CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY ENGUSH COLLECTION THE GIFT OF JAMES MORGAN HART PROFESSOR OF ENGUSH The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013348622 ENGLISH LITERATURE. LONDON : PRINTED BT SPOTTISWOOpE AND CO., NEW-STRBET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET THREE CENTURIES OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. CHAELES DUKE YONGE, REGIUS PROFESSOR OF MODERN HI6T0RT AND ENGUSH" LITERATUBE IN queen's COLLEGE, BELFAST ; AUTHOR OF ' A SCHOOL HISTORY OF ENGLAND ' ETC. LONDON : LONGMANS, GEEEN, AND CO. 1872. "^ TO THE REYEREND P. SHULDHAM HENRY, D.D. M.RI.A. PBBSIDENT OP QUEEN'S COLLEGE, BELFAST, f^is JJotante OKIGINAI.I.Y COMPILED FOR THE nSE OF THE STUDENTS OF OUEEn's COLLEGE, |s litgtribtb IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE 'WARM INTEREST TVHICH HE HAS AT ALL TIMES TAKEN IN THE VeLFARE OF THE AND OF GREAT AND CONSTANT KINDNESS EXPERIENCED BY THE AUTHOR, C. D. YONGE. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE 1 1 2 Introduction ..... The connection between different kinds of literature Keferenees to science in the great poets The wisdom of confining our studies to the works of the best writers 3 Exceptions to be made in the case of histories Standard of taste ...... Standard of excellence ..... The criteria by which we judge of authors and their works Classification of writers ..... The age of Elizabeth .... Writers of the 14th century. Chaucer John Barbour ...... S Changes in the language in the 15th century . . 8 The objects to be attained by the study of English literature Spenser .... Chronology of his plays Numerous criticisms on his works . Extent of his acquired knowledge . The variety and versatility of his genius Eacine's ' Plaideurs ' Anachronisms in Shakespeare CHAPTER n. The difficulty of giving quotations from Shakespeare Extracts from ' King John ' . . . . ' Henry V.' ..... ' Eichard II.' .... The wit of Shakespeare. Extract from ' Much Ado about Nothing Extract from 'Eomeo and Juliet' .... ' King John ' . The character of Falstaff ..... Tiixtract from ' Henry VIII.' 9 10 H 12 13 16 16 17 19 20 21 23 24 27 29 31 Vlll CONTENTS. CHAPTER ni. Ben Jonson .... Is educated at Westminster Makes acquaintance with Shakespeare Produces his first play in 1598 Character of his plays Is appointed Poet Laureate . ' Every Man in his Humour ' ' CateKne ' . Otway .... His early career ' Venice Preserved ' . PAGE . 39 . 40 . 41 . 42 . 43 . 44 . 45 . 47 , 48 . 49 . 50 CHAPTER IV. Characterof the comic writers of the end of the 17th century . 67 Wycherley, Congreve, Vanbrugh, Farquhar . _. 58 Birth of Groldsmidi , . . . '. .59 His travels ...... .61 His poverty ..... .62 He hecomes a writer in magazines .... 64 The ' Chinese Letters ' . . . . . .65 He becomes a member of the Literary Club . . .66 ' The Traveller ' ....... 66 ' The Vicar of Wakefield ' ..... 67 ' The Good-natured Man,' ' She stoops to Conquer ' . .68 Dies in 1774 . . . . . . .68 Sheridan . . . . . . . .73 Eights a duel with Captain Matthews . . . .75 ' The Eivals," The Duenna' . . . . .77 ' The School for Scandal,' ' The Critic ' . . . .78 He becomes a member of Parliament ■ . . . .79 The impeachment of Hastings . . . . .79 He becomes intimate with the Prince of Wales . . .80 Is made Treasurer of the Navy . . . . .81 Dies ...... . .82 Extract from ' The Eivals ' . . . . . .83 'The School for Scandal' . . . .87 CHAPTER V. The qualifications necessary for a historian Birth of Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon He becomes a lawyer and member of Parliament . He opposes the Court ... 90 91 92 93 CONTENTS. IX He joins the Royalists Begins his history at Jersey Becomes Lord Chancellor Falls into disgrace Is banished, and dies Character of his writings His character of Charles I His character of Cromwell PAGR 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 103 CHAPTER VI. Dr. Robertson ..... Previous position of Presbyterian ministers in Scotland He supports Home He publishes the ' History of Scotland ' . Is appointed Historiographer for Scotland ' History of Charles V,' . ' History of America ' . . Dies ..... His account of Fiesco's conspiracy Character of Queen Mary . CHAPTER Vn. The difference between Hume and Robertson, also between English and French writers in that age . Birth of Hume .... Devotes himself to literature Begins to publish .... Is appointed librarian to the Faculty of Advocates The first volumes of his history are ill received The subsequent volumes are more successful Becomes secretary to the embassy at Paris Dies in 1776 . ... Character of his history . Great value of his appendices Extracts : The effects of the feudal system Causes which led to the gradual depression of the nobles The literature of England under Elizabeth The trial of Charles I. CHAPTER Vni. The magnitude of Gibbon's undertaking . He is bom in 1737 Forsakes and returns to the Church of England Publishes a work in French 130 131 131 132 CONTENTS. Undertakes the History of the Eoman Empire Becomes a member of Parliament Publishes the first volumes of his history Attacks upon his account of Christianity . Completes the work in 1788 Settles in Switzerland Dies in England