seasons," 1726-1730. "The Castle of Indolence," 1748. Wm. Collins, 1721-1759. Persian Eclogues, 1742. Odes. Thomas Gray, 1716-1771. " Ode on Eton College," 1747. " Elegy in a Country Church- yard," 1751. Oliver Goldsmith, 1728-1774- " The Bee," 1759. "The Vicar of Wakefield," 1766. Thomas Percy (Bishop), 1728-1811. " Reliques of Ancient Eng- lish Poetry," 1765. Richard B. Sheridan, 1751- 1816. " The Rivals," 1775. "The School for Scandal," 1777- Frances B u rn e y (Mme. d'Arblay), 1752-1840. " Evelina," 1778. " Camilla," 1796. H (1. ii i Thomas Otway, 1651-1685. Plays. Nathaniel Lee, 1655-1692. Plays. John Dryden, 1631-1700. " Absalom and Achitophel," 1681-1682. Plays and satires. George Farquhar, 1678-1708. Plays. "Wm. Wycherley, 1640-1715. Plays. Nicholas Rowe, 1674-1718. Plays. Sir John Vanbrugh, 1666- 1726. Plays. Wm. Congreve, 1670-1729. Plays. AUGUSTAN AGE. Joseph Addison, 1672-1719. "Cato," (acted) 1713. Essays for the Tatler^ the Spectator^ and the Guard- ian^ 1709-1714. Richard Steele, 1671-1729. Essays in the Tatler, the Spectator, and the Guard- iaUy 1709-1714. i g •i 1 Charles II. lands at Dover, 1660. Puritan clergy driven out, 1662. Royal Society at London. 1662. I*lague and fire of London, 1665. Declaration of Indulgence withdrawn, 1672. Oates invents Popish Plot, 1678. Rye House Plot, 1682. Lord Russell and Algernon Sidney executed, 1683. Charles II. dies, 1685. James II. reigns, 1685. Battle of Sedgemoor, 1685. "William of Orange lands at Torbay, 1688. Flight of James, 1688. Declaration of Rights, 1689. William and Mary reign, 1689. Battle of the Boyne, 1690. 3o8 THE FRENCH INFLUENCE. :> « i;o« 3H^^ o - o c *8-% "12 &«' ± J. H S < : !i< fc hWO ooo rt t; o . > ^ N tfl rt CT •- ra VO>M U O 00 -D-i O 1-1 o H HM o . O 4J M 2 i S „- C 'o. " 2 "-.2 o >- : ^1° BO .2 .Q , t!,2^ . -a v^ J .« r*< DO u ro»3 C ™ IS „ -. . . g M^ '3 Mi-1 3 Tiz; 10 Jlj t^ •^ 2 s^ -- ° =S : O: "^ 2 "> U w B u . ;>(i.: Dill, 5— • C^ - <3 -3.2 ■3 ° 2 f03 00 IM ogE-HH "j g-2 ■* 3 «0 1-1 vo 00 00 I r ^ ! 3 « ^ 0.2 — c S j.ti g-s S c a o o ™ D E; S 1 ^ u M a :: rtcq H;2« *; 4)00 (u^s 2X O'Xn; 3 SHmHOO I a « ! u i; I ?,*- I c ■= jT -S 3 I .i . M U - « 2 .§•2 §■ SE-S "^ -^ I-S'" 2 -S " -^C" S?3;2is£'g [3 -a fa U 111 .2 -5 5 .S S-as i. a a " ■" " " 5, -2 0'° ^ Si's ^".Tja^iiSM ">£">o„a S sssS s 8 f| !r S E:|3J ?j=^sSs|'s S'5.s||S|3 0* mnnH )€ H M u n»»^ o m ^ ^S TABLE OF PERIOD OF FRENCH INFLUENCE. 309 ^ o 00 «^ I 1-1 "^ N I VO w Pi W Q C o o HPQ P-) 00 o AS tut ^« go E;c o A bJS 8,11 s| ?| K: 5 :: m: 2-1 o 3 00 o o 00 U Oi 5 MO *j>- •gS««H2 « CCLi (0 bo c oJi.S a. . A ^ Ji 2.2 E ►J go ;^- o S. o Q O « H „ E -= o S « j:-ai-l HO: ■E§2§ oKuO ►J: : : i.2 .- t~*;> u o ^"^ S CO S.-2 3 « «- 3 , S99 P o rt < u I 3 gcnWPL, •gsw ►SPi.: JiE S 3 033 = : " i 3 E-S Swg-E-.- ^ « ^ 3: 0.5-3 o c^rs SJO J3 o o g 3-^^ ■ ^ 3 t: £ •" i-g.S-s.3 3 g g 3 f boft" 5 ^ s o ? 3 3*i:.5.3 r|!n-£-3 gm S*3 « .?*"!."•" '^"l The sun came up upon the left, how the ship sailed '■ ^ southward with a Out of the sea came he ! good wind and fair . , , , i . i i .\ . i ^ weather, till it And he shone bright, and on the right reached the line. y^^^^ j^Wn into the sea. Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon — The Wedding-guest here beat his breast. For he heard the loud bassoon. 25 The Wedding-guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mari- ner continueth bis tale. The ship drawn by a storm towards the south pole. The bride hath paced into the hall. Red as a rose is she ; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding-guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man. The bright-eyed Mariner : — And now the storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong ; He struck with his o'ertaking wings. And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping prow. As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head. The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast. And southward aye we fled. And now there came both mist, and snow. And it grew wondrous cold ; And ice, mast high, came floating by. As green as emerald. The land of ice, and And through the drifts, the snowy clifts of fearful sounds, , ,. where no living thing Did Send a dismal sheen ; Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — The ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice was there. The ice was aH around ; It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, ' Like noises in a swound ! 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 357 Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with ^eat joy and hospitality. At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came ; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name. 6s It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; The helmsman steered us through ! 70 And lo ! the Alba- And a good south wind sprung up behind ; tross proveth a bird ° ,.,,,, of good omen, and The Albatross did follow, a^ it*eturned\orth- And every day, for food or play, SVatlngle. "^ Came to the mariners hoUo ! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. It perched for vespers nine ; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white. Glimmered the white moonshine. 75 " God save thee, ancient Mariner, The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of From the fiends that plague thee thus ! — good omen. ^^^ look'st thou SO ? "—With my cross-bow 80 I shot the Albatross. His shipmates cry out against the an- cient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck. PART II. The sun now rose upon the right ; Out of the sea came he. Still hid in mist, and on the left 8$ Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo ! 90 And I had done a hellish thing. And it would work 'em woe : For all averred I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 95 That made the breeze to blow. 358 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. But when the fog Nor dim, nor red, like God's own head, cleared on, they jus- tify the same, and The glorious sun uprist : selves accomplicesTn Then all averred I had killed the bird the crime. -j-j^^j brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free ; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. The fair breeze con- tinues; the ship en- ters the PaciiicOcean and sails northward, even till it reaches the line. 105 And the Albatross begins to be avenged. The ship hath been Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, suddenly becalmed. ^ 'Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea ! All in a hot and copper sky. The bloody sun, at noon. Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon. Day after day, day after day. We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, everywhere. And all the boards did shrink ; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot : O Christ ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death fires danced at night ; The water, like a witch's oils. Burned green and blue, and white. And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so ; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. 115 120 125 A spirit had followed them; one of the in- visible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels ; concerning whom the learned Jew Josephus, and the Platonic Con- stantincpolitan Michael Psellus, may 130 be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no cH- mate or element with- out one or more. The shipmates in their sore distress would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner; in sign whereof they hang the dead sea- bird round his neck. THE ANCIENT MARINER. 359 And every tongue, through utter drought, 135 Was withered at the root ; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. Ah ! well a day ! what evil looks Had I from old and young ! 140 Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off. PART III. There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye, A weary time ! a weary time! 145 How glazed each weary eye. When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. At first it seemed a little speck. And then it seemed a mist : 150 It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! And still it neared and neared : As if it dodged a water-sprite, 155 It plunged, and tacked, and veered. At its nearer ap- With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, proach, it seemeth ,,^ , , , , ., to him to be a ship, We could nor laugh nor wail ; he'fr«rh''hisTp"eech Through Utter drought all dumb we stood ! from the bonds of j fjif ^^y ^rm, I sucked the blood, 160 tnirst. -' And cried, A sail ! a sail ! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. Agape they heard me call : Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. And all at once their breath drew in, 165 As they were drinking all. See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! Hither to work us weal ; Without a breeze, without a tide. She steadies with upright keel ! 170 A flash of joy. And horror follows; for can it be a ship that comes onward without wind or tide? 360 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. It seemeth to him but the skeleton of a ship. The western wave was all a-flame, The day was well-nigh done ! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright sun ; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the sun. And straight the sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon grate he peered With broad and burning face. Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears ! Are those her sails that glance in the sun. Like restless gossameres ! And its ribs are seen Are those her ribs through which the sun as bars on the face of the setting sun. The Did peer, as through a grate! herdS^th-mate, and And is that Woman all her crew ? theskefetonship?^'^'' ^^ '^^^^ ^ °^^* ' ^""^ ^''^ ^^^""^ t^° '' Is Death that woman's mate .' 175 180 i8s Like crew! vessel, like Her lips Were red, her loot;s were free, Her locks were yellow as gold : Her skin was as white as leprosy, The night-mare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. 190 Death and Life-in- Beath have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner. No twilight within the courts of the sun. At the rising of the moon. The naked hulk alongside came, 195 And the twain were casting dice ; " The game is done ! I've won, I've won ! " Quoth she, and whistles thrice. The sun's rim dips : the stars rush out : At one stride comes the dark ; 200 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up ! Fear at my heart, as at a cup. My life-blood seemed to sip ! 205 The stars were dim, and thick tlie night. The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip — THE ANCIENT MARINER. 361 Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned moon, with one bright star 210 Within the nether tip. One after another. One after one, by the star-dogged moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. And cursed me with his eye. 215 ?own d'/ad*'" "^"^ ^°"'^ '™^^ ''^'y living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a Ufeless lump. They dropped down one by one. be"'ins'hlr"wo?ron "^^^ ^°"'^ ^^^ ^''°'" "^^''' ^odies fly,— 220 the ancient Mariner. They fled tO bliss Or WOe ! And every soul, it passed me by. Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! PART IV. The Wedding-guest " I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! feareth that a spirit , , , , . , is talking to him. 1 tear thy skinny hand ! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand. I fear thee and thy glittering eye. And thy skinny hand so brown." — Buttheancient Mar- Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-guest ! iner assureth him of «ni • , i , , , , his bodily life, and J^his body dropt not down. proceedeth to relate iiis horrible penance. Alone, alone, all, all alone. Alone on a wide, wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. The many men, so beautiful ! And they all dead did lie : And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on ; and so did \. And envieth that I looked upon the rotting sea, they should live and . , , & ' so many lie dead. And drew my eyes away ; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. 225 230 235 He despiseth creatures of calm. the the 240 362 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men. In his loneliness and fixedness he yearn- eth towards the jour- neying mooOf and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward ; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their ap- pointed _ rest, and their native country, and their own natu- ral homes, which they enter unan- nounced, as lords that are certainly ex- pected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. I looked to heaven, and tried to pray But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my Ijds, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat ; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they : The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high ; But oh ! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse. And yet I could not die. The moving moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide : Softly she was going up. And a star or two beside — Her beams bemock'd the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread ; But where the ship's huge shadow lay. The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red. 245 250 255 260 265 270 By the light of the Bevond the shadow of the ship moon he beholdeth God's creatures of I watched the water-snakes : grea m. xhey moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire : Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. They coiled and swam ; and every track Was a flash of golden lire. 275 280 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 363 Their beauty their happiness. and He blesseth them in his heart. O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare : A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware: Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware. 28s break^^'^" '"'^'"^ '° '^^^ Selfsame moment I could pray : And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. 290 PART V. sleep ! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole ! To Mary Queen the praise be given ! She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 295 That slid into my soul. By grace of the The siUy buckets on the deck, holy Mother, the „, , "^j , , ancient Mariner is That had SO long remamed, re res e wi ram. j dreamt that they were filled with dew ; When I awoke, it rained. 300 My lips were wet, my throat was cold. My garments all were dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams. And still my body drank. 1 moved, and could not feel my limbs : 305 I was so light — almost I thought that I had died in sleep. And was a blessed ghost. He heareth sounds And soon I heard a roaring wind : and seeth strange », ,. , sights and commo- It did not come anear ; 310 IhTdemenl'''^ ^""^ But with its sound it shook the sails. That were so thin and sere. The upper air burst into life ! And a hundred fire-flags sheen. To and fro they were hurried about ! 315 And to and fro, and in and out. The wan stars danced between. 364 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge : And the rain poured down from one black cloud: The moon was at its edge. The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The moon was at its side : Like waters shot from some high crag. The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. The bodies of the The loud wind never reached the ship, ships crew are in- ,,. , , . 1 ■ spired, and the ship Yet now the ship moved on ! 320 325 moves on ; Beneath the lightning and the moon The dead men gave a groan. They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; It had been strange, even in a dream. To have seen those dead men rise. 330 The helmsman steered ; the ship moved on ; 335 Yet never a breeze up blew ; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. Where they were wont to do ; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — We were a ghastly crew. 340 The body of my brother's son Stood by me knee to knee : The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me. but not by the souls " \ fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " 345 of the men, nor by , ,- , demons of earth Be calm thou Weddmg-guest ! "i ™lesse"'troop' o^ 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, dofnbyTiieTnvoca! Which to their corses came again, tiqn of the guardian But a troOp of spirits blest : For when it dawned — they dropped their arms. And cluster'd round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed. 350 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 36s Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the sun ; . 355 Slowly the sounds came back again. Now mixed, now one by one. Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the skylark sing ; Sometimes all little birds that are, 360 How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning ! And now 'twas like all instruments. Now like a lonely flute ; And now it is an angel's song. That makes the heavens be mute. 36s It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on. Yet never a breeze did breathe : Slowly and smoothly went the ship. Moved onward from beneath. 370 375 The lonesome spirit from the south pole carries on the ship as far as the line, in obedierce to the an- gelic troop, but still requireth vengeance. Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid : and it was he That made the ship to go. 380 The sails at noon left off their tune. And the ship stood still also. The sun right up above the mast. Had fixed her to the ocean : But in a minute she 'gan stir, 385 With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. 366 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the invisible inhabit- ants of the element, take part in his wrong ; and two of them relate, one to the other, that pen- ance long and heavy for the ancient Man- ner hath been ac- corded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward. Then like pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound : 390 It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound. How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare ; But ere my living life returned, 395 I heard, and in my soul discerned. Two voices in the air. Is it he ? " quoth one, " Is this the man ? By Him who died on the cross. With his cruel bow he laid full low 400 The harmless Albatross. " The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow. He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow." 405 The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew : Quoth he, " The man hath penance done, And penance more will do." PART VI. First Voice. But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 410 Thy soft response renewing — What makes that ship drive on so fast ? What is the ocean doing? Second Voice. Still as a slave before his lord. The ocean hath no blast ; 415 His great bright eye most silently Up to the moon is cast — If he may know which way to go ; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see ! how graciously 420 She looketh down on him. THE ANCIENT MARINER. 367 The Mariner hath heen cast into a trance ; for the an- gelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure. First Voice. But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind ? Second Voice. The air is cut away before, And closes from behind. Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high I Or we shall be belated : For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated. 425 The supernatural I woke, and we were sailing on motion IS retarded ; the Mariner awakes, As in a gentle weather. gins anew?"^"" ^ 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; The dead men stood together. All stood together on the deck. For a charnal dungeon fitter ; All fixed on me their stony eyes. That in the moon did glitter. The pang, the curse, with which they died. Had never passed away ; I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray. The curse is finally And now this spell was snapt — once more expiated. , , , I Viewed the ocean green. And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread. And having turned round walks on. And turns no more his head ; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. But soon there breathed a wind on me. Nor sound nor motion made ; Its path was not upon the sea. In ripple or in shade. 430 435 440 445 450 455 368 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow gale of spring — It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too ; Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — On me alone it blew. And the ancient Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed £is"„"a"ive'cSuLt;'! The lighthouse top I see ? Is this the hill? is this the kirk ? ■ Is this mine own countree ? 460 465 We drifted o'er the harbor bar, And I with sobs did pray — Oh, let me be awake, my God ! 470 Or let me sleep alway. The harbour bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn ! And on the bay the moonlight lay. And the shadow of the moon. 475 The rock shone bright, the kirk no less. That stands above the rock ; The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, 480 Till rising from the same. The angelic spirits Full many shapes, that shadows were, leave the dead . bodies, In crimson colours came. and appear in their A little distance from the prow own forms of hght. ^ Those crimson shadows were. 485 I turned my eyes upon the deck — O Chiist ! what saw I there ! Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood ! A man all light, a seraph-man. On every corse there stood. 490 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 3^9 This seraph band each waved his hand : It was a heavenly sight ! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light ; 495 This seraph band, each waved his hand : No voice did they impart — No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank Like music on my heart. But soon I heard the dash of oars, 500 I heard the Pilot's cheer ; My head was turned perforce away, And I saw a boat appear. The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast. 505 Dear Lord in heaven ! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. I saw a third — I heard his voice : It is the Hermit good ! He singeth loud his godly hymns 510 That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. PART VII. The Hermit of the This Hermit good lives in that wood ^°°^ Which slopes down to the sea. 515 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — He hath a cushion plump ; S20 It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak stump. The skiff-boat neared ; I heard them talk : " Why, this is strange, I trow ! Where are those lights so many and fair 525 That signal made but now ? " 37° THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. approacheth the ship " Strange, by my faith ! " the Hermit said- with wonder, The ship sinketh. " And they answered not our cheer ! The planks look warped ! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere ! I never saw aught like to them. Unless perchance it were " Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest brook along. When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow. And the owlet whoops to the wolf below. That eats the she-wolf's young." " Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look," (The Pilot made reply) " I am a-feared." " Push on, push on ! " Said the Hermit cheerily The boat came closer to the ship. But I nor spake nor stirred ; The boat came close beneath the ship. And straight a sound was heard. suddenly Under the water it rumbled on. Still louder and more dread : It reached the ship, it split the bay ; The ship went down like lead. S30 S3S S40 545 The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat. Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound. Which sky and ocean smote. Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat ; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat. Upon the whirl where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round ; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit ; The holy Hermit raised his eyes. And prayed where he did sit. 550 555 560 The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the pen- ance of Hfe falls on him. THE ANCIENT MARINER. 3 7 1 I took the oars. The Pilot's boy. Who now doth crazy go, 565 Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. " Ha I ha ! " quoth he, " full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row." And now, all in my own countree, 570 I stood on the firm land ! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. " O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! " The Hermit crossed his brow. 575 "Say quick,'' quoth he, '' I bid thee say — What manner of man art thou .' " Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; 580 And then it left me free. t''h;ou|hrut'"hisTu"- Since then, at an uncertain hour, ture lite an agony That agony returns : constraineth him to travel from land to And till my ghastly tale is told. This heart within me burns. 585 I pass, like night, from land to land ; I have strange power of speech ; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me ; To him my tale I teach. 590 What loud uproar burst from that door I The wedding-guests are there : But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are : And hark the little vesper bell, 595 Which biddeth me to prayer ! O Wedding-guest ! this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea : So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. 600 372 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. and to teach, by his own example, love O sweeter than the marriage feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me. To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company ! — To walk together to the kirk, 605 And all together pray. While each to his great Father bends. Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay ! Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 610 and"re'ver'ence'to"'an To thee, thou Wedding-guest ! Sfandbveth^"'' He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small ; 615 For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. The Mariner, whose eye is bright. Whose beard with age is hoar. Is gone: and now the Wedding-guest 620 Turned from the bridegroom's door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn : A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn. 625 SIR WALTER SCOTT, 1771-1832. The new interest in the Middle Ages and in the ballad poetry and folk-song of England, finds its greatest inter- preter in both the poetry and prose of the author of the Waverley Novels, who remained for so long a time " The Great Unknown." Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771. He took a genuine pride in the fact that he came of "gentle folk," and traces, in his Autobiography, his lineal descent from that ancient chief, Auld Watt of Sm WALTER SCOTT. 373 Harden, " whose name I have made to ring in many a Border ditty, and from his fair dame, the Flower of Yarrow ; no bad genealogy for a Border Minstrel." * His father, for whom Walter was named, was by pro- fession a Writer to the Signet (attorney). His mother was Anne Rutherford, daughter of a distinguished phy- sician of Edinburgh. Walter seems to have been a most engaging child, and a great favorite with his elders, who were ready to tell him the stories of local legend in which he delighted. He thus came to know the past of his country as he only knows it who learns it, not from books, but from the rural depositories of tradition. So Darsie Latimer, in Redgauntlet, heard from the lips of Wandering Willie the marvelous tales of his ancient house. Much of Scott's childhood was spent in the country at Sandy Knowe, and here he was in familiar intercourse with the country people. He sat at their firesides, listen- ing to scraps of old ballads and quaint songs, stories of Border feuds and Scotch superstitions, anecdotes of the great risings of 1715 and 1745. He thus laid, deep in his wonderful memory, the foundations of that knowl- edge which he was to put into the best setting. By his genial and embracing sympathy, he, as it were, was able to absorb Scotland herself, the outward aspect of her valleys, glens, and lochs, her towns and fishing villages and hamlets, her people's life, her history, spirit, and tradition, and lift them, by the simple force of his imaginative and poetic art, into the unchanging re- gion of Literature. Scott was admitted a member of the faculty of advo- cates in 1792. He obtained the office of Sheriff-depute of Selkirkshire in 1799, and in 1806 that of clerk of the *See "Lockhart's Life of Scott," vol. i. chap. i. Consult also "Lady of the Lake," canto v. verse 7, supposed to be a description of Scott's border ancestry. 374 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. session in reversion. He entered upon the emoluments of this last in 1812, and from that time was in receipt of an income of ;^i6oo a year from these two ofiSces. He discharged these duties for twenty-five years with great fidelity, and the income therefrom enabled him to make of literature " a staff and not a crutch," as he was fond of saying. But, be the motive what it may, we can scarcely imagine more constant and rapid work than Scott accomplished during the period between January, 1805, the date of the publication of The Lay of The Last Min- strel, and 1831, the year in which he wrote the last of his great series of novels. From 1825, when money dififi- culties came upon him, he worked tremendously to clear himself from debt. The story of this struggle is a very familiar one, and its full details have become clearer to the world since the publication, in 1890, of Sir Walter's Journal. No one can read the private record of that brave fight, saddened by domestic loss, by failing health, yet courageously maintained until the last, without being moved to a depth of reverent admiration and affection for Scott's own personal character; without amazement at his marvelous power over himself and over his pen. At last the struggle ended. After his return from a con- tinental tour, taken in the vain hope of restoring health to mind and body, he died peacefully in his home at Abbotsford, September 21, 1831, surrounded by his children and faithful dependants. He was buried in Dry- burgh Abbey. Scott possessed in a remarkable degree the rare power of grasping life, as it were, with the bare hand ; of learn- ing, by a shrewd insight into men's lives, Scott's Work. "' -' , , , , ,, , . . , . and by a healthy fellowship with nature in all her moods. With this faculty he had the gift of tell- ing what he saw. In English literature, Chaucer had this power. Spenser had not. Shakespeare is the supremest SIR WALTER SCOTT. 375 instance of it in any literature, while in Milton it is com- paratively absent. The distinctive features of the poetry of Scott are ease, rapidity of movement, a spirited flow of narrative that holds our attention, an out-of-doors atmos- phere and power of natural description, an occasional intrusion of a gentle personal sadness ; and but little more. The subtle and mystical element, so characteristic of the poetry of Wordsworth and Coleridge, is not to be found in that of Scott, while in lyrical power he does not approach Shelley. We find instead an in- tense sense of reality in all his natural descriptions ; it surrounds them with an indefinable atmosphere, because they are so transparently true. Scott's first impulse in the direction of poetry was given him from the study of the German ballads, especially Burger's Lenore, of which he made a translation. As his ideas widened, he wished to do for Scottish Border life what Goethe had done for the ancient feudalism of the Rhine. He was at first un- decided whether to choose prose or verse as his medium, but a legend was sent him by the Countess of Dalkeith, with a request that he would put it in ballad form. Having thus the framework for his purpose, he went to work, and Tke Lay of the Last Minstrel ^2.=, the result.* It became at once extremely popular, and we are told that " Scott was astonished at his own success." This decided him to make literature his profession, and by 1813 he had published Marmion, The Lady of the Lake, and Rokeby. The battle scene in Marmion has been called the most Homeric passage in modern literature, and his description of The Battle of Beal'an Duine from The Lady of the Lake, is an exquisite piece of narration, * Coleridge's poem of " Christabel " was the immediate inspiration of this poem. Scott says, " It is to Mr. Coleridge I am bound to make the acknowl- edgment due from a pupil to his master." 376 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. from the gleam of the spears in the thicket to the death of Roderick Dhu at its close. In the deepest sense, Scott is one with the spirit of his time in his grasp of fact, in that looking steadily at the object, which Wordsworth had fought for in poetry, which Carlyle had advocated in philosophy. He is allied, too, to that broad sympathy for man which lay closest to the heart of the age's literary expression. Wordsworth's part is to inspire an interest in the lives of men and women about us ; Scott's, to enlarge the bounds of our sympathy beyond the present and to people the silent centuries. Shelley's inspiration is hope for the future ; Scott's is reverence for the past. Scott wrote twenty-three novels in fourteen years. He wrote them during the faithful discharge of the duties of his profession, among the pressure As a Novelist. , • . . . , . .... of busmess anxieties, and, in spite of all, found time for the exercise of a most charming and open- hearted hospitality to all who sought his friendship. He may be said to have created the historical novel. Fielding and others had excelled in the portrayal of daily life and manners, and, as we have already seen, there were writers who had attempted in fiction the romantic and the marvelous, but only Shakespeare himself had so reanimated historical characters with the spirit of life and action that they seem to be once more in living presence among us. Scott stands alone in that branch of literary work. Others have made, it may be, one great success in the novel of history ; such as Thackeray in Henry Esmond, George Eliot in Romola, and Robert Louis Stevenson in the The Master of Bal- lantrae ; but Scott has brought alike the times of the Crusaders and of the Stuarts before us ; he has peopled the land of Palestine and the hills of Scotland, the forests of England and the borders of the Rhine, for our edifica- SIR WALTER SCOl^T. 377 tion and delight. Paladin and peasant, earl and yeo- man, kings and their jesters, bluff men-at-arms and gentle bower maidens, all spring into life again at the touch of the " Great Enchanter." How bare would be our mental pictures of Queen Elizabeth were we deprived of the scenes in Kenilworth in which she stands before us, alive forever in her wrath, as Leicester's injured queen, or yielding to those more womanly touches of feeling as she listens to the sympathy of her women, or of her " Cousin Hunsdon." The wonderful charm which the unfortunate Queen of Scots had for all who approached her would be harder to realize were it not that, as we read The Abbot, -vi^ too succumb for a while to its power, and feel that, with Roland Graeme, we could die for her, right or wrong. There is no doubt that Scott is often historically inaccurate ; he takes liberties, as did his great master, Shakespeare, with place and with facts ; but he has the power to humanize for us the people about whom he writes ; he puts a spirit and a soul into the dry facts of history, and gives them, by his imagina- tion, the very breath of life. History alone hardly helps us to realize the burning zeal felt by the Crusaders for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre, or the general detes- tation of the Jew in England, as elsewhere on the Con- tinent. We must go to The Talisman and Ivanhoe to learn what it was to journey with Kenneth and Saladin over the Desert ; to feast as did the Black Knight with Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest, and to feel our hearts thrill with the outlaws as we do homage to Richard of the Lion Heart. But it is not only in the field of history that the " magic wand " has power. In the novel of simple daily life, in a time nearer to Scott's own day, he is perhaps even happier in his vivid pictures. Nowhere has he more touchingly portrayed the life of Scotland's people than in The Heart of Midlothian, that story so 378 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. dear to Scottish men and women. Here Scott touches both extremes : the Queen, and the Duke of Argyle, and the lowly peasant maiden, strong in her cause and in her truth ; and what a picture is their meeting! When we review, therefore, the enormous range and the high average excellence of Scott's work in fiction, and remember the ease and rapidity with which it was produced, we feel that he exhibits a creative force rare even among the great geniuses of the literature. Scott's sense of humor was keen, and his own enjoy- ment of it cannot be doubted. Many scenes in Red- gauntlet, The Antiquary, or Old Mortality, are full of genuine fun ; and the character of Caleb Balderstone, in The Bride of Lammermoor, is unsurpassed of its kind. Scott works in the primary colors. He is not intense, he does not question deeply, or analyze motives. He does not excel in that morbid anatomy of Summary. . i.,, iri- emotion which has become the fashion with many novelists of this present age of so-called superior culture and advanced ideas. He thinks that life is good, and that there is wholesome enjoyment to be gained from action. He admires honor and courtesy and bravery among men, and beauty and gentleness and modesty among women. The greatness and the good- ness of Scott must ever appeal to us, the charm and glow of his verse delight us. The Waverley Novels are the splendid witness of the breadth, sympathy, and purity of one of the great creative intellects of our literature, worthy, indeed, of a place among the immortals, side by side with Chaucer and nearest to the feet of Shake- speare himself. SELECTIONS FROM SCOTT. 379 THE BATTLE OF BEAL'AN DUINE. FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE.— CANTO VL XV. " The Minstrel came once more to view The eastern ridge of Benvenue, For, ere he parted, he would s^y Farewell to lovely Loch Achray— Where shall he find, in foreign land, So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ! — There is no breeze upon the fern, No ripple on the lake. Upon her eyry nods the erne. The deer has sought the brake ; The small birds will not sing aloud, The springing trout lies still. So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud. That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread, Or echoes from the groaning ground The warrior's measured tread .' Is it the lightning's quivering glance That on the thicket streams. Or do they flash on spear and lance The sun's retiring beams ? I see the dagger-crest of Mar, I see the Moray's silver star. Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war. That up the lake comes winding far ! To hero bound for battle-strife, Or bard of martial lay, 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life. One glance at their array ! XVI. " Their light-armed archers far and near Surveyed the tangled ground. Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, A twilight forest frowned, 380 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. Their barded horsemen, in the rear, The stern battalia crowned. No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum ; Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, The sullen march was dumb. There breathed no wind their crests to shake, Or wave their flags abroad ; Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake, That shadowed o'er their road. Their vanward scouts no tidings bring. Can rouse no lurking foe. Nor spy a trace of living thing. Save when they stirred the roe ; The host moves, like a deep-sea wave. Where rise no rocks its pride to brave. High-swelling, dark, and slow. The lake is passed, and now they gain A narrow and a broken plain. Before the Trosach's rugged jaws ; And here the horse and spearmen jpause. While, to explore the dangerous glen. Dive through the pass the archer-men. XVII. " At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell, As all the fiends from heaven that fell Had pealed the banner-cry of hell ! Forth from the pass in tumult driven. Like chaff before the wind of heaven. The archery appear : For life ! for life ! their flight they ply — And shriek and shout and battle-cry. And plaids and bonnets waving high, And broadswords flashing to the sky. Are maddening in the rear. Onward they drive, in dreadful race. Pursuers and pursued. Before that tide of flight and chase, SELECTIONS FROM SCOTT. 38 1 How shall it keep its rooted place, The spearmen's twilight wood ? — ' Down, down,' cried Mar, ' your lances down ! Bear back both friend and foe ! ' Like reeds before the tempest's frown, That serried grove of lances brown At once lay leveled low ; And closely shouldering side to side, The bristling ranks the onset bide — ' We'll quell the savage mountaineer. As their Tinchel * cows the game ! They come as fleet as forest deer. We'll drive them back as tame.' XVIII. " Bearing before them in their course The relics of the archer force. Like wave with crest of sparkling foam. Right onward did Clan Alpine come. Above the tide, each broadsword bright Was brandishing hke beam of light, Each targe was dark below ; And with the ocean's mighty swing. When heaving to the tempest's wing, They hurled them on the foe. I heard the lance's shivering crash, As when the whirlwind rends the ash ; I heard the broadsword's deadly clang. As if an hundred anvils rang ! But Moray wheeled his rearward rank Of horsemen on Clan Alpine's flank, ' My banner-man, advance ! ' I see,' he cried, ' their column shake. Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake. Upon them with the lance ! ' The horsemen dashed among the rout. As deer break through the broom ; Their steeds are stout, their swords are out. They soon make lightsome room. * A gradually narrowing circle of sportsmen, closing in the game. Ward's Ed. "Eng. Poets." 382 The modern English period. Clan Alpine's best are backward borne — Where, where was Roderick then ! One blast upon his bugle-horn Were worth a thousand men. And refluent through the pass of fear The battle's tide was poured ; Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear, Vanished the mountain-sword. As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, Receives her roaring linn. As the dark caverns of the deep Suck the wild whirlpool in, So did the deep and darksome pass Devour the battle's mingled mass ; None linger now upon the plain. Save those who ne'er shall fight again. XIX. *' Now westward rolls the battle's din, That deep and doubling pass within. Minstrel, away ! the work of fate Is bearing on ; its issue wait. Where the rude Trosach's dread defile Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. Gray Benvenue I soon repassed. Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast. The sun is set ; — the clouds are met. The lowering scowl of heaven An inky hue of livid blue To the deep lake has given; Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen Swept o'er the lake, then sunk again. I heeded not the' eddying surge. Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge, Mine ear but heard that sullen sound. Which like an earthquake shook the ground, And spoke the stern and desperate strife That parts not but with parting life, Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll The dirge of many a passing soul. Nearer it comes— the dim-wood glen SELECl'lONS FROM SCOTT. 383 The martial flood disgorged again, But not in mingled tide ; The plaided warriors of the North High on the mountain thunder forth And overhang its side, While by the lake below appears The darkening cloud of Saxon spears. At weary bay each shattered band. Eyeing their foemen, sternly stand ; Their banners stream like tattered sail. That flings its fragments to the gale. And broken arms and disarray Marked the fell havoc of the day. XX. " Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, The Saxons stood in sullen trance, Till Moray pointed with his lance. And cried : ' Behold yon isle ! — See ! none are left to guard its strand But women weak, that wring the hand : 'Tis there of yore the robber band Their booty wont to pile ; — My purse, with bonnet-pieces store, To him will swim a bowshot o'er. And loose a shallop from the shore. Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then. Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.' Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung. On earth his casque and corselet rung, He plunged him in the wave : — All saw the deed, — the purpose knew. And to their clamors Benvenue A mingled echo gave ; The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, The helpless females scream for fear, And yells for rage the mountaineer. 'Twas then, as by the outcry riven. Poured down at once the lowering heaven : A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast. Her billows reared their snowy crest. 384 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. Well for the swimmer swelled they high, To mar the Highland marksman's eye ; For round him showered, mid rain and hail. The vengeful arrows of the Gael. In vain. — He nears the isle — and lo ! His hand is on a shallop's bow. Just then a flash of lightning came, It tinged the waves and strand with flame ; I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame. Behind an oak I saw her stand, A naked dirk gleamed in her hand : — It darkened — but amid the moan Of waves I heard a dying groan ; — Another flash ! — the spearman floats A weltering corse beside the boats, And the stern matron o'er him stood. Her hand and dagger streaming blood. XXI. " ' Revenge ! revenge ! ' the Saxons cried. The Gaels' exulting shout replied. Despite the elemental rage, Again they hurried to engage ; But, ere they closed in desperate fight. Bloody with spurring came a knight, Sprung from his horse, and from a crag Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. Clarion and trumpet by his side Rung forth a truce-note high and wide. While in the monarch's name, afar A herald's voice forbade the war. For Bothwell's lord and Roderick bold Were both, he said, in captive hold.— But here the lay made sudden stand. The harp escaped the minstrel's hand ! Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy How Roderick brooked his minstrelsy : At first, the chieftain, to the chime. With lifted hand kept feeble time ; That motion ceased, — yet feeling strong Varied his look as changed the song ; SELECTIONS FROM SCOTT. 3^5 At length no more his deafened ear The minstrel melody can hear ; His face grows sharp, — his hands are clenched, As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched ; Set are his teeth, his fading eye Is sternly fixed on vacancy ; Thus, motionless and moanless, drew His parting breath stout Roderick Dhu ! — Old Allan-bane looked on aghast. While grim and still his spirit passed ; But when he saw that life was fled. He poured his wailing o'er the dead." COUNTY GUY. Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange-flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who trilled all day. Sits hushed his partner nigh ; Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour, But where is County Guy ? The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear ; To beauty shy, by lattice high. Sings highborn Cavaher. The star of love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; And high and low the influence know — But where is County Guy ? BORDER BALLAD. FROM THE MONASTERY. I. March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. 386 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story. Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the queen and our old Scottish glory. II. Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, War-steeds are bounding. Stand to your arms and march in good order, England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray. When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. CHARLES LAMB, 1775-1834. Charles Lamb — called by Coleridge the " gentlel hearted Charles "* — was born in London, 1775. He was the youngest of three children ; his family were in poor circumstances, his father being little more than a servant to a Mr. Salt of the Inner Temple. From his eighth to his fifteenth year, Charles studied as a " blue-coated boy " at Christ's Hospital, and here there sprung up between him and his fellow-student Coleridge a friendship .which proved lifelong. On leaving school he obtained a clerk- ship in the South Sea House, and two years later in the India Office. His father's health failed, and Charles be- came the chief support of the little family. But the quiet of their household was soon broken by a terrible event. Mary, Charles Lamb's sister, was seized with violent insanity, and killed their mother (1796). Mary * See Coleridge's poem, " This Lime Tree Bower my Prison," in which several references to Lamb occur. CHARLES LAMB. 387 was taken to an asylum, where she recovered, and Charles procured her release on his becoming responsi- ble for her guardianship. Thenceforth, after his father's death, he devoted himself to the care of his afiflicted sister. For intervals, which he called " between the acts," they lived quietly in the most devoted companion- ship, Mary aiding in her brother's literary work, and presiding at their little receptions, at which Coleridge and sometimes Wordsworth attended. Then, again, Mary would " fall ill," and return for a time to the asylum. Through all this strain and distress, and occasional fears for himself. Lamb's cheerful and loving nature saved him from bitterness and despair, and he found courage to work. He lived his "happy-melancholy" life, and died quietly at London in 1834. His sister, whose name is forever linked with his as the object of his care and partner of his literary work, survived until 1847. In spite of daily work in the office, and of his domestic troubles, Lamb found time and heart for litera- ture. As a boy he had spent many odd hours in the library of Mr. Salt, " browsing chiefly among the older English authors "; and he refers to Bridget Elia (Mary Lamb) as "tumbled early, by accident or design, into a spacious closet of good old English reading." This preference for Elizabethan writers endured through life, and their style and mode of thought became in some de- gree natural to himself. His first venture was a contri- bution of four sonnets to a book of poems on various subjects by his friend Coleridge (1796). After some minor works, he published John Woodvil (1801), a tragedy on the early Elizabethan model, which was severely criticized, and later a farce, Mr. H (1806), which failed on the first performance. His Specimens of English Dramatic Poets Who Wrote about the Time of Shakespeare, with notes, aroused new 388 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. interest in a great body of writers then largely neglected, and showed Lamb himself a critic of keen natural insight, his suggestions often being of more value than the learned notes of commentators. Thus Lamb, with Wil- liam Hazlitt, another critic of the time, helped in bring- ing about that new era of criticism in which Coleridge was the chief mover. In 1807 appeared Tales Founded on the Plays of Shakespeare, the joint work of himself and his sister Mary. Lamb is best known, however, by his essays, first published, under the name of Elia, in the London Magazine (founded 1820). Written for the most part on trivial subjects, with no purpose but to please, they bring us close to the lovable nature of the man, full, indeed, of sadness, but full, too, of a refined and kindly humor, ready to flash out in a pun, or to light up with a warm and gentle glow the cloud that overhangs him. In these essays we see Lamb's conservative spirit and hatred of change. His literary sympathies lay with the past, and he clung with fondness to the memories of his childhood. The essay here given is only one among many in which he has embodied these feelings. CHRIST'S HOSPITAL FIVE-AND-THIRTY YEARS AGO. In Mr. Lamb's " Works,'' published a year or two ago, I find a magnificent eulogy on my old school,* such as it was, or now appears to him to have been, between the years 1782 and 1789. It happens, very oddly, that my own standing at Christ's was nearly corresponding with his ; and, with all gratitude to him for his enthusiasm for the cloisters, I think he has contrived to bring together whatever can be said in praise of them, dropping all the other side of the argument most ingeniously. I remember L. at school ; and can well recollect that he had some peculiar advantages, which I and others of his schoolfellows had not. His friends lived in town, and were near at hand ; and he had the privilege of going to see them, almost as often as he wished, * "Recollections of Christ's Hospital." SELECTIONS FROM LAMB. 389 through some invidious distinction, which was denied to us The present worthy sub-treasurer to the Inner Temple can explain how that happened. He had his tea and hot rolls in a morning, while we were battening upon our quarter-of-a-penny loaf— our crug— moistened with attenuated small beer, in wooden piggings, smacking of the pitched leathern jack it was poured from. Our Monday's milk- porndge, blue and tasteless, and the pease-soup of Saturday, coarse and chokmg, were enriched for him with a slice of "extraordinary bread and butter," from the hot-loaf of the Temple. The Wednes- day's mess of millet, somewhat less repugnant-we had three banyan to four meat days in the week— was endeared to his palate with a lump of double-refined, and a smack of ginger (to make it to go down the more glibly) or the fragrant cinnamon. In lieu of our half Pickled Sundays, or quite fresh boiled beef on Thursdays (strong as caro equina), with detestable marigolds floating in the pail to poison the broth— our scanty mutton scrags on Fridays-and rather more savory, but grudging, portions of the same flesh, rotten-roasted or rare, on the Tuesdays (the only dish which excited our appetites and disappointed our stomachs in almost equal proportion)— he had his hot plate of roast veal, or the more tempting griskin (exotics unknown to our palates), cooked in the paternal kitchen (a great thing), and brought him daily by his maid or aunt ! I remember the good old relative (in whom love forbade pride) squatted down upon some odd stone in a by-nook of the cloisters, disclosing the viands (of higher regale than those cates which the ravens ministered to the Tishbite); and the contending passions of L. at the unfolding. There was love for the bringer; shame for the thing brought, and the manner of its bringing; sympathy for those who were too many to share in it; and, at top of all, hunger (eldest, strongest of the passions !) predomi- nant, breaking down the stony fences of shame, and awkwardness, and a troubling over-consciousness. I was a poor, friendless boy. My parents, and those who should care for me, were far away. Those few acquaintances of theirs, which they could reckon upon being kind to me in the great city, after ' a little forced notice, which they had the grace to take of me on my first arrival in town, soon grew tired of my holiday visits. They seemed to them to recur too often, though I thought them few enough ; and, one after another, they all failed me, and I felt myself alone among six hundred playmates. Oh, the cruelty of separating a poor lad from his early homestead ! The yearnings which I used to have towards it in those unfledged 39° THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. years ! How, in my dreams, would my native town (far in the West) come back, with its church, and trees, and faces! How I would wake weeping, and in the anguish of my heart exclaim upon sweet Calne in Wiltshire ! To this late hour of my life, I trace impressions left by the recollec- tion of those friendless holidays. The long, warm days of summer never return but they bring with them a gloom from the haunting memory of those whole-day leaves, when, by some strange arrange- ment, we were turned out for the livelong day upon our own hands, whether we had friends to go to, or none. I remember those bathing excursions to the New-River, which L. recalls with such relish, better, I think, than he can — for he was a home-seeking lad, and did not much care for such water pastimes : — How merrily we would sally forth into the fields ; and strip under the first warmth of the sun ; and wanton like young dace in the streams ; getting us appetites for noon, which those of us that were penniless (our scanty morning crust long since exhausted) had not the means of allaying — while the cattle, and the birds, and the fishes, were at feed about us and we had nothing to satisfy our cravings — the very beauty of the day, and the exercise of the pastime, and the sense of liberty, setting a keener edge upon them! — How, faint and languid, finally, we would return, towards nightfall, to our desired morsel, half-rejoicing, half-reluctant, that the hours of our uneasy liberty had expired ! It was worse, in the days of winter, to go prowling about the streets objectless — shivering at cold windows of print-shops to extract a little amusement ; or haply, as a last resort in hopes of a little novelty, to pay a fifty-times-repeated visit (where our individual faces should be as well known to the warden as those of his own charges) to the lions in the Tower — to whose levee, by courtesy immemorial, we had a prescriptive title to admission. L.'s governor (so we called the patron who presented us to the foundation) lived in a manner under his paternal roof. Any complaint which he had to make was sure of being attended to. This was un- derstood at Christ's, and was an effectual screen to him against the severity of masters, or worse tyranny of the monitors. The oppres- sions of these young brutes are heart-sickening to call to recollection. I have been called out of my bed, and waked for the purpose, in the coldest winfer nights — and this not once, but night after night — in my shirt, to receive the discipline of a leathern thong, with eleven other sufferers, because it pleased my callow overseer, when there has been any talking heard after we were gone to bed, to make the six last beds SELECTIONS FROM LAMB. 391 m the dormitory, where the youngest children of us slept, answerable for an offense they neither dared to commit, nor had the power to hinder. The same execrable tyranny drove the younger part of us from the fires, when our feet were perishing with snow ; and, under the cruelest penalties, forbade the indulgence of a drink of water, when we lay in sleepless summer nights, fevered with the season and the day's sports. There was one H , who, I learned in after days, was seen expiating some maturer offense in the hulks. (Do I flatter myself in fancying that this might be the planter of that name, who suffered— at Nevis, I think, or St. Kitts— some few years since ? My friend Tobin was the benevolent instrument of bringing him to the gallows.) This ffetty Nero actually branded a boy who had offended him, with a red- hot iron ; and nearly starved forty of us with exacting contributions, to the one-half of our bread, to pamper a young ass, which, incredi- ble as it may seem, with the connivance of the nurse's daughter (a young flame of his), he had contrived to smuggle in, and keep upon the leads of the ward, as they called our dormitories. This game went on for better than a week, till the foolish beast, not able to fare well but he must cry roast meat— happier than Caligula's minion, could he have kept his own counsel— but, foolisher, alas ! than any of his species in the fables— waxing fat, and kicking, in the fullness of bread, one unlucky minute would needs proclaim his good fortune to the world below ; and, laying out his simple throat, blew such a ram's- horn blast, as (toppling down the walls of his own Jericho) set con- cealment any longer at defiance. The client was dismissed, with cer- tain attentions, to Smithfiekl ; but I never understood that the patron underwent any censure on the occasion. This was in the steward- ship of L.'s admired Perry. Under the same facile administration can L. have forgotten the cool impunity with which the nurses used to carry away openly, in open platters, for their own tables, one out of two of every hot joint, which the careful matron had been seeing scrupulously weighed out for our dinners ? These things were daily practiced in that magnifi- cent apartment, which L. (grown connoisseur since, we presume) praises so highly for the grand paintings " by Verrio and others," with which it is "hung round and adorned." But the sight of sleek, well fed, blue-coat boys in the pictures was, at that time, I believe, little consolatory to him, or us, the living ones, who saw the better part of our provisions carried away before our faces by harpies ; and ourselves reduced (with the Trojan in the hall of Dido) " To feed our mind with idle portraiture," 392 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. L. has recorded the repugnance of the school to gags, or the fat of fresh beef boiled ; and sets it down to some superstition. But these unctuous morsels are never grateful to young palates (chil- dren are universally fat-haters), and in strong, coarse, boiled meats, unsalted, are detestable. A gag-eater in our time was equivalent to a ghoul, and held in equal detestation— suffered under the imputation "'Twas said He ate strange flesh." He was observed, after dinner, carefully to gather up the remnants left at his table (not many, nor very choice fragments, you may credit me) — and, in an especial manner, these disreputable morsels, which he would convey away, and secretly stow in the settle that stood at his bedside. None saw when he ate them. It was rumored that he privately devoured them in the night. He was watched, but no traces of such midnight practices were discoverable. Some reported that, on leave-days, he had been seen to carry out of the bounds a large blue check handkerchief full of something. This, then, must be the accursed thing. Conjecture next was at work to imagine how he could dispose of it. Some said he sold it to the beggars. This behef generally prevailed. He went about moping. None spake to him. No one would play with him. He was excommunicated : put out of the pale of the school. He was too powerful a boy to be beaten, but he underwent every mode of that negative punishment which is more grievous than many stripes. Still he persevered. At length he was observed by two of his schoolfellows, who were determined to get at the secret, and had traced him one leave-day for that purpose, to enter a large, worn-out building, such as there exist specimens of in Chancery Lane, which are let out to various scales of pauperism, with open door and a common staircase. After him they silently slunk in, and followed by stealth up four flights, and saw him tap at a poor wicket, which was opened by an aged woman, meanly clad. Sus- picion was now ripened into certainty. The informers had secured their victim. They had him in their toils. Accusation was formally preferred, and retribution most signal was looked for. Mr. Hath- away, the then steward (for this happened a little after my time), with that patient sagacity which tempered all his conduct, determined to investigate the matter before he proceeded to sentence. The result was that the supposed mendicants, the receivers or purchasers of the mysterious scraps, turned out to be the parents of , an honest cou- SELECTIONS FROM LAMB. 393 pie come to decay,— whom this seasonable supply had, in all probabil- ity, saved from mendicancy ; and this young stork, at the expense of his own good name, had all this while been only feeding the old birds ! — The governors on this occasion, much to their honor, voted a present relief to the family of , and presented him with a silver medal. The lesson which the steward read upon RASH JUDGMENT, on the occa- sion of publicly delivering the medal to , I believe would not be lost upon his auditory. I had left school then, but I well remember . He was a tall, shambling youth, with a cast in his eye, not at all cal- culated to conciliate hostile prejudices. I have since seen him carry- ing a baker's basket. I think I heard he did not do quite so well by himself as he had done by the old folks. I was an hypochondriac lad ; and the sight of a boy in fetters, upon the day of my first putting on the blue clothes, was not exactly fitted to assuage the natural terrors of initiation. I was of tender years, barely turned of seven ; and had only read of such things in book, or seen them but in dreams. I was told he had run away. This was the punishment for the first offense. As a novice I was soon after taken to see the dungeons. These were little, square, Bedlam cells, where a boy could just lie at his length upon straw, and a blanket — a mattress, I think, was afterwards substituted — with a peep of light, let in askance, from a prison orifice at top, barely enough to read by. Here the poor boy was locked in by himself all day, without sight of any but the porter who brought him his bread and water — who might not speak to him ; — or of the beadle, who came twice a week to call him out to receive his periodical chastisement, which was almost wel- come, because it separated him for a brief interval from solitude : and here he was shut up by himself of nights out of the reach of any sound, to suffer whatever horrors the weak nerves, and superstition incident to his time of life, might subject him to.* This was the penalty for the second offense. Wouldst thou like, reader, to see what became of him in the next degree ? The culprit, who had been a third time an offender, and whose expulsion was at this time deemed irreversible, was brought forth, as at some solemn auto-da-fe, arrayed in uncouth and most appalling attire — all trace of his late " watchet weeds " carefully effaced, he was * One or two instances of lunacy, or attempted suicide, accordingly, at length convinced the governors of the impolicy of this part of the sentence, and the midnight torture to the spirits was dispensed with. This fancy of dungeons for children was a sprout of Howard's brain ; for which (saving the reverence due to Holy Paul), methinks,! could willingly spit upon his statue. 394 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. exposed in a jacket resembling tliose which London lamplighters formerly delighted in, with a cap of the same. The effect of this di- vestiture was such as the ingenious devisers of it could have anticipa- ted. With his pale and frighted features, it was as if some of those disfigurements in Dante had seized upon him. In this disguisement he was brought into the hall {L.'s favorite stateroom), where awaited him the whole number of his schoolfellows, whose joint lessons and sports he was thenceforth to share no more ; the awful presence of the steward, to be seen for the last time ; of the executioner beadle, clad in his state robe for the occasion ; and of two faces more, of direr im- port, because never but in these extremities visible. These were gov- ernors : two of whom by choice, or charter, were always accustomed to officiate at these Ultima Supplicia ; not to mitigate (so at least we understood it), but to enforce the uttermost stripe. Old Bamber Gascoigne and Peter Aubert, I remember, were colleagues on one oc- casion, when the beadle turning rather pale, a glass of brandy was ordered to prepare him for the mysteries. The scourging was, after the old Roman fashion, long and stately. The lictor accompanied the criminal quite round the hall. We were generally too faint with at- tending to the previous disgusting circumstances to make accurate re- port with our eyes of the degree of corporal suffering inflicted. Re- port, of course, gave out the back knotty and livid. After scourging, he was made over, in his San Benito, to his friends, if he had any (but commonly such poor runagates were friendless), or to his parish offi- cer, who, to enchance the effect of the scene, had his station allotted to him on the outside of the hall gate. These solemn pageantries were not played off so often as to spoil the general mirth of the community. We had plenty of exercise and recreation after school hours ; and, for myself, I must confess that I was never happier than in them. The Upper and the Lower Gram- mar Schools were held in the same room ; and an imaginary line only divided their bounds. Their character was as different as that of the inhabitants on the two sides of the Pyrenees. The Rev. James Boyer was the Upper Master ; but the Rev. Matthew Field presided over that portion of the apartment of which I had the good fortune to be a member. We lived a life as careless as birds. We talked and did just what we pleased, and nobody molested us. We carried an accidence, or a grammar, for form ; but, for any trouble it gave us, we might take two years in getting through the verbs deponent, and another two in forgetting all that we had learned about them. There was now and then the formality of saying a lesson, but if you had not SELECTIONS FROM LAMB. 395 learned it, a brush across the shoulders (just enough to disturb a fly) was the sole remonstrance. Field never used the rod ; and in truth he wielded the cane with no great good will — holding it " like a dancer." It looked in his hands rather like an emblem than an instrument of authority ; and an emblem, too, he was ashamed of. He was a good, easy man, that did not care to ruffle his own peace, nor perhaps set any great consideration upon the value of juvenile time. He came among us, now and then, but often stayed away whole days from us ; and when he came it made no difference to us — he had his private room to retire to, the short time he stayed, to be out of the sound of our noise. Our mirth and uproar went on. We had classics of our own, without being beholden to " insolent Greece or haughty Rome," that passed current among us — Peter Wilkins — the Adven- tures of the Hon. Captain Robert Boyle — the Fortunate Blue-Coat Boy — and the like. Or we cultivated a turn for mechanic and scien- tific operations; making little sundials of paper; or weaving those ingenious parentheses called cat-cradles ; or making dry peas to dance upon the end of a tin pipe ; or studying the art military over that laudable game " French and English," and a hundred other such devices to pass away the time — mixing the useful with the agreeable — as would have made the souls of Rousseau and John Locke chuckle to have seen us. Matthew Field belonged to that class of modest divines who affect to mix in equal proportion tht' gentleman, the scholar, and the Chris- tian ; but, I know not how, the first ingredient is generally found to be the predominating dose in the composition. He was engaged in gay parties, or with his courtly bow at some episcopal levee, when he should have been attending upon us. He had for many years the classical charge of a hundred children, during the four or five first years of their education ; and his very highest form seldom proceeded further than two or three of the introductory fables of Phasdrus. How things were suffered to go on thus, I cannot guess. Boyer, who was the proper person to have remedied these abuses, always affected, pehaps felt, a delicacy iri interfering in a province not strictly his own. I have not been without my suspicions that he was not altogether displeased at the contrast we presented to his end of the school. We were a sort of Helots to his young Spartans. He would sometimes, with ironic deference, send to borrow a rod of the Under Master, and then, with sardonic grin, observe to one of his upper boys " how neat and fresh the twigs looked. " While his pale students were battering their brains over Xenophon and Plato, 39<5 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. with a silence as deep as that enjoined by the Samite, we were en- joying ourselves at our ease in our little Goshen. We saw a little into the secrets of his discipline, and the prospect did but the more rec- oncile us to our lot. His thunders rolled innocuous for us; his storms came near, but never touched us ; contrary to Gideon's miracle, while all around were drenched, our fleece was dry.*^ His boys turned out the better scholars ; we, I suspect, have the advantage in temper. His pupils cannot speak of him without something of terror allaying their gratitude : the remembrance of Field comes back with all the soothing images of indolence, and summer slumbers, and work like play, and innocent idleness, and Elysian exemptions, and life itself a " playing holiday." Though sufficiently removed from the jurisdiction of Boyer, we were near enough (as I have said) to understand a Httle of his system. We occasionally heard sounds of the Ululantes, and caught glances of Tartarus. B. was a rabid pedant. His English style was cramped to barbarism. His Easter anthems (for his duty obliged him to those periodical flights)were grating as scrannel pipes.f He would laugh, ay, and heartily, but then it must be at Flaccus's quibble about Rex — or at the trisHs severitas in vultu, ox inspicere inpatmas, of Terence — thin jests, which at their first broaching could hardly have had vis enough to move a Roman muscle. He had two wigs, both pedantic, but of different omen. The one serene, smiling, fresh powdered, betokening a mild day. The other, an old, discolored, unkempt, angry caxon, denoting frequent and bloody execution. Woe to the school when he made his morning appearance in his passy, or passionate wig ! No comet expounded surer. J. B. had a heavy hand. I have known him double his knotty fist at a poor trembling child (the maternal milk hardly dry upon its lips), with a " Sirrah, do you presume to set your wits at me .' " Nothing was more common than to see him make a headlong entry into the schoolroom from his inner recess or library, and, with a turbulent eye, singling out a lad, roar out, " Od's * Cowley. f In this and everything B. was the antipodes of his coadjutor. While the former was digging his brains for crude anthems, worth a pignut, F. would be recreating his gentlemanly fancy in the more flowery walks of the Muses. A little dramatic effusion of his, under the name of Vertumnus and Pomona, is not yet forgotten by the chroniclers of that sort of literature. It was accepted by Garrick, but the town did not give it their sanction. B. used to say of it, in a way of half compliment, half irony, that it was too classical for representation. SELECTIONS FROM LAMB. 397 my life, sirrah " (his favorite adjuration), " I have a great mind to vifhip you "; then, with as sudden a retracting impulse, fling back into his lair, and, after a cooling lapse of some minutes (during which all but the culprit had totally forgotten the context), drive headlong out again, piecing out his imperfect sense, as if it had been some Devil's Litany, with the expletory yell — " a}id I wi'L'L, too." In his gentler moods, when therabidus furor yNasassMS-gtA, he had resort to an ingenious method, peculiar, for what I have heard, to himself, of whipping the boy and reading the Debates at the same time ; a paragraph, and a lash be- tween ; which in those times, when parliamentary oratory was most at a height and flourishing in these realms, was not calculated to impress the patient with a veneration for the diffuser graces of rhetoric. Once, and but once, the uplifted rod was known to fall ineffectual from his hand — when droll, squinting W., having been caught putting the inside of the master's desk to a use for which the architect had clearly not designed it, to justify himself, with great simplicity averred that he did not know that the thing had been fore- warned. This exquisite irrecognition of any law antecedent to the oral ox declaratory, struck so irresistibly upon the fancy of all who heard it (the pedagogue himself not excepted) that remission was unavoidable. L. has given credit to B.'s great merits as an instructor. Cole- ridge, in his literary life, has pronounced a more intelligible and ample encomium on them. The author of the Country Spectator doubts not to compare him with the ablest teachers of antiquity. Perhaps we cannot dismiss him better than with the pious ejaculation of C, when he heard that his old master was on his deathbed : " Poor J. B.! may all his faults be forgiven; and may he be wafted to bliss by little cherub-boys, all head and wings, with no bottoms to reproach his sublunary infirmities." Under him were many good and sound scholars bred. First Grecian of my time was Lancelot Pepys Stevens, kindest of boys and men, since co-grammar-master (and inseparable companion) with Dr. T e. What an edifying spectacle did this brace of friends present to those who remembered the anti-socialities of their pre- decessors ! You never met the one by chance in the street without a wonder, which was quickly dissipated by the almost immediate sub- appearance of the other. Generally arm-in-arm, these kindly coad- jutoi's lightened for each other the toilsome duties of their profession, and when, in advanced age, one found it convenient to retire, the other was not long in discovering that it suited him to lay down the fasces 39^ THE MODEkN ENGLISH PERIOD. also. Oh, it is pleasant, as it is rare, to find the same arm linked in yours at forty which at thirteen helped it to turn over the Cicero de Amicitid, or some tale of Antique Friendship, which the young heart even then was burning to anticipate ! Co-Grecian with S. was Th , who has since executed with ability various diplomatic func- tions at the northern courts. Th was a tall, dark, saturnine youth, sparing of speech, with raven locks. Thomas Fanshaw Middleton followed him (now Bishop of Calcutta), a scholar and a gentleman in his teens. He has the reputation of an excellent critic, and is author (besides the Country Spectator) of a Treatise on the Greek Article, against Sharpe. M. is said to bear his mitre high in India, where the regni novitas (I dare say) sufficiently justifies the bearing. A humility quite as primitive as that of Jewel or Hooker might not be exactly fitted to impress the minds of those Anglo-Asiatic diocesans with a reverence for home institutions and the Church which those fathers watered. The manners of M. at school, though firm, were mild and unassuming. Next to M. (if not senior to him) was Richards, author of the Aboriginal Britons, the most spirited of the Oxford Prize Poems ; a pale, studious Grecian. Then followed poor S , ill-fated M ! of these the Muse is silent. " Finding some of Edward's race Unhappy, pass their annals by . " Come back into memory, like as thou wert, in the day-spring of thy fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee — the dark pillar not yet turned — Samuel Taylor Coleridge — Logician, Metaphysician, Bard ! — How have I seen the casual passer through the cloisters stand still, entranced with admiration (while he weighed the disproportion between the speech and the garb of the young Mirandula), to hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of Jam- blichus or Plotinus (for even in those years thou waxedst not pale at such philosophic draughts), or reciting Homer in his Greek, or Pin- dar — while the walls of the old Grey Friars re-echoed to the accents of the inspired charity-boy! Many were the " wit-combats " (to dally awhile with the words of old Fuller) between him and C. V. Le G , " which two I behold like a Spanish great galleon and an English man- of-war ; Master Coleridge, like the former, was built far higher in learning, solid, but slow in his performances. C. V. L., with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention." B YRON, SHELLE Y, AND KEA TS. 399 Nor shalt thou, their compeer, be quickly forgotten, Allen, with the cordial smile, and still more cordial laugh, with which thou wert wont to make the old cloisters shake, in thy cognition of some poignant jest of theirs ; or the anticipation of some more material, and, perad- venture, practical one of thine own. Extinct are those smiles, with that beautiful countenance, with which (for thou wert the Nireus for- mosus of the school), in the days of thy maturer waggery, thou didst disarm the wrath of infuriated town damsel, who, incensed by provok- ing pinch, turning tigress-like round, suddenly converted by thy angel-look, exchanged the half formed terrible " bl — '' for a gentler greeting — " bless thy handsome face ! " Next follow two, who ought to be now alive, and the friends of Elia — the junior Le G and F , who, impelled, the former by a roving temper, the latter by too quick a sense of neglect, ill capable of enduring the slights poor sizars are sometimes subject to in our seats of learning, exchanged their Alma Mater for the camp ; perish- ing, one by climate, and one on the plains of Salamanca : Le G , sanguine, volatile, sweet-natured ; F , dogged, faithful, anticipative of insult, warm-hearted, with something of the old Roman height about him. Fine, frank-hearted Fr , the present master of Hertford, with Marmaduke T , mildest of missionaries — and both my good friends still — close the catalogue of Grecians in my time. BYRON, SHELLEY, AND KEATS. These three poets, separated as they were in many- ways, have one point in common. To each death came early — finding Keats and Shelley, at least, with unsung songs upon their lips. When we consider the greatness of their place in English poetry, and the role that Byron played in the intellectual movement of his time, we won- der to find that 'neither Keats nor Shelley reached thirty, and that at thirty-six, Byron's stormy and passionate ca- reer was ended. And their achievement seems the more remarkable when we reflect, further, that the work of Wordsworth, the greatest figure in the trio of poets im- mediately preceding, covered nearly half a century, while that of Keats and Shelley, and all the important work of 400 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. Lord Byron, was crowded into the twelve years following the appearance of Childe Harold. Of these three poets, Byron and Shelley stand together as poets of the Age of Revolution, while Keats, ignoring human interests and shunning those social questions which were still convulsing Europe, luxuriated in the beautiful, if enervating, world which his imagination had created. The advance of modern democracy, and those hopes for the future of humanity which came with it, are vital elements in English literature from the latter part of the last century down to our own day. In the lives of Byron and Shelley, as in those of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, these elements played an important part. But to the older group of poets, whose young eyes saw the fall of the Bastile, the Revolution seemed to promise everything ; to the younger, who grew up to witness the downfall of the Republic and the establishment of the Napoleonic despotism (First Consul, 1799; Emperor, 1804), it seemed to have performed nothing. The older group outlived their first disappointment, and settled down with advancing years into a quiet conservatism. The younger, thus early set face to face with a world of disillusions and of blasted hopes, were moved to bitter denunciations or to gloomy forebodings. George Noel Gordon Byron (Lord) (i 788-1824) was a man of brilliant and powerful personality, of reckless and defiant life, of strong passions, and of a de- Lord Byron. . , . . , monstrative despair congenial to the mood of Europe in his time. Li verse of indomitable and masculine vigor, full of a somewhat declamatory but magnificent rhetoric, he expresses the rebellious spirit and sentimental melancholy of his generation. His heroes — Childe Harold, Lara, the Corsair, Manfred, and the rest^ — in whom his enraptured readers early learned to LORD BYRON. 4° I recognize a thinly disguised figure of the poet himself, are, for the most part, bandits and pirates, who luxuriate in despair and expire in " impenitent remorse." * These "bold, bad men" "strut and fret their hour upon the stage," blackened with unnumbered crimes, and sustained by a secret sense of their superiority to contented and commonplace humanity. There is a grandeur in Milton's Satan, in Prometheus chained to the crag by a power which cannot conquer him ; but in Byron the grandeur of this struggle of the individual will against the logic of destiny, is weakened by its strain of selfishness and insin- cerity. Byron cries out because he is hurt rather than because the world suffers. We are uncertain how much of his vehement despair we should take for earnest and how much was " playing to the gallery." Yet Byron was a poet of glorious audacity and force. His devotion to Liberty — even to dying in her cause — at least was genuine. This, "his one pure passion," glows in his verse and even lends a parting consecration to his unhappy life. Yet his mad revolt against things as they are becomes, as he grows older, but more furious and "bitter, reaching its brilliant but terrible consummation in Don Juan. He once wrote: "I have simplified my politics into an utter detestation of all existing governments," and we are left in doubt whether, after all, he distinguished be- tween liberty and license. To such a nature, the joy in submission to the highest, which Wordsworth has ex- pressed in the Ode to Duty, must have been incompre- hensible. We may think of Byron as a man of volcanic energy and wonderful effectiveness, who, expressing as he did the passing mood, not of England only, but of Europe, was a great social and political force in the large movement of democracy. His poetry is dashing, brilliant, effective, and careless of detail. He has a feel- * Byron's " Corsair." 402 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. ing for large results ; his descriptions of nature are bold, broad, and telling ; the historic past of Europe lives in his swelling lines. The fascination of his personality, the sadness of his story, will enshrine the memory of the man, a strong and tragic figure ; while he has left in many a poem, and perhaps still more in many a bril- liant passage, a superb vitality which secures his place among the poets of his country. Percy Bysshe Shelley (i 792-1 822) stands with Byron as a poet of revolt; but his devotion to Liberty is purer, his life ennobled by higher and more unsel- fish aims. With distorted and imperfect ideas of history, his enthusiastic and unbalanced nature was early captivated by wild theories of social reform. His enthusiasms, his theories, and an apparent obtuse- ness of moral perception, carried him into some grievous errors; yet he erred rather from a lack of judgment than from any deliberate intention. His wrath flamed up at tyranny or injustice ; set face to face with poverty or distress, his quick pity found relief in impulsive and unstinted acts of charity. Shelley, like Byron, had the spirit of revolution within him, at a time when a conserv- ative spirit was uppermost in the governments both in England and on the Continent. The Congress of Vienna had declared that everything should be as though the Revolution had never been; and the Holy Alliance, compacted in 1815, seemed to embody the triumph of monarchy. In England, under the repressive policy of Lord Castlereagh and the Duke of Wellington, reform seemed helpless. Yet while Shelley denounces the "tyrants," his poetry lacks the cynicism and hopelessness of Byron's, and in his later work, as in the noble drama of Prometheus Unbound, he looks forward to the coming of a new earth. Shelley's life was given up to the cause of humanity. PERCY B YSSffE SHELLE Y. 403 and his passion for liberty molds and inspires his art. He is filled with a whole-souled and gener- ous devotion to an impossible and mistaken ideal ; he dreams vague and glittering dreams of what life ought to be, before the world has taught him what it is. He was, as a good critic has called him, " but a beautiful and inef- fectual angel, beating in the void his luminous wings in vain." Shelley was endowed with a supreme lyrical faculty almost without a parallel in English poetry. His lyrics are buoyant, full of music and of motion, light, clear, and free ; they sing themselves as we read and carry us with them without an effort. The Skylark * lifts us in the air by the rythmical pulsations of its verse, and we can feel the fresh, cool breeze on our cheeks, and smell the fra- grance of the rain, as we read the Ode to the West Wind and The Cloud. Shelley's mastery of language was as wonder- ful as his mastery of melody ; reading such a poem as his Adonais, we feel that the medium of word music, with which his thought works, is plastic and subservient to his will. Shelley has been finely called the master of ethereal verse, and in general the intangible world of his imagina- tion seems far removed from the solid earth of every- day fact, yet in his drama of The Cenci, revolting as is its subject, he has given us a strong and tragic bit of work, not often equaled since the time of the Elizabe- thans. Shelley surpassed Keats by virtue of his more serious view of life, and his intense humanity ; he is also more largely endowed with the singing faculty. His poetry is saved by its intellectual element from the debilitating and cloying luxuriousness into which Keats's sense of beauty led him. Shelley's poet-world seems bathed in the cold splendor of a moonlight radiance ; that of Keats seems * See p. 407. 404 THE MODERJsr ENGLISH PERIOD. warm and richly colored, heavy with the overpowering sweetness of incense. John Keats (1795-1821) contrasts strongly with the two young poets just considered. He is no revolutionary spirit ; he has no new social theories to put forth; he does not trouble himself with the questions of the day, nor employ his art in idle com- plaints, nor in useless efforts at reform. An absorbing love of beauty, comparable to that of Spenser, is his most marked characteristic. His verse lacks the manly, if somewhat careless strength of Byron, the sincere if mis- taken conviction of Shelley; but it possesses, in its best examples, an almost unrivaled perfection of form and beauty of expression. His taste turned naturally to classic Greece ; he leaves the unlovely world about him to live among gods and heroes, and to tell of their pas- sions in his own delicious verse. One of these classic studies, the unfinished poem Hyperion, is remarkable for the majestic beauty of its blank verse, the finest of its kind since Milton, whose epic manner it somewhat resembles. He delights also in the romance of the Middle Ages; he is a student and disciple of Spenser; and these influences are seen in such poems as Isabella, or The Pot of Basil, founded on a story of Boccaccio, and in St. Agnes s Eve. Keats may be regarded as definitely representing the value of form and sweetness of expression — of beauty as beauty — in English verse. In this respect some of his work, such as his Ode on a Grecian Urn,* has never been surpassed, and may be regarded as almost perfect. He has of necessity left but few examples of his best, but much that shows the promise of a genius yet unfolded. If, as some think, his poems are often too luxuriant and sensuous, without restraint, and wanting in deeper * See p. 412, JOHN KEA TS. 40S thought, we must remember his feeble health, and his death from consumption at twenty-six. While we may not agree with Matthew Arnold in saying that " no one else in English poetry, save Shakespeare, has in expression quite the fascinating felicity of Keats," yet none can fairly limit the possibilities of his life by the work of his sickly youth. Keats, with his love of beauty as yet passionate and unrestrained, delighting chiefly in graceful flow and music of sweet words, has given us verse which some- times cloys ; the later Tennyson, with a love less pas- sionate but not less real, restrained and guided by maturer judgment, clothes his more noble thought in verse whose beauty does not weary us. SELECTIONS FROM BYRON. FROM CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her ! Ye elements ! — in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted — can ye not Accord me such a being ? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes. By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before. To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal, 4o6 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, per doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan. Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise. Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay. And dasheth him again to earth : — there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake. And monarchs tremble in their capitals. The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they } Thy waters wasted them while they were free. And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou. Unchangeable save to thy wild wave's play — Time writes no wrinkle on thy azure brow — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests : in all time. Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime SELECTIONS FROM B YRON. 4°? Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me Were a dehght ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear. For I was, as it were, a child of thee. And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane— as I do here. SONNET ON CHILLON. Eternal spirit of the chainless mind ! Brightest in dungeons. Liberty ! thou art. For there thy habitation is the heart — The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd — To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wingS on every wind. Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod. Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God. SELECTIONS FROM SHELLEY. TO A SKYLARK. I. Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 4o8 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. Higher still and higher, From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. III. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening. Thou dost float and run ; Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. IV. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight ; Like a star of heaven In the broad daylight. Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, V. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, • Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. VI. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud ; As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not ; What is most like thee .' From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody- SELECTIONS FROM SHELLE V. 409 VIII. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought. Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not : IX. Like a highborn maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower : X. Like a glowworm golden In a dell of dew. Scattering unbeholden Its^erial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view : XI. Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves. By warm winds deflowered. Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. XII. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers. All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. XIII. Teach us, sprite or bird. What sweet thoughts are thine : I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 410 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. XIV. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt — A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want, XV. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ? What iields, or waves, or mountains ? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thy own kind ? What ignorance of pain .'' XVI. With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be : Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee : Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. XVII. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and d^ep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? XVIII. We look before and after. And pine for what is not : Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. XIX. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear. If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near, SELECTIONS FROM SHELLE Y. 41 1 XX. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! XXI. Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow. The world should listen then, as I am listening now. TO-NIGHT. Swiftly walk over the western wave. Spirit of Night ! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where all the long and lone daylight Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. Which make thee terrible and dear, — Swift be thy flight ! Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought ! Blind with thine hair the eyes of day, ~ Kiss her until she be wearied out. Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand — Come, long sought ! When I arose and saw the dawn I sighed for thee ; When light rode high, and the dew was gone. And noon lay heavy on flower and tree. And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, — I sighed for thee, 412 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me ? — Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. Murmured like a noontide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side ? Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied. No, not thee ! Death will come when thou art dead. Soon, too soon ; Sleep will come when thou art fled ; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night. Swift be thine approaching flight. Come soon, soon ! SELECTIONS FROM KEATS. ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. I. Thou still unravished bride of quietness. Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both. In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth ? What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstacy ? II. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone ! Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss. Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss. Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! SELECTIONS FROM KEA TS. 413 III. Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu ; And, happy melodist, unwearied. Forever piping songs forever new ; More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, Forever panting, and forever young ; All breathing human passion far above. That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. IV. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Leadest thou that heifer lowing at the skies. And all her silken flanks with garlands drest ? What little town by river or sea shore. Or mountain built with peaceful citadel. Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn ? And, little town, thy streets forever more Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. V. O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought. With forest branches and the trodden weed ; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral ! When old age shall this generation waste. Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayest, " Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. Much have I traveled in the realms of gold. And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 414 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne ; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien. Cbapter 1[ir. Recent Writers. — 1830. The year 1830 may conveniently be regarded as beginning the latest literary epoch of England. Within the limits of a few years, events are thickly clustered about it which mark the breaking up of old conditions and the establishment of new. By 1830 that extraordinary outburst of poetic genius which began during the closing years of the preceding The New Era ccntury had spent its force. Wordsworth, in Literature. Coleridge, and Southey still lived, indeed, but their work was done, while the recent and un- timely deaths of Keats, Shelley, and Byron had made a sudden gap in English poetry. Into the firma- ment thus strangely left vacant of great lights, there rose a new star. It was in 1830 that Alfred Tennyson, the representative English poet of our era, definitely entered the literary horizon by the publication of his Poems, Chiefly Lyrical. After him great writers of the new era crowd in quick succession, and the next ten years see the advent of Robert Browning {Pauline, 1833), Elizabeth Barrett — -afterwards Mrs. Browning — {Prome- theus Bound, 1833), Charles Dickens {Sketches by Boz, RECENT WRITERS. 4^5 1 834), William Makepeace Thackeray ( Yellowplush Papers, 1837), dindjokn Ruskin {Salsette and Elephant a, 1839). The year 1830 is likewise an important one in spheres of thought and action inseparably connected with the literature of the time. The revolutionary ^he New Era spirit, temporarily repressed in the conser- '" H'sfry. vative reaction that followed the Congress of Vienna, came again to the surface. It was in 1830 that the Bourbon king, Charles X., was driven from the throne of France, an event which awakened in Germany a fervor of democratic feeling which had been but half suppressed. In England the same drift towards social change over-rode the more conservative element; the year 1832 made an epoch in the advance of democracy by the passage of a Reform Bill which greatly increased the political power of the people, and prepared the way for those extensive changes in government which have marked her subsequent history. From this same period, too, date many of those important changes in the outward conditions of daily life which have followed the application of modern science to directly practical ends. In 1830 the Liverpool and Manchester Railway went into operation, the first railroad opened in England ; the first electric telegraph followed in 1837, and steam communication with the United States was begun in the following year. Nor was this year 1830 unproductive in that scientific investigation, the results of which have influenced enor- mously the literary spirit of our time. Sir The New Era Charles Ly ell's Principles of Geology (1830), '"Science, expanding men's imagination by its revelation of the vast duration of the earth's past, was one of the first of those many books of science which during the past half century have combined to modify some of our funda- mental ideas of life. 41 6 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. Thus this epoch ushered in a new literature, amid new hopes for human progress, at a time when science seemed to be miraculously transforming the very conditions of existence, as well as indefinitely extending the bounds of human knowledge. Any attempt to gain a comprehensive view of the literary period thus begun, presents almost insurmount- able difficulties, even if it were possible within our present limits. The period has been one of immense literary productiveness ; and our attention is distracted and our judgment confused by the vast number of writers, so near to us that it is impossible for us to see them in any proper perspective. We will select a few representative writers from the many whose names are familiar to us, and try to learn something of them and of their relation to their time. The practical and prosperous temper of an England that fifty years ago seemed entering on a period of solid Thomas Bab- comfort and prosperity, is admirably rep- ington Macauiay. rggg^jgj by the brilliant essayist and his- torian, Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800-1859). From his first publication, an essay on Milton in the Edinburgh Review, 1825, Macaulay's career was one of unbroken and well deserved success. He was successful as statesman and as author. He was courted and admired in the most distinguished circles, and his extensive reading, phe- nomenal memory, and brilliant conversation helped to make him a social and literary leader. He thoroughly enjoyed the world and the age in which he found him- self, finding it full of substantial comforts and a sensible and rational progress. To his shrewd and practical in- telligence the spiritual alternations, the mysterious rap- tures and despairs of finer and more ethereal natures, must have, been wholly unintelligible. He felt, to use his own oft-quoted phrase, that " an acre in Middlesex is better MA CA ULA Y AND CARL YLE. 41 7 than a principality in Utopia." But if Macaulay, like the vast majority of men, was too prone to regard the best things of life as capable of exact statement in the tables of statistics, his work has a positive and enduring value. His essays dealt with many subjects in history and literature. The impetuous rush and eloquence of their style, their picturesqueness, fascination, and spark- ling antithesis, won for them innumerable readers. Thousands found in them information which they would never have gained if presented in a longer and less attract- ive form, and Macaulay thus became to the widening reading public the great popular educator of his time. Addison had declared that he would bring philosophy out of the closet and make it dwell in clubs and coffee- houses ; Macaulay announced, before publishing his History of England, that he would write a history which should take the place of the last new novel on every lady's table. And both men kept their word. The attitude towards life and his own age of Thomas Carlyle (i 795-1 881) was a widely different one. Life to him was a matter of grim and tragic earnest, .,,.,. ,, Thomas Carlyle. and so far from yielding himself to any easy enjoyment of it, Carlyle rather seems to cry out to a faith- less and blinded generation as some stern prophet of the desert. "Woe unto them," he declares in his essay on Scott, " woe unto them that are at ease in Zion." Thomas Carlyle was the son of a shrewd, hard working stone mason of strong convictions and great uprightness of character. The Carlyle family is described by one of the neighbors as " pithy, bitter-speakin' bodies, and awfu' fechters," while according to Carlyle himself they were remarkable for "their brotherly affection and co- herence, for their hard sayings and hard strikings."* Thomas Carlyle was the true descendant of this sterling * Carlyle's " Reminiscenses," p. 35. 4l8 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. and granite stock. He was a conscientious and tireless worker ; in spite of a vein of harshness, in his strength, his earnestness, his sincerity, his profound tender- ness, a rare and beautiful nature. His early and en- thusiastic study of German literature and philosophy exercised a profound influence upon his views, and even affected his style of writing, which is powerful, but ec- centric in the extreme. His early works testify to the direction of his studies, his earliest being a translation of Goethe's Wilhelm Meister (1824), and his second a Life of Schiller (1825). In 1833 his Sartor Resctrtus began to appear in Frasers Magazine. This characteristic book, with its grim humor, abruptness, and grotesqueness, broken by overpowering torrents of eloquence, found at first but few readers among a bewildered or indifferent public. It contains, however, the germ of Carlyle's philosophy, and many of his after works, such as The French Revolution, the lectures on Heroes and Hero Wor- ship, or The Life and Letters of Cromwell, are but elabor- ate illustrations of the theory of history laid down in this earlier book. Carlyle represents in all its intensity, and with a touch of natural exaggeration, the reactionary protest against the shallowness and shams of the eighteenth century. His test of a man is, " Is he sincere ? " Unlike Macaulay, he had no enthusiasm for the advance of science or of democracy ; his view of life was profoundly ideal and religious. He distrusted science, declaring, " We have for- got the divineness in these laboratories of ours "; he dis- trusted material prosperity, writing in Sartor Resartus, " Not what I have but what I do is my kingdom." One great thing that he did was to make men see something divine and wonderful in things which before had seemed commonplace. As a writer, Carlyle stands alone. His style has been RUSKIN AND RECENT PROSE. 4^9 imitated, but never with more than very partial success. In spite, or perhaps because, of his many peculiarities, many of his prose passages rank with the greatest in the literature, and his French Revolution must remain one of the most vivid and impassioned of prose poems. The era has produced another great master of prose in the art critic and x&loxx^&x, John Rtiskin{\%\<^-^. Ruskin, when just out of Oxford, rose to sudden ... . John Ruskm. distinction by his Modern Painters (vol. i. 1843). This work, begun in defense of Turner, a great but then little appreciated landscape painter, far out- grew the limits of its original design. Whatever may be its value as a treatise on art, its elaborate and poetic beauty of style give it a high place in literature. By numerous other works Ruskin has proved himself one of the great modern masters of English prose. In the truth and beauty of his descriptions of nature, he has expressed the same exquisite perception of the life of the world about us which colors our poetry, and which is one of the distinctions of our modern literature. Ruskin, like Carlyle, has denounced the money-making and material tendencies of latter-day England. This industrial age, with its factories, railroads, and telegraphs, has called forth some of his fiercest arraignments, and he has dwelt much on the ugliness which it has brought into life. Such writers as Macaulay, Carlyle, and Ruskin make us realize the greatness of our modern literature in the sphere of prose. These men, with Cardinal Newman and two writers of an earlier generation, the essayist, Thomas De Quincey (i 785-1 859), and Walter Savage Landor {lyy^-i^S^), entitle us to say, that while in poetry modern England has fallen behind the greatest achieve- ments of her past, in the art of prose writing she has certainly equaled, and probably surpassed, the produc- tions of any former period. 420 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. In no direction has this development of prose been more remarkable than in that of the novel, the distinc- The Growth of '-'^^ literary form of the modern world. the Novel. gj^^.^ jj^g publication of Richardson's Pamela in 1740, the range of the novel has immensely broadened, and its importance as a recognized factor in our intellectual and social life has surprisingly increased. William. Godwin (1756-1836) employed the novel as a vehicle of opinion. His Caleb Williams (1794) was one of the earliest of these novels with a purpose, of which there are so many examples in later fiction. Maria Edgeworth{\'](i'j-\Z/\ii^,t\\& author of Castle Rack- rent, The Absentee, Helen, and other novels, has been called the creator of the novel of national manners. By her pictures of Irish life she did somewhat the same service for that country that Scott was soon to perform for his beloved Scotland ; she gave it a place in literature. Shortly before Scott began to create the historical novel, Jane Austen (1775-1817) began her finished and exquisite pictures of the daily domestic life of middle-class Eng- land, in Sense and Sensibility (i8ii). In these novels the ordinary aspects of life are depicted with the minute- ness and fidelity of the miniature painter, yet their charming and .,j.unfaiHng art saves the ordinary from becoming tiresome or commonplace. Miss Austen has found worthy successors, but no superiors in her chosen field. The Cranford of Elizabeth Gaskell {\Sio-iS66) is a masterly study of the little world of English provincial life, as are the Chronicles of Carlingford of Margaret Oliphant (1820-). Mrs. Gaskell is further remembered for work of a more tragic and powerful order than the quaint and pathetic humor of Cranford. Her first novel, Mary Barton (1848), laid bare before the reading world the obscure life and struggles of the poor who toiled in the great manufactories of Manchester. Perhaps the THE NOVEL : CHARLES DICKENS. 42 1 subject is too monotonous and too mournful for the highest art, but the book bears on every page the evi- dence of insight and of truth. The Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet (1849), °f Charles Kingsley, the story of a London apprentice who becomes involved in the Chartist agitations, shows the same sym- pathetic interest in the heavy burdens of the poor, and in that unhappy antagonism between employer and employed which remains one of the unsettled problems of our time. This widening of the sphere of the novel to include the trials or tragedies of the humblest phases of life, is a further evidence of that broadening sympathy with the race of man, which we have seen grow stronger in the poetry of the preceding century as ideas of democ- racy gained in power. But the life of the outcast and the poor has found its most famous, if not its most truthful 1 ., ••-7 7 7-1-7 /r. ^\ Charles Dickens. chronicler in Charles Dickens (1812-1870), one of the greatest novelists of the epoch. Dickens was the second of eight children. His earliest associations were with the humbler and harsher side of life in a metropolis, as his father, John Dickens, a clerk in the Navy Pay-Ofifice, was trans-ferred from Portsmouth to London in 18 14. The knowledge thus hardly gained through early struggles and privations, became a store- house from which Dickens drew freely in his later work. The Marshalsea Prison, where John Dickens was confined for debt, is described in Little Dorrit; in David Copper- field, the most autobiographical of the novels, David's experiences as a wine merchant's apprentice may have been suggested by Warren's Blacking Factory, where Dickens worked as a boy, while his youthful struggles with shorthand and reporting are reflected in Copperfield's later history. Remembering the great novelist's early experience, it seems but natural that he should have 42 2 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. chosen to let in the sun and air on some of the shabbier and darker phases of existence, depicting many social gradations, from obscure respectability through the vagrants and adventurers in the outer circles of society, down, as in Oliver 7ze'w/(i837-i838), to the very dens and devices of open crime. There is Jo, the London street waif of Bleak //i??^.?^ (1852-1853), "allers a movin' on"; Jingle, the gay and voluble impostor of Pickwick (1836- 1837); ''"d that questionable fraternity, the Birds of Prey, that flit about the dark places of the Thames in Our Mutual Friend (1864-1865). Yet through this portrayal of the under strata of society, there runs a strong, perhaps a sometimes too apparent, moral purpose. Take us where he will, Dickens's art is always pure, sound, and wholesome. It is as a humorist that Dickens is at his best. There is a whimsical and ludicrous extravagance in his humor, an irresistible ingenuity in the ridiculous, peculiar to him alone. From the time when a delighted people waited in rapturous impatience for the forthcoming number of Pickwick, to the publication of the unfinished Edwin Drood (1870), nineteenth century England laid aside her weariness and her problems to join in Dickens's overflowing, infectious laughter. When we are ungrate- ful enough to be critical of one who has rested so many by his genial and kindly fun, we must admit that Dickens was neither a profound or truthful interpreter of life and character. His is for the most part a world of caricature, peopled, not with real living persons, but with eccen- tricities and oddities, skillfully made to seem like flesh and blood. We know them from some peculiarity of speech or manner, some oft-repeated phrase; they are painted from without ; we are rarely enabled to get inside of their lives, and look out at the world through their eyes. The result is often but a clever and amusing bur- WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 423 lesque of life, not life itself. It may also be admitted that we feel at times in Dickens the absence of that atmosphere of refinement and cultivation which is an unobtrusive but inseparable part of the art of Thackeray. Without detracting from some famous and beautiful scenes, Dickens's pathos is often forced and premeditated, his sentiment shallow, while there are heights from which he is manifestly shut out. When he attempts to draw a gentleman, or an average mortal distinguished by no special absurdities, the result is apt to be singularly insipid and lifeless. Notwithstanding these shortcom- ings, Dickens has won notable successes outside the field of pure humor. His Tale of Two Cities (1859) '^ a powerful story, quite different from his usual manner, and many scenes throughout his other books, as the famous description of the storm in David Copperfield, are triumphs of tragic power. William Makepeace TAackeraj {iSi 1-1867,) is the keen but kindly satirist of that surface world of frivolity and fashion into which the art of Dickens so wiiiiam Make- seldom penetrates. Thackeray was born at ''^^'^^ ac eray. Calcutta, but was early sent to England for his education. He had something of that regular training which Dickens lacked, going to Cambridge from the Charterhouse School in London. He left college, however, shortly after entering, to study art on the Continent, and finally, losing his money, he returned to England, and about 1837 drifted into literature. After writing m.uch for periodicals, he made his first great success in Vanity Fair (1847-1848). In this book, under its satiric and humorous delineation of a world of hollowness and pretense, runs the strong current of a deep and serious purpose. " Such people there are," Thackeray writes, stepping " down from the platform," like his master, Fielding, to speak in his own person — " such people there are, liv- 424 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. ing and flourishing in the world — Faithless, Hopeless, Charityless ; let us have at them, dear friends, with might and main. Some there are, and very successful, too, mere quacks and fools ; and it was to combat and expose such as these, no doubt, that laughter was made." * The passage is better than any outside comment on the spirit of Thackeray's work; only the shallow and undiscriminating reader fails to see that Thackeray's seriousness is deeper and more vital than his cynicism ; that though the smile of the man of the world be on his lips, few hearts are more gentle, more compassionate, more tender ; that though he is quick to scorn, few eyes have looked out on this unintelligible world through more kindly or more honest tears. Satirist as he is, he kneels with the genuine and whole-souled devotion of Chaucer, of Shakespeare, and of Milton, before the simple might of innocence and of goodness. In the midst of this world of Vanity Fair, with its pettiness, its knavery, and its foolishness, he places the unspoilt Amelia and the honest and faithful Major Dobbin. If in Pendennis we have the world as it looks to the idlers in the major's club windows, we have also Laura, and " Pen's " confiding mother, apart from it, and unspotted by its taint. But more beautiful than all other creations of Thackeray's reverent and loving nature, is the immortal presence of Colonel Newcome, the man whose memory we hold sacred as that of one we have loved — the strong, humble, simple-minded gentleman, the grizzled soldier with the heart of a little child. In such characters Thackeray, too, preaches to us, in his own fashion, the old lesson dear to lofty souls, that " Virtue can be assailed, but never hurt. Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled." \ * "Vanity Fair," vol. i. chap. viii. f Milton's " Comus," see pp. 220-221, supra. GEORGE ELIOT. 425 So he echoes Scott's dying injunction to Lockhart : "Be a good" man, my dear," by showing us, in the corruption of much that is mean and vile, that beauty of holiness which can " Redeem nature from the general curse," that fair flower of simple goodness which, blossoming in tangled and thorny ways, sweetens for us the noisome places of the earth. In addition to his work as painter of contemporary manners, Thackeray has enriched the literature by two remarkable historical novels, Henry Esviond {i?,i,2) and its sequel. The Virginians (1857-1859). In the first of these we have the fruits of Thackeray's careful and loving study of eighteenth century England, a period with which he was especially identified, and which he had treated critically with extraordinary charm and sympathy in his Lectures on the English Humorists (pub. 1853). Esmond is one of the greatest, possibly the greatest historical novel in English fiction. The story is supposed to be told by Esmond himself, and the book seems less that of a modern writing about the past than the contemporary record of the past itself. Nothing is more wonder/ul in it, than the art with which Thackeray abandons his usual manner to identify himself with the narrator he has created. Yet in this, perhaps, we should rather see the real tender-hearted Thackeray, his thin veil of cynicism thrown aside. Thackeray's style is exceptionally finished and charm- ing ; light, graceful, and incisive, it places him among the greatest prose masters of English fiction. Among the many women who have gained distinction as writers of fiction since the appearance of Miss Burney's Evelina (1-778), one at least cannot be passed over even in the briefest survey. George Eliot {Mary Ann Evans, 426 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. 1820-1881) stands easily in the front rank of English novelists, and must, moreover, be recognized as one of the George Eliot ^ost representative and influential writers 1820-1881. ' Qf i-hg latter half of the century. She was born at Chilvers Coton Parish, in Warwickshire, the county of intermingled Celt and English that has given so much to literature. Her father, like the elder Carlyle, was a plain, capable, practical man ; one of those who do the world's work faithfully and silently. His daughter has preserved for us some traits of his strong, simple nature in the character of Caleb Garth, in Middlemarch. Much of George Eliot's best work deals with those phases of English provincial life among which many of her early years were passed. With a broader scope, a freer and more masculine handling than that of any writer who had preceded her in the field, by such novels as Adam Bede (1859), ^-^^ -^«'// on the Floss (i860), and Middlemarch (i 871-1872), she is as emphatically the great painter of Eng- lish country life as Dickens is of the slums and of the poor, or Thackeray of club life and of fashion. Romola, an historical novel of the Florence of Savonarola, is her one notable departure from her chosen sphere. George Eliot's work fills us with an intense sense of reality. Her characters are substantial, living people, drawn with a Shakesperean truth and insight. In order to interest us in them she is not forced, as Dickens was, to rely on out- ward eccentricities. In Tom and Maggie Tulliver, in Dorothea Brooke, in Tito Melema, or in Gwendolen Harleth, we enter into and identify ourselves with the inner experiences of a human soul. These and the other great creations of George Eliot's genius are not set char- acters ; like ourselves, they are subject to change, acted upon by others, acting on others in their turn ; molded by the daily pressure of things within and things without. We are made to understand the growth or the degener-, RECENT FOE TRY. 427 ation of their souls ; how Tito slips half consciously down the easy slopes of self-indulgence, or Romola learns through suffering to ascend the heights of self-renunci- ation. The novels of George Eliot move under a heavy weight of tragic earnestness ; admirable as is their art, graphic and telling as is their humor, they are weighed down with a burden of philosophic teaching, which in the later books, especially Daniel Deronda, grows too heavy for the story, and injures the purely literary value. The duty of giving up personal enjoyment to forward the prog- ress of the race is a doctrine often inculcated, and one in keeping with many modern aspirations. But quite aside from their teaching, it is the art of these great books, their poetic beauty of style, their subtle under- standing of the lives of men and women, that places them with the great imaginative productions of the literature. While the life and aspirations of our age find their most popular and influential interpretation in the novel, the Victorian era has made some lasting ad- ... , ,1 f x^ 1 • 1 Recent Poetry. ditions to the great body of Jbnglish poetry. Poetry has been studied and practiced as an art with a care which recalls the age of Anne, and even minor writers have acquired an extraordinary finish, and a mastery of novel poetic forms. This attention to form is commonly thought to have begun with Keats, and since 1830 Tennyson has proved himself one of the most versatile and consummate artists in the history of English verse. As is usual in periods of scrupulous and conscious art, this recent poetry has been graceful or meditative, rather than powerful and passionate. It excels in the lyric rather than in the dramatic form ; it delights in express- ing the poet's own shifting moods, and, as a rule, it leaves to the novel the vigorous objective portrayal of life. It finds a relief in escaping from the confined air of our 428 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. modern life into the freedom and simplicity of nature, and it has never lost that subtle and inspired feeling for the mystery of the visible world which came into poetry in the previous century. The supremacy of science and the advance of democracy, the two motive forces in Eng- lish life and thought since 1830, have acted on modern poetry in different ways. There are poets who think themselves fallen on evil days ; who, repelled by the sor- The Poetry of didncss, uglincss, and materialism of a scien- Evasion. j-jj^^. ^^^ mercantile generation, seek ^o escape in poetry to a world less vulgar and more to their minds. Like Keats, they ignore the peculiar hopes and perplex- ities of their age, to wander after the all-sufificient spirit of beauty. This tendency is seen in the early classic poems of Matthew Arnold{\%22-\%%^, in the Atalanta in Calydon of Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-), or in the poems of those associated with the English Pre-Raph- aellite brotherhood, Dante Gabriel Rossetti (i 828-1 882) with his odor of Italy, and his rich and curious felicity of phrase. This poetrj/ of evasion, a.s it may be called, is seen also in the early work of William Morris (1834-), in his classic study. The Life and Death of Jason (1867), and in his Earthly Paradise (i 868-1 870), a gathering of beautiful stories from the myths and legends of many lands. Other poets, unsettled by doubts which have come with modern science, and unable to reconcile faith to The Poetry of ^^^ "^^^ knowledge of their time, carry into Doubt. their work that uncertainty and unbelief which is the moral disease of their generation. The most characteristic poetry of Matthew Arnold is the outcome of this mood. In his Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse, Obermann, Heine's Grave, and many other poems, we see a man at odds with his time, unwilling tp ALFRED TENNYSON. 429 doubt, yet unable to believe. Through his refined, scholarly, and well nigh faultless verse, there runs a for- lorn and pathetic bravery sadder than open despair. Somewhat the same tone is present, but animated by a strain of greater faith and hope, in the poems of Arnold's friend, Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861), a man of genius and of promise, while James Thomson's City of Dreadful Night (1874) is the poetry of despair. Happily the two greatest and most representative poets of our epoch, Alfred Tennyson and Robert Brown- ing, belong to neither of these groups. ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^ Differing widely in manner and in their Faith and Hope, theory of art, they have at least one point in common. Both face frankly and boldly the many questions of their age ; neither evading nor succumbing to its intellectual difficulties, they still find beauty and goodness in the life of the world about them ; holding fast the " things which are not seen " as a present reality, they still cherish " the faith which looks through death." The slightest acquaintance with the poetry of Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892), assures us that he is first of all the consummate artist. He has brought to the service of his art all that can be gathered ^^ ennyson. by the life-long study of the great productions of the past, all that can be gained by the most patient and skillful cul- tivation of great natural gifts. He represents the best traditions of literature as truly as Browning represents a distinctly radical element, and in his work, as in that of Milton, the scholar is constantly delighted by re- miniscences of his study of the great poets of an- tiquity. Tennyson's perfect mastery of his art is shown in the extraordinary scope and variety of his work, for few poets have won success in so many different fields. 430 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. His lyrics, from the early metrical experiments of Claribel and Lilian to Crossing the Bar, or the songs in The As a Lyric Foresters (1892), make up a body of lyrical Poet- work unequaled in melody or beauty by any poet of our time. The songs scattered through The Princess are as faultless as they are famous. "I have led her home, my love, my only friend," in Maud, is one of the noblest love-lyrics of the language, not inferior to the rapturous and familiar Garden Song in the same poem. Like many poets of his time, Tennyson has dealt with classical themes ; winning notable success in The Lotos- Eaters with its contrast study, Ulysses, in ClassicPoems. ^^ ^t^* » Uinone, Tithonus, Lucretius, and other poems of the same order. But even here Tennyson is modern rather than Greek, infusing into old-world myth or story the moods and aspirations peculiar to his time. He has shown us the narrow asceticism of the Middle Ages in St. Simon Stylites, its higher religious aspira- tion in St. Agnes s Eve, and his longest poem, Medisevalism. * . ' 1 The Idyls of the King, preserves at least the outward garb of mediaeval chivalry. The Rec- ollections of the Arabian Nights is a dreamy revelation of the imagined splendors of the Orient, while The Gar- dener's Daughter, The Millers Daughter, and Dora, are exquisite idyls of contemporary England. Only in the drama can Tennyson be said to have distinctly fallen be- low his high standard of excellence, yet even here his failure is only comparative and easily explained by many extenuating circumstances. Yet while Tennyson's sub- jects are thus drawn from many centuries and many lands, he is distinctly the spokesman of his time. Locksley Hall (published in 1842) is aflame with those new hopes of progress which, at the beginning of our TENNYSON AND HIS TIME. 431 epoch, had replaced the cynical despair of Byron. Its hero saw science trembling on the verge of mighty dis- coveries ; he " dipt into the future far as human eye could see. Saw the Vision of the World, and all the wonder that would be." It is the poem of democracy, and while it cries out against "the jingling of the guinea," and "the social lies that warp us frorn the living truth," it looks forward to a time of universal brotherhood and peace, when " — the war drum throbs no longer, and the battle flags are furled. In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world." And as Tennyson here expresses his age's young enthu- siasm, he likewise expresses in Locksley Hall Sixty Years After 'Ca^X disappointment at the real or apparent failure of its early hopes which characterizes our later times. The cry of the first poem is " Forward " ; that of the second, the scornful echo of the watchword of an imagined progress : " Gone the cry of Forward, Forward — lost within a growing gloom ; Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb. Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and space, Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage, into commonest common- place." The faithfulness of the two Locksley Halls to the mood of their respective times might be further illustrated, but enough has been said to indicate their representative character. The mood of despondency in the later poem is, how- ever, entirely foreign to the predominant spirit of Tenny- son's work. In general he is the poet of progress. After the reckless license and fierce enthusiasms of Byron, after Shelley's glorious but intangible dreams of social recon- struction, we have in Tennyson the poet of a rational 432 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. and definite progress, an advance to be gradually gained through established social and political institutions. He doubts not that " Through the ages one increasing purpose runs ; " * he rejoices in " A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent." t It is impossible to dwell here on the many ways in which Tennyson's work binds him to his time. He is one with it in his feeling for science and the supremacy of law ; its questionings are embodied in In Memoriam (1850), the most profound and original of his poems. Notwith- standing some traces of despondency in certain of his later poems, he is from first to last the undaunted singer of faith and hope, beholding with unwavering vision, " That God, which ever lives and loves, One God, one Law, one element And one far-off, divine event. To which the whole creation moves." | Tennyson's ultimate place in English poetry is, of course, a matter of individual conjecture. He has not that fresh and original power which makes the poetry of Shakespeare, Wordsworth, or Browning the breath of a new revelation, but it seems probable that he will hold a high place among the poets of the second rank. With an art that is well nigh flawless, with a lofty and beauti- ful ideal of life, he has worn worthily the " laurel greener from the brows Of him who uttered nothing base." § * " Locksley Hall." f From poem beginning " You ask me why the' ill at ease." % " In Memoriam,'" conclusion. § " Dedication to the Queen." ROBER T BRO WNING. 433 While no recent English poet is so broadly representa- tive as Tennyson, Robert Broivning (1812-1889) has been a guide and an inspiration to many, espe- cially in the latter part of our era, fulfilling ^° "* owning, as no other has done the deepest spiritual needs of his generation. From the first, Browning's genius has been more bold, irregular, and independent than that of Tennyson ; he has been less responsive to the changing mood of his time ; he has rather proved the leader of it, taking his own way unmoved by praise or blame, and at last compelling others to follow him. Browning has been one of the most prolific of English poets. His work covers more than half a century of almost incessant production (Pauline, iS^^-Asolando, 1889), and in sheer bulk and intellectual vigor shows a creative energy hardly surpassed by any English poet since Shake- speare. This vast body of poetry forms a unique contri- bution to literature. It is consistent in aim, apparently uninfluenced by the changing phases of contemporary thought ; in the main it is built up round a few central ideas, clearly grasped at the start and adhered to until the end. It is independent and often eccentric in style, composed in defiance of the prevailing theory of art ; it rises solitary, abrupt, rugged, and powerful, from an age of fluent, graceful, and melodious verse. Browning is no " idle singer of an empty day," but a profound and original genius, facing in deadly earnest men's " obstinate questionings " of life and of death. To Browning the only explanation of the mystery of this present life is to be found in its relation to a future one. To him, God, the soul, and personal immortality are the fundamental and all-important facts. Life and the development of the soul are to be studied in their 434 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. relations to future regions of activity, and only thus do the uses of error and of suffering become intelligible. The study of the individual soul, especially at some crisis ill its development, the habitual interpretation of life from the eternal rather than the temporal or earthly aspect, are accordingly characteristic of Browning's work. The spirit of such poetry is directly opposite to that of Shakespeare, who planted himself firmly on the solid earth, and this difference is illustrative of the con- trast between Elizabethan and Victorian England. Men and Women (1855) contains many of the best of Brown- ing's shorter poems, while The Ring and the Book (\%()'S) is the most considerable and surprising poetic achieve- ment of the century. As a master of verse Browning is distinctly inferior to Tennyson, yet hostile and careless readers are apt to greatly undervalue his purely poetic gifts. In the songs in Paracelsus (1835) and Pippa Passes (1841), and in many other charming lyrics, he has shown us that " He who blows through bronze may breathe through silver." * But his greatest triumphs have been won in quite different poetic forms from those to which the smooth and facile art of the day has made us accustomed. His shorter narrative poems, Ivan Ivhnovitch, Martin Relph, Mule'ykeh, have often a graphic vigor unequaled by any recent poet, and few poets of any age can approach him in the subtle art with which he makes a soul naturally reveal its inmost recesses. He has enlarged the province of poetry by the daring originality of his poetic methods, and his view of life is the most stimulating and spiritual of any English poet, not excepting Milton. Browning is a thinker and teacher in verse, and in many cases argument and philosophy are suffered to crowd out * " One Word More," in " Men and Women." SELECTION FROM CARL YLE. 43^ that beauty which is the soul of true art. But in spite of his intellectual force and intense moral purpose, he has the poet's sensuousness and the poet's intensity. He is no mere reasoner in verse, but the most profoundly pas- sionate-singer of his time, and while much of his work will doubtless decline in importance, he has made great and permanent additions to the literature of his country. Thus in a great English poet of our own day we find that deep religious earnestness, that astounding force, which we noted in those English tribes who nearly fifteen centuries ago began to possess themselves of the land of Britain, Henry Morley reminds us that the opening lines of Csedmon's Creation, the first. words of English literature on English soil, are words of praise to the Almighty Maker of all things. After reviewing in outline the long and splendid history of the literature thus solemnly begun, we find in the two greatest poet voices of our own day, Alfred Tennyson and Robert Browning, the note of an invincible faith, an undimin- ished hope, we find them affirming in the historic spirit of the English race, " Thy soul and God stand sure." SELECTION FROM CARLYLE. ROBERT BURNS. From "Heroes and Hero Worship." It was a curious phenomenon, in the withered, unbelieving, second- hand eighteenth century, that of a Hero starting up, among the arti- ficial pasteboard figures and productions, in the guise of a Robert Burns. Like a little well in the rocky desert places, — hke a sudden splendour of Heaven in the artificial Vauxhall ! People knew not what to make of it. They took it for a piece of the Vauxhall fire-work ; alas, it let itself be so taken, though struggling half-blindly, as in bit- terness of death, against that ! Perhaps no man had such a false reception from his fellow-men. Once more a very wasteful life-drama was enacted under the sun. 43^ THE MODERISf MNGLtSH PERIOD. The tragedy of Burns's life is known to all of you. Surely, we may Say, if discrepancy between place held and place merited constitute perverse- ness of lot for a man, no lot could be more perverse than Burns's. Among those secondhand acting-figures, mimes for the most part, of the eighteenth century, once more a giant Original Man ; one of those men who reach down to the perennial Deeps, who take rank with the heroic among men : and he was born in a poor Ayrshire hut. The largest soul of all the British lands came among us in the shape of a hard-handed Scottish Peasant. His Father, a poor toiling man, tried various things ; did not succeed in any ; was involved in continual difficulties. The Steward, Factor as the Scotch call him, used to send letters and threatenings. Burns says, " which threw us all into tears." The brave, hard-toiling, hard- suffering Father, his brave heroine of a wife ; and those children, of whom Robert was one ! In this Earth, so wide otherwise, no shelter for them. The letters " threw us all into tears " : figure it. The brave Father, I say always; — a silent Hero and Poet ; without whom the son had never been a speaking one ! Burns's Schoolmaster came afterwards to London, learnt what good society was ; but declares that in no meeting of men did he ever enjoy better discourse than at the hearth of this peasant. And his poor " seven acres of nursery ground, " — not that, nor the miserable patch of clay-farm, nor anything he tried to get a living by, would prosper with him ; he had a sore unequal battle all his days. But he stood to it valiantly ; a wise, faithful, unconquerable man ; — swallowing-down how many sore suf- ferings daily into silence ; fighting like an unseen Hero, — nobody pub- lishing newspaper paragraphs about his nobleness ; voting pieces of plate to him ! However, he was not lost ; nothing is lost. Robert is there ; the outcome of him ; — and indeed of many generations of such as him. This Burns appeared under every disadvantage : uninstructed, poor, born only to hard manual toil ; and writing, when it came to that, in a rustic special dialect, known only to a small province of the country he lived in. Had he written, even what he did write, in the general language of England, I doubt not he had already become universally recognized as being, or capable to be, one of our greatest men. That he should have tempted so many to penetrate through the rough husk of that dialect of his, is proof that there lay something far from common within it. He has gained a certain recognition, and is continuing to do so over all quarters of our wide Saxon world : wheresoever a Saxon dialect is spoken, it begins to be understood, by CARL YLE ON B URNS. 43 7 personal inspection of this and the other, that one of the most consid- erable Saxon men of the eighteenth century was an Ayrshire peasant named Robert Burns. Yes, I will say, here too was a piece of the right Saxon stuff : strong as the Harz-rock, rooted in the depths of the world; — rock, yet with wells of living softness in it! A wild, impetuous whirlwind of passion and faculty slumbered quiet there; such heavenly melody dwelling in the heart of it. A noble, rough genuineness ; homely, rustic, honest ; true simplicity of strength, with its lightning-fire, with its soft dewy pity ;— like the old Norse,Thor, the Peasant-god ! — Burns's brother Gilbert, a man of much sense and worth, has told me that Robert, in his young days, in spite of their hardship, was usually the gayest of speech ; a fellow of infinite frolic, laughter, sense, and heart ; far pleasanter to hear there, stript cutting peats in the bog, or such like, than he ever afterwards knew him. I can well believe it. This basis of mirth {^'fond gaillard," as old Marquis Mirabeau calls it), a primal element of sunshine and joyfulness, coupled with his other deep and earnest qualities, is one of the most attractive characteristics of Burns. A large fund of hope dwells in him ; spite of his tragical history, he is not a mourning man. He shakes his sorrows gallantly aside ; bounds forth victorious over them. It is as the lion shaking "dew-drops from his mane"; as the swift- bounding horse that laughs at the shaking of the spear. But, indeed, Hope, Mirth, of the sort like Burns's, are they not the outcome properly of warm, generous affection, — such as is the beginning of all to every man : ■> You would think it strange if I called Burns the most gifted British soul we had in all that century of his : and yet I believe the day is coming when there will be little danger in saying so. His writings, all that he did under such obstructions, are only a poor fragment of him. Professor Stewart remarked very justly, what, in- deed, is true of all Poets good for much, that his poetry was not any particular faculty ; but the general result of a naturally vigorous original mind expressing itself in that way. Burns's gifts, expressed in conversation, are the theme of all that ever heard him. All kinds of gifts : from the gracefulest utterances of courtesy, to the highest fire of passionate speech ; loud floods of mirth, soft wailings of affection, laconic emphasis, clear piercing insight; all was in him. Witty duchesses celebrate him as a man whose speech " led them off their feet." This is beautiful ; but still more beautiful that which Mr. Lockhart has recorded, which I have more than once alluded to, 43^ THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. How the waiters and ostlers at inns would get out of bed, and come crowding to hear this man speak ! Waiters and ostlers ; — they too were men, and here was a man ! I have heard much about his speech ; but one of the best things I ever heard of it was, last year, from a venerable gentleman long famihar with him. That it was speech distinguished by always having something in it. " He spoke rather little than much," tliis old man told me ; " sat rather silent in those early days, as in the company of persons above him ; and always when he did speak, it was to throw new light on the matter." I know not why anyone should ever speak otherv/ise ! — But if we look at his general force of soul, his healthy robustness every way, the rugged downrightness, penetration, generous valour and manfulness that was in him, — when shall we readily find a better-gifted man ? Among the great men of the Eighteenth Century, 1 sometimes feel as if Burns might be found to resemble Mirabeau more than any other. They differ widely in vesture ; yet look at them intrinsically. There is the same burly thick-necked strength of body as of soul ; — built, in both cases, on what the old marquis calls 2i fond gaillard. By nature, by course of breeding, indeed by nation, Mirabeau has much more of bluster ; a noisy, forward, unresting man. But the characteristic of Mirabeau too is veracity and sense, power of true insight, superior- ity of vision. The thing that he says is worth remembering. It is a flash of insight into some object or other; so do both these men speak. The same raging passions ; capable too in both of mani- festing themselves as the tenderest noble affections. Wit, wild laughter, energy, directness, sincerity ; these were in both. The types of the two men are not dissimilar. Burns too could have governed, debated in National Assemblies ; politicized, as few could. Alas, the courage which had to exhibit itself in capture of smuggling schooners in the Solway Frith ; in keeping silence over so much, where no good speech, but only inarticulate rage was possible ; this might have bellowed forth Ushers de Brez6 and the like ; and made itself visible to all men, in managing of kingdoms, in ruling of great ever- memorable epochs ! But they said to him reprovingly, his Olficial Superiors said, and wrote : ' You are to work, not think.' Of your thinking-ia.c\i\tY, the greatest in this land, we have no need ; you are to gauge beer there ; for that only arej/ou wanted. Very notable; — and worth mentioning, though we know what is to be said and an- swered! As if Thought, Power of Thinking, were not, at all times, in all places and situations of the world, precisely the thing that was wanted. The fatal man, is he not always the ««thinking man, the CARLYLE ON BURNS. 439 man who cannot think and see ; but only grope, and hallucinate, and fm'sste the nature of the thing he works with ? He missees it, mis- iaies it, as we say, takes it for one thing, and it zi another thing, — and leaves him standing like a Futility there ! He is the fatal man ; unutterably fatal, put in the high places of men. — " Why complain of this?" say some : " Strength is mournfully denied its arena; that was true from of old." Doubtless; and the worse for the arena, answer 1 ! Complaining profits little ; stating of the truth may profit. That a Europe, with its French Revolution just breaking out, finds no need of a Burns except for gauging beer, — is a thing I, for one, cannot rejoice ■at ! — Once more we have to say here that the chief quality of Burns is the sincerity of him. So in his Poetry, so in his Life. The Song he sings is not of fantasticalities ; it is of a thing felt, really there ; the prime merit of this, as of all in him, and of his Life generally, is truth. The Life of Burns is what we may call a great tragic sincerity. A sort of savage sincerity, — not cruel, far from that ; but wild, wrestling naked with the truth of things. In that sense, there is something of the savage in all great men. Hero-worship, — Odin, Burns ? Well; these Men of Letters too were not without a kind of hero-worship : but what a strange condition has that got into now ! The waiters and ostlers of Scotch inns, prying about the door, eager to catch any word that fell from Burns, were doing unconscious reverence to the Heroic. Johnson had his Boswell for worshipper. Rousseau had worshippers enough ; princes calling on him in his mean garret ; the great, the beautiful doing reverence to the poor moonstruck man. For himself a most portentous con- tradiction ; the two ends of his life not to be brought into harmony. He sits at the tables of grandees ; and has to copy music for his own living. He cannot even get his music copied: "By dint of din- ing out," says he, " I run the risk of dying by starvation at home." For his worshippers too, a most questionable thing ! If doing Hero- worship well or badly be the test of vital well-being or ill-being to a generation, can we say that these generations are very first-rate } — And yet our heroic Men of Letters do teach, govern, are kings, priests, or what you like to call them; intrinsically there is no preventing it by any means whatever. The world has to obey him who thinks and sees in the world. The world can alter the manner of that ; can either have it as blessed continuous summer sunshine, or as unblessed black thunder and tornado, — with unspeakable difference of profit for the world ! The manner of it is very alterable; the matter and fact 440 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. of it is not alterable by any power under the sky. Light ; or, failing that, lightning : the world can take its choice. Not whether we call an Odin god, prophet, priest, or what we call him ; but whether we believe the word he tells us : there it all lies. If it be a true word, we shall have to believe it ; believing it, we shall have to do it. What name or welcome we give him or it, is a point that concerns ourselves mainly. //, the new Truth, new deeper revealing of the Secret of this Universe, is verily of the nature of a message from on high ; and must and will have itself obeyed.: — My last remark is on that notablest phasis of Burns's history, — his visit to Edinburgh. Often it seems to me as if his demeanour there were the highest proof he gave of what a fund of worth and genuine manhood was in him. If we think of it, few heavier burdens could be laid on the strength of a man. So sudden ; all common Lionism, which ruins innumerable men, was as nothing to this. It is as if Napoleon had been made a King of, not gradually, but at once from the Artillery Lieutenancy in the Regiment la FSre. Burns, still only in his twenty-seventh year, is no longer even a ploughman ; he is flying to the West Indies to escape disgrace and a jail. This month he is a ruined peasant, his wages seven pounds a year, and these gone from him : next month he is in the blaze of rank and beauty, handing down jewelled duchesses to dinner ; the cynosure of all eyes ! Adversity is sometimes hard upon a man ; but for one man who can stand prosperity there are a hundred that will stand adversity. I admire much the way in which Burns met all this. Perhaps no man one could point out, was ever so sorely tried, and so little forgot him- self. Tranquil, unastonished ; not abashed, not inflated, neither awkwardness nor affectation : he feels that he there is the man Robert Burns ; that the " rank is but the guinea's stamp " ; that the celebrity is but the candle-light, which will show what man, not in the least make him a better or other man ! Alas, it may readily, unless he look to it, make him a -worse man ; a wretched, inflated wind-bag, — inflated till he burst and become a dead Hon ; for whom, as someone has said, " there is no resurrection of the body " ; worse than a living dog ! — Burns is admirable here. And yet, alas, as I have observed elsewhere, these Lion-hunters were the ruin and death of Burns. It was they that rendered it iiii- possible for him to live ! They gathered round him in his Farm ; hindered his industry ; no place was remote enough for them. He could not get his Lionism forgotten, honestly as he was disposed to do so. He falls into discontents, into miseries, faults ; the world get- MACA ULA Y ON JOHNSON. 441 ting ever more desolate for him ; health, character, peace of mind, all gone; — solitary enough now. It is tragical to think of ! These men came but to see him ; it was out of no sympathy with him, nor no hatred to him. They came to get a little amusement : they got their amusement ; — and the Hero's life went for it ! Richter says, in the Island of Sumatra there is a kind of " Light- chafers," large Fire-fiies, which people stick upon spits, and illuminate the ways with at night. Persons of condition can thus travel with a pleasant radiance, which they much admire. Great honour to the Fire- flies ! But—! SELECTION FROM MACAULAY. SAMUEL JOHNSON.* Samuel Johnson, one of the most eminent English writers of the eighteenth century, was the son of Michael Johnson, who was, at the beginning of that century, a magistrate of Lichfield, and a bookseller of great note in the midland counties. Michael's abilities and attain- ments seem to have been considerable. He was so well acquainted with the contents of the volumes which he exposed to sale, that the country rectors of Staffordshire and Worcestershire thought him an oracle on points of learning. Between him and the clergy, indeed, there was a strong religious and political sympathy. He was a zeal- ous Churchman, and, though he qualified himself for municipal office by taking the oaths to the sovereigns in possession, was to the last a Jacobite in heart. At his house — a house which is still pointed out to every traveler wTio visits Lichfield — Samuel was born on the i8th of September, 1709. In the child the physical, intellectual, and moral peculiarities which afterwards distinguished the man were plainly dis- cernible; great muscular strength, accompanied by much awkward- ness and many infirmities ; great quickness of parts, with a morbid propensity to sloth and procrastination ; a kind and generous heart, with a gloomy and irritable temper. He had inherited from his ancestors a scrofulous taint, which it was beyond the power of medi- cine to remove. His parents were weak enough to believe that the royal touch was a specific for this malady. In his third year he vvas taken up to London, inspected by the court surgeon, prayed over by *This article was prepared for the " Ency. Brit." and is retained in the ninth ed. Macaulay also wrote a review of Croker's ed. of Boswell's " Life of Johnson," which the student would do well to consult, 442 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. the court chaplains, and stroked and presented with a piece of gold by Queen Anne. One of his earliest recollections was that of a stately lady in a diamond stomacher and a long black hood. Her hand was applied in vain. The boy's features, which were originally noble and not irregular, were distorted by his malady. His cheeks were deeply scarred. He lost for a time the sight of one eye, and he saw but very imperfectly with the other. But the force of his mind overcame every impediment. Indolent as he was, he acquired knowledge with such ease and rapidity that at every school to which he was sent he was soon the best scholar. From sixteen to eighteen he resided at home, and was left to his own devices. He learned much at this time, though his studies were without guidance and without plan. He ran- sacked his father's shelves, dipped into a multitude of books, read what was interesting, and passed over what was dull. An ordinary lad would have acquired little or no useful knowledge in such a way ; but much that was dull to ordinary lads was interesting to Samuel. He read little Greek ; for his proficiency in that language was not such that he could take much pleasure in the masters of Attic poetry and eloquence. But he had left school a good Latinist, and he soon acquired, in the large and miscellaneous library of which he now had the command, an extensive knowledge of Latin literature. That Augustan delicacy of taste, which is the boast of the great public schools of England, he never possessed. But he was early familiar with some classical writers who were quite unknown to the best scholars in the sixth form at Eton. He was peculiarly attracted by the works of the great restorers of learning. Once, while searching for some apples, he found a huge folio volume of Petrarch's works. The name excited his curiosity, and he eagerly devoured hundreds of pages. Indeed, the diction and versification of his own Latin com- positions show that he had paid at least as much attention to modern copies from the antique as to the original models. While he was thus irregularly educating himself, his family was sinking into hopeless poverty. Old Michael Johnson was much better qualified to pore upon books, and to talk about them, than to trade in them. His business declined; his debts increased; it was with difficulty that the daily expenses of his household were defrayed. It was out of his power to support his son at either university ; but a wealthy neighbor offered assistance, and, in reliance on promises which proved to be of very little value, Samuel was entered at Pem- broke College, Oxford. When the young scholar presented himself to the rulers of that society, they were amazed not more by his MACA ULA Y ON JOHNSON. 443 ungainly figure and eccentric manners than by the quantity of exten- sive and curious information which he had piclced up during many months of desultory, but not unprofitable, study. On the first day of his residence he surprised his teachers by quoting Macrobius ; and one of the most learned among them declared that he had never known a freshman of equal attainments. At O.xford, Johnson resided during about three years. He was poor, even toraggedness; and his appearance excited a mirth and a pity which were equally intolerable to his haughty spirit. He was driven from the quadrangle of Christ's Church by the sneering looks which the members of that aristocratical society cast at the holes in his shoes. Some charitable person placed a new pair at his door, but he spurned them away in a fury. Distress made him, not servile, but reckless and ungovernable. No opulent gentleman commoner, panting for one-and-twenty, could have treated the academical authorities with more gross disrespect. The needy scholar was generally to be seen under the gate at Pembroke, a gate now adorned with his effigy, haranguing a circle of lads, over whom, in spite of his tattered gown and dirty linen, his wit and audacity gave him an undisputed ascend- ency. In every mutiny against the discipline of the college he was the ringleader. Much was pardoned, however, to a youth so highly distinguished by abilities and acquirements. He had early made himself known by turning Pope's " Messiah " into Latin \erse. The style and rhythm, indeed, were not exactly Virgilian, but the transla- tion found many admirers, and was read with pleasure by Pope himself. The time drew near at which Johnson would, in the ordinary course of things, have become a Bachelor of Arts, but he was at the end of his resources. Those promises of support on which he had relied had not been kept. His family could do nothing for him. His debts to Oxford tradesmen were small indeed, yet larger than he could pay. In the autumn of 1731 he was under the necessity of quitting the university without a degree. In the following winter his father died. The old man left but a pittance, and of that pittance almost the whole was appropriated to the support of his widow. The property to which Samuel succeeded amounted to no more than twenty pounds. His life, during the thirty years which followed, was one hard struggle with poverty. The misery of that struggle needed no aggra- vation, but was aggravated by the sufferings of an unsound body and an unsound mind. Before the young man left the university, his her- editary malady had broken forth in a singularly cruel form. He had 444 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. become an incurable hypochondriac. He said long after that he had been mad all his life, or at leaaj: not perfectly sane ; and, in truth, eccentricities less strange than his have often been thought grounds sufficient for absolving felons, and for setting aside wills. His grimaces, his gestures, his mutterings, sometimes diverted and sometimes terrified people who did not know him. At a dinner- table he would, in a fit of absence, stoop down aird twitch off a lady's shoe. He would amaze a drawing room by suddenly ejaculating a clause of the Lord's Prayer. He would conceive an unintelligible aversion to a particular alley, and perform a great circuit rather than see the hateful place. He would set his heart on touching every post in the streets through which he walked. If by any chance he missed a post, he would go back a hundred yards and repair the omission. Under the influence of his disease, his senses became morbidly torpid and his imagination morbidly active. At one time he would stand poring on the town-clock without being able to tell the hour. At another, he would distinctly hear his mother, who was many miles off, calling him by his name. But this was not the worst. A deep melancholy took possession of him, and gave a dark tinge to all his views of human nature and of human destiny. Such wretchedness as he endured has driven many men to shoot themselves or drown themselves ; but he was under no temptation to commit suicide. He was sick of life, but he was afraid of death ; and he shuddered at every sight or sound which reminded him of the inevitable hour. In religion he found but little comfort during his long and frequent fits of dejec- tion, for his religion partook of his own character. The light from heaven shone on him indeed, but not in a direct line, or with its own pure splendor. The rays had to struggle through a disturbing me- dium ; they reached him refracted, dulled, and discolored by the thick gloom which had settled on his soul ; and, though they might be suf- ficiently clear to guide him, were too dim to cheer him. With such infirmities of body and of mind, this celebrated man was left, at two-and-twenty, to fight his way through the world. He re- mained during about five years in the Midland Counties. At Lich- field, his birthplace and his early home, he had inherited some friends and acquired others. He was kindly noticed by Henry Hervey, a gay officer of noble family, who happened to be quartered there. Gilbert Walmesley, registrar of the ecclesiastical court of the diocese, a man of distinguished parts, learning, and knowledge of the world, did him- self honor by patronizing the young adventurer, whose repulsive per- son, unpolished manners, and squalid garb moved many of the petty MA CA VLA Y on JOHNSOM. 445 aristocracy of the neighborhood to laughter or to disgust. At Lich- field, however, Johnson could find no way of earning a livelihood. He became usher of a grammar-school in Leicestershire ; he resided as a humble companion in the house of a country gentleman ; but a life of dependence was insupportable to his haughty spirit. He repaired to -Birmingham, and there earned a few guineas by literary drudgery. In that town he printed a translation, little noticed at the time, and long forgotten, of a Latin book about Abyssinia. He then put forth proposals for publishing by subscription the poems of Politian, with notes containing a history of modern Latin verse ; but subscriptions did not come in, and the volume never appeared. While leading this vagrant and miserable life, Johnson fell in love. The object of his passion was Mrs. Elizabeth Porter, a widow who had children as old as himself. To ordinary spectators, the lady ap- peared to be a short, fat, coarse woman, painted half an inch thick, dressed in gaudy colors, and fond of exhibiting provincial airs and graces which were not exactly those of the Queensberrys and Lepels. To Johnson, however, whose passions were strong, whose eyesight was too weak to distinguish ceruse from natural bloom, and who had seldom or never been in the same room with a woman of real fashion, his Titty, as he called her, was the most beautiful, graceful, and accomplished of her sex. That his admiration was unfeigned cannot be doubted, for she was as poor as himself. She accepted, with a readiness which did her little honor, the addresses of a suitor who might have been her son. The marriage, however, in spite of occasional wranglings, proved happier than might have been expected. The lover continued to be under the illusions of the_wedding-day till the lady died in her sixty-fourth year. On her monument he placed an inscription, extoUing the charms of her person and of her manners; and when, long after her decease, he had occasion to mention her, he exclaimed with a tenderness half ludicrous, half pathetic, " Pretty creature ! " His marriage made it necessary for him to exert himself more strenuously than he had hitherto done. He took a house in the neigh- borhood of his native town, and advertised for pupils. But eighteen months passed away, and only three pupils came to his academy. Indeed, his appearance was so strange, and his temper so violent, that his school-room must have resembled an ogre's den. Nor was the tawdry painted grandmother whom he called his Titty well quali- fied to make provision for the comfort of young gentlemen. David Garrick, who was one of the pupils, used, many years later, to throw 44^ TtlE MODMliJSt ENGLlSti P£JiIOD. the best company of London into convulsions of laughter by ntiimick- ing the endearments of this extraordinary pair. At length Johnson, in the twenty-eighth year of his age, determined to seek his fortune in the capital as a literary adventurer. He set out with a few guineas, three acts of the tragedy of " Irene " in manuscript, and two or three letters of introduction from his friend Walmesley. Never since literature became a calling in England had it been a less gainful calling than at the time when Johnson took up his resi- dence in London. In the preceding generation a writer of eminent merit was sure to be munificently rewarded by the government. The least that he could expect was a pension or a sinecure place ; and, if he showed any aptitude for politics, he might hope to be a member of parliament, a lord of the treasury, an ambassador, a secretary of' state. It would be easy, on the other hand, to name several writers of the nineteenth century of whom the least successful has received forty thousand pounds from the booksellers. But Johnson entered on his vocation in the most dreary part of the dreary interval which separated two ages of prosperity. Literature had ceased to flourish under the patronage of the great, and had not begun to flourish under the patronage of the public. One man of letters, indeed. Pope, had acquired by his pen what was then considered as a handsome fortune, and lived on a footing of equality with nobles and ministers of state. But this was a solitary exception. Even an author whose reputation was established, and whose works were popular— such an author as Thomson, whose " Seasons " were in every library ; such an author as Fielding, whose " Pasquin " had had a greater run than any drama since " The Beggar's Opera " — was sometimes glad to obtain, by pawning his best coat, the means of dining on tripe at a cook-shop underground, where he could wipe his hands, after his greasy meal, on the back of a Newfoundland dog. It is easy, there- fore, to imagine what humiliations and privations must have awaited the novice who had still to earn a name. One of the publishers to whom Johnson applied for employment measured with a scornful eye that athletic though uncouth frame, and exclaimed, " You had better get a porter's knot, and carry trunks." Nor was the advice bad, for a porter was hkely to be as plentifully fed and as comfortably lodged as a poet. Some time appears to have elapsed before Johnson was able to form any literary connection from which he could expect more than bread for the day which was passing over him. He never forgot the gener- MACAITLAY OM JOHNSON. 447 osity with which Hervey, who was now residing in London, reheved his wants during this time of trial. "Harry Hervey," said the old philosopher many years later, "was a vicious man ; but he was very kind to me. If you call a dog Hervey, I shall love him." At Hervey 's table Johnson sometimes enjoyed feasts which were made more agreeable by contrast. But in general he dined, and thought that he dined well, on sixpennyworth of meat and a pennyworth of bread at an alehouse near Drury Lane. The effect of the privations and sufferings which he endured at this time was discernible to the last in his temper and his deportment. His manners had never been courtly; they now became almost savage. Being frequently under the necessity of wearing shabby coats and dirty shirts, he became a confirmed sloven. Being often very hungry when he sat down to his meals, he contracted a habit of eating with ravenous greediness. Even to the end of his life, and even at the tables of the great, the sight of food affected him as it affects wild beasts and birds of prey. His taste in cookery, formed in subter- ranean ordinaries and alainode beef-shops, was far from delicate. Whenever he was so fortunate as to have near him a hare that had been kept too long, or a meat-pie made with rancid butter, he gorged himself with such violence that his veins swelled, and the moisture broke out on his forehead. The affronts which his poverty em- boldened stupid and low-minded men to offer to him would have broken a mean spirit into sycophancy, but made him rude even to ferocity. Unhappily, the insolence which, while it was defensive, was pardonable, and in some sense respectable, accompanied him into societies where he was treated with courtesy and kindness. He was repeatedly provoked into striking those who had taken liberties with him. All the sufferers, however, were wise enough to abstain from talking about their beatings, except Osborne, the most rapacious and brutal of booksellers, who proclaimed everywhere that he had been knocked down by the huge fellow whom he had hired to puff the Harleian Library. About a year after Johnson had begun to reside in London, he was fortunate enough to obtain regular employment from Cave, an enter- prising and intelligent bookseller, who was proprietor and editor of The Gentleman' s Magazi7ie. That journal, just entering on the ninth year of its long existence, was the only periodical work in the kingdom which then had what would now be called a large circula- tion. It was, indeed, the chief source of parliamentary intelligence. It was not then safe, even during a recess, to publish an account of the 448 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. proceedings of either House without some disguise. Cave, however, ventured to entertain his readers with what he called " Reports of the Debates of the Senate of Lilliput." France was Blefuscu ; London was Mildendo ; pounds were sprugs ; the Duke of Newcastle was the Nardac Secretary of State ; Lord Hardwicke was the Hurgo Hickrad ; and William Pulteney was Wingul Pulnub. To write the speeches was, during several years, the business of Johnson. He was generally furnished with notes, meagre indeed, and inaccurate, of what had been said ; but sometimes he had to find arguments and eloquence both for the ministry and for the opposition. He was himself a Tory, not from rational conviction — for his serious opinion was that one form of government was just as good or as bad as another — but from mere passion, such as inflamed the Capulets against the Montagues, or the Blues of the Roman circus against the Greens. In his infancy he had heard so much talk about the villainies of the Whigs, and the dangers of the Church, that he had become a furious partisan when he could scarcely speak. Before he was three, he had insisted on being taken to hear Sacheverel preach at Lichfield cathedral, and had listened to the sermon with as much respect, and probably with as much intelli- gence, as any Staffordshire squire in the congregation. The work which had been begun in the nursery had been completed by the uni- versity. Oxford, when Johnson resided there, was the most Jacobit- ical place in England, and Pembroke was one of the most Jacobitical colleges in Oxford. The prejudices which he brought up to London were scarcely less absurd than those of his own Tom Tempest. Charles the Second and James the Second were two of the best kings that ever reigned. Laud — a poor creature who never did, said, or wrote anything indicating more than the ordinary capacity of an old woman — was a prodigy of parts and learning, over whose tomb Art and Genius still continued to weep. Hampden deserved no more honor- able name than that of " the zealot of rebellion." Even the ship money, condemned not less decidedly by Falkland and Clarendon than by the bitterest Roundheads, Johnson would not pronounce to have been an unconstitutional impost. Under a government the mildest that had ever been known in the world — under a government which allowed to the people an unprecedented liberty of speech and action — he fancied that he was a slave ; he assailed the ministiy with obloquy which refuted itself, and regretted the lost freedom and happiness of those golden days in which a writer who had taken but one-tenth part of the license allowed to him would have been pilloried, mangled with the shears, whipped at the cart's-tail, and flung into a MACA ULA Y ON JOHNSON. 449 noisome dungeon to die. He hated dissenters and stockjobbers, the excise and the army, septennial parliaments and continental connec- tions. He long had an aversion to the Scotch— an aversion of which he could not remember the commencement, but which, he owned, had probably originated in his abhorrence of the conduct of the nation during the Great Rebellion. It is easy to guess in what manner debates on great party questions were likely to be reported by a man whose judgment was so much disordered by party spirit. A show of fairness was indeed necessary to the prosperity of the magazine ; but Johnson long afterwards owned that, though he had saved appear- ances, he had taken care that the Whig dogs should not have the best of it ; and, in fact, every passage which has lived— every passage which bears the marks of his higher faculties — is put into the mouth of some member of the opposition. A few weeks after Johnson had entered on these obscure labors, he published a work which at once placed him high among the writers of his age. It is probable that what he had suffered during his first year in London had often reminded him of some parts of that noble poem in which Juvenal had described the misery and degradation of a needy man of letters, lodged among the pigeons' nests in the tottering garrets which overhung the streets of Rome. Pope's admirable imitations of Horace's satires and epistles had re- cently appeared, were in every hand, and were by many readers thought superior to the originals. What Pope had done for Horace, Johnson aspired to da for Juvenal. The enterprise was bold, and yet judicious. For between Johnson and Juvenal there was much in common — much more, certainly, than between Pope and Horace. Johnson's " London" appeared, without his name, in May, 1738. He received only ten guineas for this stately and vigorous poem ; but the sale was rapid and the success complete. A second edition was required within a week. Those small critics who are always desirous to lower established reputations ran about proclaiming that the anonymous satirist was superior to Pope in Pope's own peculiar department of literature. It ought to "be remembered, to the honor of Pope, that he joined heartily in the applause with which the appearance of a rival genius was welcomed. He made inquiries about the author of " London." Such a man, he said, could not long be concealed. The name was soon discovered ; and Pope, with great kindness, exerted himself to obtain an academical degree and the mastership of a grammar school for the poor young 45° THE MODERN ENGLISH PERtOD. poet. The attempt failed, and Johnson remained a bookseller's hack. It does not appear that these two men— the most eminent writer of the generation which was going out, and the most eminent writer of the generation which was coming in — ever saw each other. They lived in very different circles — one surrounded by dukes and earls, the other by starving pamphleteers and index-makers. Among Johnson's associates at this time may be mentioned Boyse, who, when his shirts were pledged, scrawled Latin verses sitting up in bed with his arms through two holes in his blanket, who composed very respectable sacred poetry when he was sober, and who was at last run over by a hackney-coach when he was drunk ; Hoole, surnamed the metapliysical tailor, who, instead of attending to his measures, used to trace geometrical diagrams on the board where he sat cross-legged ; and the penitent impostor, George Psalmanazar, who, after poring all day, in a humble lodging, on the folios of Jewish rabbis and Christian fathers, indulged himself at night with literary and theological con- versation at an ale-house in the city. But the most remarkable of the persons with whom at this time Johnson consorted was Richard Savage, an earl's son, a shoemaker's apprentice, and had seen life in all its forms — who had feasted among blue ribbons in St. James's Square, and had lain with fifty pounds' weight of irons on his legs in the condemned ward of Newgate. This man had, after many vicissi- tudes of fortune, sunk at last into abject and hopeless poverty. His pen had failed him. His patrons had been .taken away by death, or estranged by the riotous profusion with which he squandered their bounty, and the ungrateful insolence with which he rejected their advice. He now lived by begging. He dined on venison and champagne whenever he had been so fortunate as to borrow a guinea. If his questing had been unsuccessful, he appeased the rage of hunger with some scraps of broken meat, and lay down to rest under the piazza of Covent Garden in warm weather, and, in cold weather, as near as he could get to the furnace of a glass-house. Yet, in his misery, he was still an agreeable companion. He had an inexhaustible store of anecdotes about that gay and brilliant world from which he was now an outcast. He had observed the great men of both parties in hours of careless relaxation, had seen the leaders of opposition without the mask of patriotism, and had heard the Prime Minister roar with laughter and tell stories not over-decent. During some months Savage lived in the closest familiarity with Johnson ; and then the friends parted, not without tears. Johnson remained in MACAULAV O^r JOHNSON. 45 1 London to drudge for Cave ; Savage went to the West of England, lived there as he had lived everywhere, and, in 1743, died, penniless and heartbroken, in Bristol jail. Soon after his death, while the public curiosity was strongly excited about his extraordinary character and his not less extraordinary adventures, a life of him appeared widely different from the catchpenny lives of eminent men which were then a staple article of manufacture in Grub Street. The style was indeed deficient in ease and variety ; and the writer was evidently too partial to the Latin element of our language. But the little work, with all its faults, was a masterpiece. No finer specimen of literary biography existed in any language, living or dead ; and a discerning critic might have confidently pre- dicted that the author was destined to be the founder of a new school of English eloquence. The " Life of Savage " was anonymous ; but it was well known in literary circles that Johnson was the writer. During the three years which followed, he produced no important work ; but he was not, and indeed could not be, idle. The fame of his abilities and learning con- tinued to grow. Warburton pronounced him a man of parts and genius ; and the praise of Warburton was then no light thing. Such was Johnson's reputation that, in 1747, several eminent booksellers combined to employ him in the arduous work of preparing a " Dic- tionary of the EngUsh Language," in two folio volumes. The sum which they agreed to pay him was only fifteen hundred guineas ; and out of this sum he had to pay several poor men of letters who assisted him in the humbler parts of his task. The prospectus of the " Dictionary " he addressed to the Earl of Chesterfield. Chesterfield had long been celebrated for the politeness of his manners, the brilliancy of his wit, and the delicacy of his taste. He was acknowledged to be the finest speaker in the House of Lords. He had recently governed Ireland, at a momentous conjuncture, with eminent firmness, wisdom, and humanity, and he had since become Secretary of State. He received Johnson's homage with the most winning affability, and requited it with a few guineas, bestowed doubtless in a very graceful manner, but was by no means desirous to see all his carpets blackened with the London mud, and his soups and wines thrown to riglit and left over the gowns of fine ladies and the waistcoats of fine gentlemen, by an absent, awkward scholar, who. gave strange starts and uttered strange growls, who dressed like a scarecrow and ate like a cormorant. During some time Johnson con- tinued to call on his patron, but, after being repeatedly told by the 45 2 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. porter that his lordship was not at home, took the hint, and ceased to present himself at the inhospitable door. Johnson had flattered himself that he should have completed his "Dictionaiy "by the end of 1750, but it was not till 1755 that he at length gave his huge volumes to the world. During the seven years which he passed in the drudgery of penning definitions and marking quota- tions for transcription, he sought for relaxation in literary labor of a more agreeable kind. In 1749 he published the "Vanity of Human Wishes,'' an excellent' imitation of the tenth satire of Juvenal. It is, in truth, not easy to say whether the palm belongs to the ancient or to the modern poet. The couplets in which the fall of 'Wolsey is de- scribed, though lofty and sonorous, are feeble when compared with the wonderful lines which bring before us all Rome in a tumult on the day of the fall of Sejanus — the laurels on the doorposts, the white bull stalking towards the Capitol, the statues rolling down from their pedes- tals, the flatterers of the disgraced minister running to see him dragged with a hook through the streets, and to have a kick at his carcass be- fore it is hurled into the Tiber. It must be owned, too, that in the concluding passage the Christian moralist has not made the most of his advantages, and has fallen decidedly short of the sublimity of his Pagan model. On the other hand, Juvenal's Hannibal must yield to Johnson's Charles ; and Johnson's vigorous and pathetic enumeration of the miseries of a literary life must be allowed to be superior to Juvenal's lamentation over the fate of Demosthenes and Cicero. For the copyright of the " Vanity of Human Wishes " Johnson received only fifteen guineas. A few days after the publication of this poem, his tragedy, begun many years before, was brought on the stage. His pupil, David Gar- rick, had, in 1741, made his appearance on a humble stage in Good- man's Fields, had at once risen to the first place among actors, and was now, after several years of almost uninterrupted success, manager of Drury Lane Theatre. The relation between him and his old pre- ceptor was of a very singular kind. They repelled each other strongly, and yet attracted each other strongly. Nature had made them of very different clay, and circumstances had fully brought out the natural peculiarities of both. Sudden prosperity had turned Garrick's head. Continued adversity had soured Johnson's temper. Johnson saw with more envy than became so great a man the villa, the plate, the china, the Brussels carpet, which the little mimic had got by repeating, with grimaces and .gesticulations, what wiser men had written ; and the exquisitely sensitive vanity of Garrick was galled by the thought that. MA CA ULA Y ON JOHNSON. 45 3 while all the rest of the world was applauding him, he could obtain from one morose cynic, whose opinion it was impossible to despise, scarcely any compliment not acidulated with scorn. Yet the two Lichfield men had so many early recollections in common, and sympathized with each other on so many points on which they sympa- thized with nobody else in the vast population of the capital, that, though the master was often provoked by the monkey-like imper- tinence of the pupil, and the pupil by the bearish rudeness of the master, they remained friends till they were parted by death. Garrick now brought " Irene " out, with alterations sufficient to displease the author, yet not sufficient to make the piece pleasing to the audience. The public, however, listened, with little emotion, but with much civility, to five acts of monotonous declamation. After nine repre- sentations, the play was withdrawn. It is, indeed, altogether un- suited to the stage, and, even when perused in the closet, will be found hardly worthy of the author. He had not the slightest notion of what blank verse should be. A change in the last syllable of every other line would make the versification of the " Vanity of Human Wishes " closely resemble the versification of " Irene." The poet, however, cleared, by his benefit nights, and by the sale of the copy- right of his tragedy, about three hundred pounds — then a great sum in his estimation. About a year after the representation of " Irene," he began to pub- lish a series of short essays on morals, manners, and literature. This species of composition had been brought into fashion by the success of The Taller, and by the still more brilliant success of The Spec- tator. A crowd of small writers had vainly attempted to rival Addi- son. " The Lay Monastery," The Censor, The Freethinker, The Plain Dealer, The Champion, and other works of the same kind, had had their short day. None of them had obtained a permanent place in our literature ; and they are now to be found only in the libraries of the curious. At length Johnson undertook the adventure in which so many aspirants had failed. In the thirty-sixth year after the appearance of the last number of The Spectator appeared the first number of The Rambler. From March, 1750, to March, 1752, this paper continued to come out every Tuesday and Saturday. From the first. The Rambler was enthusiastically admired by a few eminent men. Richardson, when only five numbers had appeared, pronounced it equal, if not superior, to The Spectator, Young and Hartley expressed their approbation not less warmly. Bubb Doding- ton, among whose many faults indifference to the claims of genius 454 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. and learning cannot be reckoned, solicited the acquaintance of the writer. In consequence, probably, of the good offices of Dodington, who was then the confidential adviser of Prince Frederic, two of his royal highness's gentlemen carried a gracious message to the print- ing-office, and ordered seven copies for Leicester House. But these overtures seem to have been coldly received. Johnson had had enough of the patronage of the great to last him all his life, and was not disposed to haunt any other door as he had haunted the door of Chesterfield. By the public The Rambler was at first veiy coldly received. Though the price of a number was only twopence, the sale did not amount to five hundred. The profits were therefore very small. But as soon as the flying leaves were collected and reprinted, they be- came popular. The author lived to see thirteen thousand copies spread over England alone. Separate editions were published for the Scotch and Irish markets. A large party pronounced the style perfect, so absolutely perfect that in some essays it would be im- possible for the writer himself to alter a single word for the better. Another party, not less numerous, vehemently accused him of having corrupted the purity of the English tongue. The best critics ad- mitted that his diction was too monotonous, too obviously artificial, and now and then turgid even to absurdity. But they did justice to the acuteness of his observations on morals and manners, to the constant precision and frequent brilliancy of his language, to the weighty and magnificent eloquence of many serious passages, and to the solemn yet pleasing humor of some of the lighter papers. On the question of precedence between Addison and Johnson, a question which, seventy years ago, was much disputed, posterity has pro- nounced a decision from which there is no appeal. Sir Roger, his chaplain, and his butler. Will Wimble and Will Honeycomb, the " Vision of Mirza," the " Journal of the Retired Citizen,'' the " Ever- lasting Club," the " Dunmow Flitch," the " Loves of Hilpah and Shalum," the " Visit to the Exchange," and the " Visit to the Abbey," are known to everybody. But many men and women, even of highly cultivated minds, are unacquainted with Squire Bluster and Mrs. Busy, " Quisquillius and Venustulus," the " Allegory of Wit and Learning,'' the " Chronicle of the Revolutions of a Garret,' and the sad fate of " Aningait and Ajut." The last Rambler was written in a sad and gloomy hour. Mrs. Johnson had been given over by the physicians. Three days later she died. She left her husband almost brokenhearted. Many people MA CA ULA Y ON JOHNSON. 45 5 had been surprised to see a man of his genius and learning stooping to every drudgery, and denying himself almost every comfort, for the purpose of supplying a silly, affected old woman with superfluities which she accepted with but little gratitude. But all his affection had been concentrated on her. He had neither brother nor sister, neither son nor daughter. To him she was beautiful as the Gun- nings, and witty as Lady Mary. Her opinion of his writings was more important to him than the voice of the pit of Drury Lane Thea- tre, or the judgment of the The Monthly Review. The chief sup- port which had sustained him through the most arduous labor of his life was the hope that she would enjoy the fame and the profit which he anticipated from his " Dictionary." She was gone ; and, in that vast labyrinth of streets, peopled by eight hundred thousand human beings, he was alone. Yet it was necessary for him to set himself as he expressed it, doggedly to work. After three more laborious years, the " Dictionary " was at length complete. It had been generally supposed that this great work would be dedi- cated to the eloquent and accomplished nobleman to whom the pros- pectus had been addressed. He well knew the value of such a compliment ; and therefore, when the day of publication drew near, he exerted himself to soothe, by a show of zealous and at the same time of delicate and judicious kindness, the pride which he had so cruelly wounded. Since the Ramblers had ceased to appear, tlie town had been entertained by a journal called The World, to which many men of high rank and fashion contributed. In two successive num- bers of The World, the " Dictionary " was, to use the modern phrase, puffed with wonderful skill. The writings of Johnson were warmly praised. It was proposed that he should be invested with the author- ity of a dictator, nay, of a pope, over our language, and that his decisions about the meaning and the spelling of words should be re- ceived as final. His two folios, it was said, would of course be bought by everybody who could afford to buy them. It was soon known that these papers were written by Chesterfield. But the just resent- ment of Johnson was not to be so appeased. In a letter written with singular energy and dignity of thought and language, he repelled the tardy advances of his patron. The " Dictionary " came forth without a dedication. In the preface the author truly declared that he owed nothing to the great, and described the difficulties with which he had been left to struggle so forcibly and pathetically that the ablest and most malevolent of all the enemies of his fame. Home Tooke, never could read that passage without tears. 45 6 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. The public, on this occasion, did Johnson full justice, and some- thing more than justice. The best lexicographer may well be content if his productions are received by the world with cold esteem. But Johnson's " Dictionary " was hailed wilh an enthusiasm such as no similar work has ever excited. It was indeed the first dictionary which could be read with pleasure. The definitions show so much acuteness of thought and command of language, and the passages quoted from poets, divines and philosophers, are so skillfully selected, that a leisure hour may always be very agreeably spent in turning over the pages. The faults of the book resolve themselves, for the most part, into one great fault. Johnson was a wretched etymologist. He knew litde or nothing of any Teutonic language except English which, indeed, as he wrote it, was scarcely a Teutonic language ; and thus he was absolutely at the mercy of Junius and Skinner. The " Dictionary," though it raised Johnson's fame, added nothing to his pecuniary means. The fifteen hundred guineas which the book- sellers had agreed to pay him had been advanced and spent before the last sheets issued from the press. It is painful to relate that, twice in the course of the year which followed the publication of this great work, he was arrested and carried to sponging-houses, and that he was twice indebted for his liberty to his excellent friend Richard- son. It was still necessary for the man who had been formally saluted by the highest authority as dictator of the English language to supply his wants by constant toil. He abridged his " Dictionary." He proposed to bring out an edition of Shakespeare by subscription, and many subscribers sent in their names and laid down their money ; but he soon found the task so little to his taste that he turned to more attractive employments. He contributed many papers to a new monthly journal, which was called The Literary Magazine. Few of these papers have much interest ; but among them was the very best thing that he ever wrote, a masterpiece both of reasoning and of satirical pleasantry, the review of Jenyns's " Inquiry into the Nature and Origin of Evil." In the spring of 1758 Johnson put forth the first of a series of essays, entitled The Idler. During two years these essays continued to appear weekly. They were eagerly read, widely circulated, and, indeed, impudently pirated while they were still in the original form, and had a large sale when collected into volumes. The Idler may be described as a second part of The Rambler, somewhat hvelier and somewhat weaker than the first part. While Johnson was busied with his Idlers, his mother, who had A/.4CA ULA V ON JOHNSON. 457 accomplished her ninetieth year, died at Lichfield. It was long since he had seen her; but he had not failed to contribute largely out of his small means to her comfort. In order to defray the charges of her funeral, and to pay some debts which she had left, he wrote a little book in a single week, and sent off the sheets to the press without reading them over. A hundred pounds were paid him for the copy- right ; and the purchasers had great cause to be pleased with their bargain,_for the book was " Rasselas." The success of " Rasselas " was great, though such ladies as Miss Lydia Languish must have been grievously disappointed when they found that the new volume from the circulating library was little more than a dissertation on the author's favorite theme, the Vanity of Human Wishes ; that the Prince of Abyssinia was without a mis- tress, and the Princess without a lover-; and that the story set the hero and the heroine down exactly where it had taken them up. The style was the subject of much eager controversy. The Monthly Review and The Critical Review took different sides. Many readers pro- nounced the writer a pompous pedant, who would never use a word of two syllables where it was possible to use a word of six, and who could not make a waiting woman relate her adventures without bal- ancing every noun with another noun, and every epithet with another epithet. Another party, not less zealous, cited with delight numerous passages in which weighty meaning was expressed with accuracy and illustrated with splendcr. And both the censure and the praise were merited. About the plan of " Rasselas " little was said by the critics ; and yet the faults of the plan might seem to invite severe criticism. John- son has frequently blamed Shakespeare for neglecting the proprieties of time and place, and for ascribing to one age or nation the manners and opinions of another. Yet Shakespeare has not sinned in this way more grievously than Johnson. Rasselas and Imlac, Nekayah and Pekuah, are evidently meant to be Abyssinians of the eighteenth cen- tury ; for the Europe which Imlac describes is the Europe of the eighteenth century ; and the inmates of the Happy Valley talk famil- iarly of that law of gravitation which Newton discovered, and which was not fully received even at Cambridge till the eighteenth century. What a real company of Abyssinians would have been may be learned from Bruce's "Travels." But Johnson, not content with turning filthy savages, ignorant of their letters, and gorged with raw steaks cut from living cows, into philosophers as eloquent and enlightened as himself or his friend Burke, and into ladies as highly accomplished 45 S THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. as Mrs. Lennox or Mrs. Sheridan, transferred the whole domestic system of England to Egypt. Into a, land of harems, a land of polyg- amy, a land where women are married without ever being seen, he introduced the flirtations and jealousies of our ballrooms. In a land where there is boundless liberty of divorce, wedlock is described as the indissoluble compact. " A youth and maiden meeting by chance, or brought together by artifice, exchange glances, reciprocate civilities, go home, and dream of each other. Such," says Rasselas, " is the common process of marriage." Such it may have been, and may still be, in London, but assuredly not at Cairo. A writer who was guilty of such improprieties had little right to blame the poet who made Hector quote Aristotle, and represented Julio Romano as flourishing in the days of the oracle of Ddphi. By such exertions as have been described, Johnson supported him- self till the year 1762. In that year a great change in his circum- stances took place. He had from a child been an enemy of the reign- ing dynasty. His Jacobite prejudices had been exhibited with little disguise both in his works and in his conversation. Even in his massy and elaborate " Dictionary," he had, with a strange want of taste and judgment, inserted bitter and contumelious reflections on the Whig party. The excise, which was a favorite resource of Whig financiers, he had designated as a hateful tax. He had railed against the commissioners of excise in language so coarse that they had seriously thought of prosecuting him. He had with difficulty been prevented from holding up the Lord Privy Seal by name as an ex- ample of the meaning of the word " renegade." A pension he had de- fined as pay given to a State hireling to betray his country ; a pensioner, as a slave of State hired by a stipend to obey a master. It seemed un- likely that the author of these definitions would himself be pensioned. But that was a time of wonders. George the Third had ascended the throne, and had, in the course of a few months, disgusted many of the old friends and conciliated many of the old enemies of his house. The . City was becoming mutinous. Oxford was becoming loyal. Caven- dishes and Bentincks were rHurmuring. Somersets and Wyndhams were hastening to kiss hands. The head of the treasury was now Lord Bute, who was a Tory, and could have no objection to Johnson's Toryism. Bute wished to be thought a patron of men of letters ; and Johnson was one of the most eminent and one of the most needy men of letters in Europe. A pension of three hundred a year was gra- ciously offered, and with very little hesitation accepted. This event produced a change in Johnson's whole way of life. For MA CA ULA Y ON JOHNSON: 45 9 the first time since his boyhood he no longer felt the daily goad urg- ing him to the daily toil. He was at liberty, after tliirty years of anxiety and drudgery, to indulge his constitutional indolence, to lie in bed till two in the afternoon, and to sit up talking till four in the morning, without fearing either the printer's devil or the sheriff's officer. One laborious task, indeed, he had bound himself to perform. He had received large subscriptions for his promised edition of Shakes- peare ; he had lived on those subscriptions during some years ; and lie could not without disgrace omit to perform his part of the contract. His friends repeatedly exhorted him to make an effort, and he re- peatedly resolved to do so. But, notwithstanding their exhortations and his resolutions, month followed month, year followed year, and nothing was done. He prayed fervently against his idleness ; he de- termined,.as often as he received the sacrament, that he would no longer doze away and trifle away his time ; but the spell under which he lay resisted prayer and sacrament. His private notes at this time are made up of self-reproaches. " My indolence," he wrote on Easter eve in 1764, " has sunk into grosser sluggishness. A kind of strange oblivion has overspread me, so that I know not what has become of the last year." Easter, 1765, came, and found him still in the same state. " My time," he wrote, " has been unprofitably spent, and seems as a dream that has left nothing behind. My memoiy grows confused, and I know not how the days pass over me. " Happily for his honor, the charm which held him captive was at length broken by no gentle or friendly hand. He had been weak enough to pay serious attention to a story about a ghost which haunted a house in Cock Lane, and had actually gone himself, with some of his friends, at one in the morning, to St. John's Church, Clerkenwell,in the hope of receiving a communication from the perturbed spirit. But the spirit, though adjured with all'solemnity, remained obstinately silent ; and it soon appeared that a naughty girl of eleven had been amusing herself by making fools of so many philosophers. Churchill, who, confident in his powers, drunk with popularity, and burning with party spirit, was looking for some man of established fame and Toiy politics to insult, celebrated the Cock Lane Ghost in three cantos, nicknamed "Johnson Pomposo," asked where the book was which had been so long promised and so liberally paid for, and directly accused the great moralist of cheating. This terrible word proved effectual ; and in October, 1765, appeared, after a delay of nine years, the new edition of Shakespeare, 460 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. This publication saved Johnson's character for honesty, but added nothing to the fame of his abihties and learning. The preface, though it contains some good passages, is not in his best manner. The most valuable notes are those in which he had an opportunity of showing how attentively- he had during many years observed human life and human nature. The best specimen is the note on the character of Polonius. Nothing so good is to be found even in Wilhelm Meister's admirable examination of " Hamlet." But here praise must end. It would be difficult to name a more slovenly, a more worthless edition of any great classic. The reader may turn over play after play without finding one happy conjectural emendation, or one ingenious and satisfactory explanation of a passage which had baffled preceding commentators. Johnson had, in his prospectus, told the world that he was peculiarly fitted for the task which he had undertaken, because he had, as a lexicographer, been under the necessity of taking a wider view of the English language than any of his predecessors. That his knowledge of our literature was extensive, is indisputable. But, unfortunately, he had altogether neglected that very part of our literature with which it is especially desirable that an editor of Shakespeare should be conversant. It is dangerous to assert a negative. Yet little will be risked by the assertion that in the two folio volumes of the " English Dictionary " there is not a single passage quoted from any dramatist of the Elizabethan age, except Shakespeare and Ben. Even from Ben the quotations are few. Johnson might easily, in a few months, have made himself well acquainted with every old play that was extant. But it never seems to have occurred to him that this was a necessary preparation for the work which he had undertaken. He would doubtless have admitted that it would be the height of absurdity in a man who was not familiar with the works of jEschylus and Euripides to publish an edition of Sophocles. Yet he ventured to publish an edition of Shakespeare without having ever in his life, as far as can be dis- covered, read a single scene of Massinger, Ford, Decker, Webster, Marlowe, Beaumont, or Fletcher. His detractors were noisy and scurrilous. Those who most loved and honored him had little to say in praise of the manner in which he had discharged the duty of a commentator. He had, however, acquitted himself of a debt which had long lain heavy on his conscience, and he sunk back into the repose from which the sting of satire had roused him. He long con- tinued to live upon the fame which he had already won. He was honored by the University of Oxford with a doctor's degree, by the MA CA ULA Y ON JOHNSON. 46 1 Royal Academy with a professorship, and by the king with an inter- view, in which his majesty most graciously expressed a hope that so excellent a writer would not cease to write. In the interval, however, between 1765 and 1775 Johnson published only two or three political tracts, the longest of which he could have produced in forty-eight hours, if he had worked as he worked on the " Life of Savage" and on " Rasselas." But, though his pen was now idle, his tongue was active. The influence exercised by his conversation, directly upon those with whom he lived, and indirectly on the whole literary world, was altogether without a parallel. His colloquial talents were indeed of the highest order. He had strong sense, quick discernment, wit, humor, immense knowledge of literature and of life, and an infinite store of curious anecdotes. As respected style, he spoke far better than he wrote. Every sentence which dropped from his lips was as correct in struc- ture as the most nicely balanced period of The Rambler. But in his talk there were no pompous triads, and little more than a fair pro- portion of words in osity and ation. All was simplicity, ease, and vigor. He uttered his short, weighty, and pointed sentences with a power of voice, and a justness and energy of emphasis, of which the effect was rather increased than diminished by the rollings of his huge form, and by the asthmatic gaspings and puffings in which the peals of his eloquence generally ended. Nor did the laziness which made him unwilling to sit down to his desk prevent him from giving instruction or entertainment orally. To discuss questions of taste, of learning, of casuistry, in language so exact and so forcible that it might have been printed without the alteration of a word, was to him no exertion, but a pleasure. He loved, as he said, to fold his legs and have his talk out. He was ready to bestow the overflowings of his full mind on anybody who would start a subject, on a fellow- passenger in a stage coach, or on the person who sat at the same table with him in an eating house. But his conversation was nowhere so brilliant and striking as when he was surrounded by a few friends, whose abilities and knowledge enabled them, as he once expressed it, to send him back every ball that he threw. Some of these, in 1764, formed themselves into a club, which gradually became a formidable power in the commonwealth of letters. The verdicts pronounced by this conclave on new books were speedily known over all London, and were sufficient to sell off a whole edition in a day, or to condemn the sheets to the service of the trunk maker and the pastry cook. Nor shall we think this strange when we consider what great and 462 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD various talents and acquirements met in the little fraternity. Gold- smith was the representative of poetry and light literature, Reynolds of the arts, Burke of political eloquence and political philosophy. There, too, were Gibbon, the greatest historian, and Jones, the greatest linguist, of the age. Garrick brought to the meeting his inexhaustible pleasantry, his incomparable mimicry, and liis consummate knowledge of stage effect. Among the most constant attendants were two high- born and highbred gentlemen, closely bound together by friendship, but of widely different characters and habits — Bennet Langton, dis- tinguished by his skill in Greek literature, by the orthodoxy of his opinions, and by the sanctity of his life ; and Topham Beauclerk, renowned for his amours, his knowledge of the gay world, his fastidious taste, and his sarcastic wit. To predominate over such a society was not easy. Yet even over such a society Johnson pre- dominated. Burke might indeed have disputed the supremacy to which others were under the necessity of submitting. But Burke, though not generally a very patient listener, was content to take the second part when Johnson was present ; and the club itself, consisting of so many eminent men, is to this day popularly designated as Johnson's Club. Among the members of this celebrated body was one to whom it has owed the greater part of its celebrity, yet who' was regarded with little respect by his brethren, and had not without difficulty obtained a seat among them. This was James Boswell,ayoung Scotch lawyer, heir to an honorable name and a fair estate. That he was a coxcomb and a bore, weak, vain, pushing, curious, garrulous, was obvious to all who were acquainted with him. That he could not reason, that he had no wit, no humor, no eloquence, is apparent from his writings. And yet his writings are read beyond the Mississippi, and under the Southern Cross, and are likely to be read as long as English exists, either as a living or as a dead language. Nature had made him a slave and an idolater. His mind resembled those creepers which the botanists call parasites, and which can subsist only by clinging round the stems and imbibing the juices of stronger plants. He must have fastened himself on somebody. He might have fastened himself on Wilkes, and have becoine the fiercest patriot in the Bill of Rights Society. He might have fastened himself on Whitefield, and have become the loudest field-preacher among the Calvinistic Methodists. In a happy hour he fastened himself on Johnson. The pair might seem ill matched; for Johnson had early been prejudiced against Boswell's country. To a man of Johnson's strong understanding and MA CAUL AY ON JOHNSON. 4^3 irritable temper, the silly egotism and adulation of Boswell must have been as teasing as the constant buzz of a fly. Johnson hated to be questioned ; and Boswell was eternally catechising him on all kinds of subjects, and sometimes propounded such questions as, " What would you do, sir, if you were locked up in a tower with a baby ? " Johnson was a water drinker, and Boswell was a winebibber, and indeed little better than an habitual sot. It was impossible that there should be perfect harmony between two such companions. Indeed, the great man was sometimes provoked into fits of passion, in which he said things which the small man, during a few hours, seriously resented. Every quarrel, however, was soon made up. During twenty years the disciple continued to worship the master : the master continued to scold the disciple, to sneer at him, and to love him. The two friends ordinarily resided at a great distance from each other. Boswell practiced in the Parliament-house of Edinburgh, and could pay only occasional visits to London. During those visits his chief business was to watch Johnson, to discover all Johnson's habits, to turn the conversation to subjects about which Johnson was likely to say something remarkable, and to fill quarto notebooks with minutes of what Johnson had said. In this way were gathered the materials out of which was afterwards constructed the most interesting biograph- ical work in the world. Soon after the club began to exist, Johnson formed a connection less important indeed to his fame, but much more important to his happiness, than his connection with Boswell. Henry Thrale, one of the most opulent brewers in the kingdom, a man of sound and culti- vated understanding, rigid principles, and liberal spirit, was married to one of those clever, kind-hearted, engaging, vain, pert, young women, who are perpetually doing or saying what is not exactly right, but who, do or say what they may, are always agreeable. In 1765 the Thrales became acquainted with Johnson^ and the acquaintance ripened fast into friendship. They were astonished and delighted by the brilliancy of his conversation. They were flattered by finding that a. man so widely celebrated preferred their house to any other in Lon- don. Even the peculiarities which seemed to unfit him for civilized society, his gesticulations, his rollings, his puffings, his mutterings, the strange way in which he put on his clothes, the ravenous eager- ness with which he devoured his dinner, his fits of melancholy, his fits of anger, his frequent rudeness, his occasional ferocity, increased the interest which his new associates took in him. For these things were the cruel marks left behind by a life which had been one long conflict 4^4 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. with disease and with adversity. In a vulgar hack writer, such odditie^ would have excited only disgust. But in a man of genius, learning, and virtue, their effect was to add pity to admiration and esteem. Johnson soon had an apartment at the brewery in Southwark, and a still more pleasant apartment at the villa of his friends on Streatham Common. A large part of every year he passed in those abodes — abodes which must have seemed magnificent and luxurious indeed, when compared with the dens in which he had generally been lodged. But his chief pleasures were derived from what the astronomer of his Abyssinian tale called " the endearing elegance of female friendship." Mrs. Thrale rallied him, soothed him, coaxed him, and, if she some- times provoked him by her flippancy, made ample amends by listening to his reproofs with angelic sweetness of temper. When he was diseased in body and in mind, she was the most tender of nurses. No comfort that wealth could purchase, no contrivance that womanly ingenuity set to work by womanly compassion could devise, was want, ing to his sick room. He requited her kindness by an affection pure as the affection of a father, yet delicately tinged with a gallantry which, though awkward, must have been more flattering than the attentions of a crowd of the fools who gloried in the names, now obselete, of Buck and Maccaroni. It should seem that a full half of Johnson's life, during about sixteen years, was passed under the roof of the Thrales. He accompanied the family sometimes to Bath, and some- times to Brighton ; once to Wales, and once to Paris. But he had at the same time a house in one of the narrow and gloomy courts on the north of Fleet Street. In the garrets was his library, a large and miscellaneous collection of books, falling to pieces and begrimed with dust. On a lower floor he sometimes, but very rarely, regaled a friend with a plain dinnej", a veal pie, or a leg of lamb and spinach, and a rice pudding. Nor was the dwelling uninhabited during his long absences. It was the home of the most extraordinary assemblage of inmates that ever was brought together. At the head of the establishment Johnson had placed an old lady named Williams, whose chief recommendations were her blindness and her poverty. But, in spite of her murmurs and re- proaches, he gave an asylum to another lady who was as poor as herself, Mrs. Desmoulins, whose family he had known many years before in Staffordshire. Room was found for the daughter of Mrs. Desmoulins, and for another destitute damsel, who was generally addressed as Miss Carmichael, but whom her generous host called Polly. An old quack doctor named Levett, who bled and dosed coal MAC A ULA Y ON JOHNSON. 465 heavers and hackney coachmen, and received for fees crusts of bread, bits of bacon, glasses of gin, and sometimes a little copper, completed this strange menagerie. All these poor creatures were at constant war with each other, and with Johnson's negro servant Frank. Some- times, indeed, they transferred their hostilities from the servant to the master, complained that a better table was not kept for them, and railed or maundered till their benefactor was glad to make his escape to Streatham, or to the Mitre tavern. And yet he, who was generally the haughtiest and most irritable of mankind, who was but too prompt to resent anything which looked like a slight on the part of a purse-proud bookseller, or of a noble and powerful patron, bore patiently from mendicants, who, but for his bounty, must have gone to the work- house, insults more provoking than those for which he had knocked down Osborne and bidden defiance to Chesterfield. Year after year Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Desmoulins, Polly and Levett continued to torment him and to live upon him. The course of hfe which has been described was interrupted in Johnson's sixty-fourth year by an important event. He had early read an account of the Hebrides, and had been much interested by learning that there was so near him a land peopled by a race which was still as rude and simple as in the Middle Ages. A wish to become inti- mately acquainted with a state of society so utterly unlike all that he had ever seen, frequently crossed his mind. But it is not probable that his curiosity would have overcome his habitual sluggishness, and his love of the smoke, the mud, and the cries of London, had not Boswell importuiied him to attempt the adventure, and offered to be his squire. At length, in August, 1773, Johnson crossed the High- land line, and plunged courageously into what was then considered, by most Englishmen, as a dreary and perilous wilderness. After wandering about two months through the Celtic region, sometimes in rude boats which did not protect him from the rain, and sometimes on small shaggy ponies which could hardly bear his weight, he re- turned to his old haunts with a mind full of new images and new theories. During the following year he employed himself in record- ing his adventures. About the beginning of 1775, his "Journey to the Hebrides " was published, and was, during some weeks, the chief subject of conversation in all circles in which any attention was paid to literature. The book is still read with pleasure. The narrative is entertaining ; the speculations, whether sound or unsound, are always ingenious ; and the style, though too stiff and pompous, is somewhat easier and more graceful than that of his early writings. His prej- 466 THE MODERN ENGLISH PERIOD. udice against the Scotch had at length become little more than matter of jest; and whatever remained of the old feeling had been effectually removed by the l 6. 3751 literature of, 418; Cole- ridge in, 345; Wordsworth in, 336 Gervinus on Shakespeare, 109 Gibbon, 318, 319 Gilbert, 75 , Gilman, 346 Globe Theatre, 94, 95, loi Goadby, Edwin, i2z{note) Godwin, 420 Goethe, 375, 418 Goldsmith, 318, 322, 326 Goldsmith's Deserted Village, 323 Goneril, 90 'Gorbuduc, 70, 89 Gower, 24 Grasmere, 336 Gratiano, in Grave, The, 14 Gray, 326 Gray's Elegy, 322, 323 " Great Unknown," 372 Greek drama, 88; learning, 68, 71; literature, 66 Green, J. R., on Shakespeare, 18; History of the English People, 30, 41, 77, 207 Greene, Robert, 91, 100; his depre- ciation of Shakespeare, 92 Greene's Alphonsus, 94 Gresham, 73 Grey, Lord, 78, 80 Griselda, 33 Groatsworth of Wit, 92, Grocyn, 67 Guardian, The, 258; on the True Pastoral, 270 So8 WDEK. Guilds, 98 Gulliver's Travels, 279 Gunpowder, 27 Haberdasher, 43 Hair, False, 74 Hall, Bishop, 122 (note) Hatton's New View of London, 254 (fiote) Hamlet, 102, 226 Hampden, 209 Harrington, 71 Harrison, go Harrison's Elizabethan England, 74 Harvey, Gabriel, 78 Hastings, Battle of, 22 Hathaway, Anne, 97, 99 Hawkins, 75 Hawthorne, 352, 353 Hazlitt, 388; on Coleridge, 344 Henry HI., 22 Henry IV., 31 Henry V. , Famous Victories of, go Henry VI., 66, 8g Henry VII., 68 Henry VIII., 6g, 8g; Songs, 69 Herbert, George, 211, 214, 215 Herder, 325 Heroical Epistles, 91 Herrick, 2, 211; and Milton, 212; Selections from, 213; Hesperides, 212; To Corinna, 211 j To Da^a- dils, 213 Heywood, John, 89 Heywood, Thomas, Good Morrow, 195 Historical drama, 90 HoUingshead, 90 Homer, translated, 71 Hooker, 187, 253 Horace, 2 Horton, 217 Howard, Henry, 6g Howard, John, 315 Hugo, Victor, 325 Humanity, New Sympathy with, 323 Hume, 315, 319 Hundred Years' War, 23, 27 Hunter, James, on Shakespeare, 112 Hutchinson, Mary, 336 Idler, The, 317 // Pecorone, 107 Inns, 93 Interlude, 89, 93 Ireland, 15, 78, 80, 81 Irish life, 420 Isaac in Ivanhoe, 125 {note) Isabella, 225 Italian comedy, 101 ; Italian in- fluence, 65, 6g, 70, 81, 89, 104, 107; Decline of, 246; Period of influence, 5. Italian novels, 107; scholars, 21; tales, 32 Italy, 428; and the Drama, 89 charm of, 107; culture of, 19, 2g Flight of Greek scholars into, 66 Secular influence .of, 205-207 Influence of, seealso Renaissance Milton in, 220 James I., 6, 76, 187, 208, 218, 253 James II., 249 Janus, 116 Jarrow, 19 ferusalem Delivered, 7^: Jessica, log Jester, 11-7 (note') few of Malta, g3 Job, H3 John, King, 22 John of Gaunt, 31 Johnson, Samuel, 274, 316, 317, 318, 347; as a. critic, 318; Mac- INDEX. 5°9 aulay on, 441 ; perpetuates Pope, 322; Dictionary, 318; Lives of the Poets, 319; London, 317, 319; Rasselas, 319; Trip to the Heb- rides, 319; Vanity of Human Wishes, 317, 319 Jonson, Ben, 80, 210, 218; on Shakespeare, 99, 205; Every Man in His Humour, 209; Noble Na- ture, 196 Journalism, 255 Jusserand, 42 {note) Jutes, 12 Keats, 399, 400, 404, 427, 428; Se- lections from, 412 Kenelm, 51 Kenilworth, 74, 98 Keswick, 346 Kilcolman, 79, 81 Killegrew, Anne, 250 King John, Troublesome Raign of, 90 King Leir, New Chronicle of, go King's English, 24 Kingsley, 421 Knight, Chaucer's, 40 Kyd, 91 Labor, Gospel of, 30 Lake School, 324 Lamb, 344, 386; Selection from, 388; Tales from Shakespeare, 388; Works, 387, 3S8 Lamb, Mary, 386, 387, 388 Lancashire, 77, 78, 334 Landor, 419 Lanfranc, 21 Langland, 29; and Chaucer, 33 Latin, 11, 21, 30; Bacon's use of, 189; given up, 24; learning, 20; Norman transformation of, 20 Laud, 208 Law Courts, 23 Lear, 102. See also Shakespeare Learning, Revival of, 65 Lecky, 254 (notes) Leicester, Earl of, 78, 98 Lewis "Monk", 352 Liberty, Religious and political, 208 Lichfield, 317 Lilly's Latin Grammar, 98 Linacre, 67 Lintott's Miscellany, 275 Lionel of Clarence, 30 Lockhart, 425; Life of Scott, 373 Locksley Hall, 430 London, 24, 77, 79, 80, 85, 91, 92, 94, 99, 216, 222, 254, 255, 275, 343-346. 386, 421, 423 London Magazine, 388 Longfellow's Poets and Poetry of Europe, 14 {note) Lorris, G. de, 36 Louis XIV., 6, 246 Lovelace, 211, 215 Lowell on Chaucer, 31, 35; on Italian influence, 70 Lucy, Sir Thomas, 99 Luther, 68 Lyell, 415 Lyly, 91, 187 Lyrists, 210 Mabinogion, 18 Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 347, 416; on Addison, 260; on Dr. Johnson, 31S; selection from, 441; essays, 2- History of Eng- land, 21 Macpherson, James, 326 Mallory, 67 Manciple, 44 Margaret of Anjou, 66 Marie de France, 45 5IO INDEX. Marlborough, Duke of, 258 Marlowe, 70, 92; Edward II., 91; Passionate Shepherd, 194; Tam- burlaine, 93, 100; Theatre, 94; Works, 93 Marshalsea Prison 421 Marston, 209 Mary I., 72, 76 Mary Queen of Scots, 72, 80 Mask, The, 74 Massinger, 209; Maid of Honor, ^\ Masson on Milton, 218 Maypole, 245 Mazarin, 246 Medici, Lorenzo di, 67 Merchant Taylors' School, 77 Metamorphoses, Ovid, 71 Methodism, 315 Meun, J. de, 36 Mickle, 326 Middle Ages, 27, 35, 325, 372; end of the, 65 Midland English, 23 Milton, 209, 245, 335; and blank verse, 70; and Shakespeare, 205, 226; The England of, 205; Selec- tions from, 227; Wordsworth on, 339; Areopagitica, 3, 77, 221; Cotnus, 218; Epitaphum Damonis , 220; first poem, 219; Hymn on the Nativity, 217; // Penseroso, 217,232; V Allegro, -JS, 217,227; Milton's Life, 216; Lycidas, 212, 219; Paradise Lost, 220, 222, 223, 225; Paradise Regained, 223,225, Prose, 253; Reason of Church Government, 220; Samson Ago- nistes, 223, 224, 225; Sonnet on his Blindness, 223, 238; Sonnet on the Massacre in Piedmont, 239 ; Tenure of Kings and Magis- trates, 221; Tractate on Educa- tion, 221; Deborah, 223 Minshall, Elizabeth, 223 Miracle Play, 88, 93, 98 Mirandola, 70 Mirror for Magistrates, 71 Modern English Period, 6, 313 Modern Painters, 419 Moliere, 6, 246 Money in the Merchant of Venice, :og Moore's History of Richard III, 187 Moral play, 88 More, Sir Thos., 67, 70 More, Sir Thos., go Morley, Henry, 435; English Wri- ters, 13 {note), 14 (note) Morris, William, 428 Morte d' Arthur. See Mallory. National literature, 3, 4 Ned Softly, 259, 260 New Learning, The, 5, 29, 65, 89, 226. See also Renaissance. Newman, John Henry, 419 Newspaper, First daily, 255 Newton, 250 Norman Conquest, 5, 20, 24, 37; Norman French, 11, 2r, 22, 34 Normandy, 20; Loss of, 22 Normans, 20 North's Plutarch, 71 Northmen, 20 Northumbria, 19 Norton and Sackville, 70 Novels, 420 Oberon, 103 Octavius, 103 Omar Khayyam, 2 Ombre, 276 Ophelia, 102 Orlando Furioso, 71 Ossian, 326 INDEX. 5" Ovid, 71 Oxford, 23, 43, 66, 67, 207, 256, 258, 345, 419 Pageant, 93 Palgrave's Golden IVeasury, 194; Visions of England, 33 Paradise Lost, Milton's, 220-225 Pardoner, 44 Pascal, 246 Patriotism and the drama, 90 Peele, 91 Penshurst, 78 Percy's Reliques, 325 Periodicals, 255 Pertelote, 46 Petrarch, 29, 31, 34, 77; and the sonnet, 70 Petre, Lord, 275 Piedmont, 239 Piers Plowman, 29 Pitt and Walpole, 314 Plantagenets, 22 Plato, 71, 81 Plautus, 8g, loi Play-houses, 88 Players, Travelling, 98 Plutarch, 71, 106 Poe, 352 Poet, Etymology of the word, 69 {note') Poet laureate, 336 Poetry, Recent, 427 Poictiers, 41 Political liberty, 208 Polyolbion, Drayton's, 75 Pope, The, and France, 28; loses the English Church, 69 Pope, Alexander, 313, 320, 322, 325, 326; and his time, 274; Life of, 269 ; Literature after, 316; Proverbial quotations from, 271; Reaction against, 324, 325 ; Dun- ciad, TJ1, 273, 278; Essay on Criticism, 270, 271; Essay on Man, 272; Iliad, 272; Messiah, 271; Odyssey, 272; Pastorals, 270; Rape of the Lock, 271, 275, 280; Windsor Forest, 271 Portia, 108, 225 Powel, Mary, 221 Praise of Folly, 67 Preparation, Period of, 11 Pre-Raphaelites, 428 Press, Liberty of the, 255 Printing, Invention of, 67 Prologue, 96 Prose, Elizabethan, 187 Prospero, 103 Prynne, 253 Puritan and Elizabethan England, 206. Puritan in literature, 205; Period: Table VII., 240, 241; Sabbath, 245 Puritanism, 78; and the stage, 210 Puritans, 74 V\x\Xe.n\i3xa'% Art of English Poesy, 187 Pym, 209 Quarles, Francis, 211 Racine, 6, 246 Radcliffe, Mrs., 352 Ragusa, 115, note. Railway, First, 415 Raleigh, Walter, 75, 76, 253; and Spencer, 79 ; History of the World, 75, 190 Ralph Roister Doister, 89 Rambler, The, 317, 319 Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, 320 Rape of the Bucket, 276 Ravenna, 2g Reeve, 44 SI2 INDEX. Reform Bill, 415 Reformation, 28, 68, 6g, 206 Religious liberty, 208 Renaissance, 5, 27, 35, 65, 77, 81, 104, 107, 218; Decline of the, 247. &■« o/w Italian influence; " First- fruits of the," 68; secular, 205 Renart, Roman du, 45 Restoration, 210, 222, 225, 24S1 259. 313 Revolution, Age of, 400; Era of, 332; of July, 41^ Reynolds, 318 Rhine, 375 Rialto, log, 124, 125 Richardson, 260; Richardson's Pamela, 319 Richelieu, 246 Rights of Man, 316 Robert of Gloucester, 23 Robertson, 319 Robinson, Henry Crabbe, on Cole- ridge, 347 Roland, Song of, 22 RoUo, 20 Roman Catholicism, 72, 80, 206, 24g, 269 Romans, 20 Romantic School, 325, 352 Romaunt of the Rose, 34 Rosalind, Spenser's, 78 Rose Theatre, 94 Rosicrucians, 276, 280 Rossetti, 428 Rowe, Nicholas, on Shakespeare, 99 Royal Exchange, 73 Royal Society, 250 Ruskin, 415, 419; on Milton, 220 Rutherford, Anne, 373 Rydal Mount, 336 Ryswick, 258 Sackville, 71; and Norton, 70, 89 St. Paul's, Cathedral, 207, School, 67, 207, 217 Sainte-Beuve, 325 Saintsbury's Primer of French Lit- erature, 21 Salarino, 108 et seq. Salt, Mr., 386, 387 Sartor Resartus, 418 Schiller, 345, 349, 418 Schoolmen, 30, 46, 65 Science, Modern, 415, 428 Scotland, 15; see Burns, Scott Scott, 324, 325, 326, 328, 372, 425; and Wordsworth, 376; as a nov- elist, 376; Life of, 372: Selections from, 379; Scott's Ivanhoe, 117 (note), I2S (note); Kenilworth, 115 (note); Lady of the Lake, 379! Poems, 375; Works, 374 Scottish Universities, 66 Sea-farer, The, 13, 14 Seneca, 71,89 Ser Giovanni, 107 Seventeenth Century Lyrists, 210 Shadwell, 249 Shaftesbury, Earl of, 248 Shakespeare, John, 96, 99 Shakespeare, 34, 271; and blank verse, 70; and Chaucer, 103; and Milton, 205, 226; and Plutarch, 71; and the drama, 87; Carlyle and Emerson on, 87; in London, 72, 94, 99, 100; Lamb's Tales from, 388; Life of, 96; satirized by Greene, 92; uniting Celt and Teuton, iS; Shakespeare's edu- cation, 99; genius, 104; love of the country, 98; Plays, lOO-loS; predecessors, 91 ; retirement and death, 104; ridicule of Kyd, 91 ; speed in writing, 106; treatment of evil, 103; Works, Table of, 105; Classical Plays, 71; Antony and INDEX. in Cleopatra, 74, 100; Julius Casar, 102, 103; Comedies, loi, 103; ^j You Like It, 97, 98 ; Comedy of Er- rors, 101; Love's Labour Lost, loi; Measure for Measure, 225; Mer- chant of Venice, 93, loi, 106, 225; Midsummer Night's Dream, loi, 103; Taming of the Shrew, 74; T'ct'clf/h Night, 224; 7\vo Gentle- men of Verona, loi ; Winter's Tale, 98, 103; Historical Plays, 2, 90, loi; Henry IV., 73; HeniyV.,^a„ 95; I Henry VI., 101; 3 Henry VI., 98; Henry VIII., 94; King John, 76; Richard II., 31, loi; Tragedies, 102; Hamlet, 102, 210; King Lear,' 2, 102; Macbeth, 102; Othello, 102; Romeo and Juliet, 102; Poems; Song in /4j Fo« Zz/^^ /if, 196; Sonnets (one specimen), 197; Venus and Adonis, 100 Shelley, 375, 376, 399, 400, 402; Skylark, 407; To Night, 411 Shelley's (Mrs.) Frankenstein, 352 Shenstone, 322, 326 Sheridan, 318 Shottery, 97 Shylock, 93, 107 Sidney, 75, 78, 80, 253; Sidney's Arcadia, yi,iS^ ; Defence of Poesy, 187 Sir Roger de Coverley, 259, 263 Sir Toby Belch, 224 Sismondi, 276 (note) Slavery, 315 Snitterfield, 96, 97 Socialism, 28, 30, 33 Somersetshire, 15, 335 Songs, Elizabethan, J94 Sonnet, 70 Sophocles, Antigone of, 2 Southampton, Earl of, 100 Southey, 324, 333, 345 Southwark, 38, 94 Spanish Armada, 15, 76, 90, 206 Spanish tragedy, 91 Spectator, 258 Spenser, 65, 218, 404; as a poet, 80; Life of, 77; Spenser's Amoretti, 79 ; Colin Clout, 79; Epithalamion, T^\ Faerie Queene, 71, 76, 79, 80; Prothalamion, 79, 82; Shepherd's Calendar, 78 Sports, 245, 315 Squire, Chaucer's, 40 Stage, see Drama Steam, 415 Steele, 255; Steele's Christian Hero, 257; Funeral, 257 Stevenson, R. L., 376 Stowe, 90 Stratford-on-Avon, 96, 97, loi; Shakespeare's retirement to, 104 Stuart's, 208; restored, see Restora- tion " Sturm und Drang," 325 Style, 3 Suckling, 211 Summoner, 44 Surrey, Earl of, 69 Swift, 272, 279; Swift's Gulliver's Travels, 319, 323 Swinburne, 428 Symonds on Early Plays, 95 Tabard Inn, 38 Tapecer, 43 Tasso, 71 Tatler, 255, 257, 258 Taylor, Jeremy, 187 Telegraph, 415 Tennyson, 414, 427, 429; Selec- tions from, 480; Crossing the Bar, 489; Tennyson's Idylls of the King, 67; In Memoriam, 432; 514 INDEX. Lady of Shalott, 82; Locksley Hall, 430; Tears, 487 Teuton and Celt, 18; in Shake- speare, 104 Teutons, 15 Thackeray, 376, 415, 423 ; on Steele, 255 Thackeray's Works, 425 Thames, 82-86, 277 Theatre, 245; Early, 93; First Eng- lish, 88 ; for Worldlings, 77 ; Theatres, Private, 95 Thomson, 321, 322 Thomson, James (the later), 429 Tiptoft, John, 67 Titania, 103 Titus Andronicus, lOO Tottel, 70 Tragedy, First, 76, 88, 89 Translators of the Classics, 71 Troubadours, see Trouveres Trouvfere, Etymology of the word, 69 (note) Trouveres, 21, 32, 35 Tubal, 113 Turner, 419 Tyndale, 69; Tyndale's Bible, 207 Tyrone, Rebellion of, 80 Twickenham, 272 Twyford, 269 Udall, 89 Una, 80 Utopia, see More Vaughan, Henry, 211, 216 Venice, 67, 107-109 Vienna, Congress of, 402, 415 Virgil translated, 70 Vision of Piers the Plowman, 29 Vitelli, 67 Waller, 247 Walpole, 313, 316; and Pitt, 314 Walpole, Horace, Castle of Otranto, 352 Wamba, 117 {fiote) Ward's English Poets, 250 Warner, Wm., 90 Wars of the Roses, 65, '98 Warwick, 98 Warwickshire, 15,97, 100, 103, 426; Shakespeare's love for, 98 Watts, Theodore, 352 Waverley Novels, see Scott Webster's Corombona, 209; Duch- ess of Malfi, 209' Wellington, 402; Tennyson on, 480 Wesley, 315 Westminster, 67 Whitby Abbey, ig Whitefield, 315 Wilberforce, 315 William III., 258 Windsor, 217, 218; Forest, 270 Withers, 245 Woman, Chaucer on, 33; Pope on, 278 Woodcock, Katherine, 221 Worcester, Tiptoft, Earl of, 67 Wordsworth, 316, 324, 325, 332, 333, 345, 348; and Coleridge, 346, 351; and Scott, 376; as a Poet, 336; Life of, 334; on Poetry, 326; Selections from, 338; Prelude, 333 Wordsworth, Dorothy, 335 Wyatt, 69 Wyclif, 29, 30, 65, 66; on Friars, 42 (note) Wyclif's Bible, 24, 30 Yeoman, 41 Young's Night Thoughts, 317 ENGLISH LANGUAGE, STANDARD LITERATURE, MYTHOLOGY, MUSIC, ETC. 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