in 1794 ... Extracts : The State of Italy in the Middle Ages The Keligion of the Arabs. Mahomet The Crusades ... Capture of Constantinople CHAPTER IX. Influence of Lord Macaulay on the style of composition Gains distinction at the University Contributes to the ' Edinburgh Eeview ' . Becomes a member of Parliament . Died in 1859 ..... Publication and character of his ' History of England ' Peculiarities of his style .... Authority due to his history Extracts : The early ages of England The historical literature of England The character of Lord Halifax. The relief of Derry Birth of Prescott ..... His eyesight is injured .... Publishes a history of Ferdinand and Isabella His ' Conquest of Mexico, and of Peru ' Dies before he has completed the ' Life of Philip II.' Motley's ' History of the Revolt of the Netherlands ' Description of a tournament Character of Cortes .... CHAPTER X. Birth of Dean Milman He appears as a dramatic author . Attacks on his ' History of the Jews ' His 'History of Latin Christianity' Is made Dean of St. Paul's Dies .... His character of St. Benedict Alison's ' History of Europe ' Extract from the description of the-Russian expedition CONTENTS. XI Napier's ' Peninsular War ' and ' Conquest of Seinde ' Arnold's ' History of Eome ' . . . Grote's ' History of Greece ' Extract from the ' Conquest of Soinde ' . Grote's description of Socrates Dr. Arnold's description of the civilisation of Eome Value of memoirs, diaries, &c., to the students of history Evelyn, Pepys, Lord Malmesbury, Walpole, Mrs. Hutchinson Southe/s ' Life of Nelson ' . . . . The lectures of Smythe and Stephen, CHAPTER XI. The difficulty of classifying poets . Character of epic poems . Versatility of Milton Birth of Milton . Writes ' Gomus ' and other minor poems Travels in foreign countries Becomes a schoolmaster Espouses the cause of the Puritans Becomes Latin Secretary to the Council of State Writes his ' Defence of the People of England ' He loses his sight . ' Paradise Lost ' . ' Samson Agonistes ' Dies .... Johnson's condemnation of ' Lycidas ' ' L' Allegro,' ' Comus ' Criticism on * Paradise Lost ' Variety in his description of tho devils His imitations of Homer . Description of Paradise Of the meeting of Adam and Eve Extract from ' Comus ' . CHAPTER XII. Birth ofDryden ....•• Writes panegyrics on Cromwell and on Charles II. ' Annus Mirabihs ' . . . • ■ He becomes a dramatist . . . . • Eochester hires ruffians to assault him He writes satires and translations— becomes Poet Laureate ' Absalom and Achitophel ' . . . ■ ' The Medal ' . . ... Xll CONTENTS. PAGE MacFlecknoe . . . . . . .216 'Eeligio Laici' and the 'Hind and Panther' . . .216 Ho hecomes a Eoman Catholic . . . . .216 Loses the Lanreateship at the Eevolution .... 217 Publishes translations from the classics, with critical prefaces . 218 Translates Virgil . . . . . . .218 Publishes ' Alexander's Peast ' . . . . .218 Modernises parts of Chaucer . , . . .219 Dies in 1700 . . . . . . .219 The respect in which he was held in his later years . . 219 Character of himself, and of his poetry .... 220 Extracts from the ' Fables ' . . . . .221 From ' Absalom and Achitophel ' . . . . .228 CHAPTER XIII. Birth of Pope ..... His early fondness for poetry ... Becomes acquainted with Wycherley, Addison, and Swift Publishes his ' Essay on Criticism The ' Rape of the Lock ' . He translates Homer He quarrels with Addison . The'Dunciad' The ' Essay on Man ' The idea suggested by Bolingbroke Imitations of Horace Dies in 1744 His character and genius . Extracts from the ' Eape of the Lock ' ' Essay on Man ' ' Moral Essays ' Goldsmith. Extracts from ' The Traveller' ' . ' Deserted Village ' CHAPTER XrV. The Lake Poets .... Birth of "Wordsworth He visits France during the Eevolutiou . Publishes a volume of poems Becomes acquainted with Coleridge Publishes ' Lyrical Ballads ' with Coleridge Criticisms of Jeffrey Is made distributor of stamps 232 233 234 235 235 236 237 238 238 238 240 241 241 242 245 246 247 248 251 252 253 253 253 254 255 267 CONTENTS. xm Publishes ' The Excursion ' The ' White Doe of Eylstone ' He becomes Poet Laureate Dies in 1850 Extracts from ' The Excursion ' Extract from the ' White Doe ' Sonnet on the Pall of Napoleon PAGE 257 258 259 259 260 264 267 CHAPTEE XV. Birth of Coleridge .... He makes acquaintance with Southey He writes for newspapers . Writes a tragedy, ' Eemorse ' — and ' Christabel ' Dies in 1834 Genevieve ..... Extracts from ' Christabel ' Birth of Southey . Publishes ' Joan of Arc ' . Devotes himself wholly to the study of hterature Character of his poetry He is appointed Poet Laureate ' Wat Tyler ; ' ' Eoderick the Last of the Goths ' His prose works : the ' Life of Nelson ' Becomes imbecile and dies Comparison of the three Lake Poets Extracts from the ' Curse of £ehama ' Extracts from ' Eoderick ' 268 269 271 272 273 276 276 277 277 278 279 280 281 281 282 282 283 289 CHAPTEE XVI. Birth of Scott .... His early fancy for the old ballads Studies the law .... Translates Burger's 'Leonora' Marries, and is made Sheriff of Selkirkshire Edits the ballads of the Scottish border . Publishes the ' Lay of the Last Minstrel ' Edits Dryden's works Publishes 'Marmion' His vigour and delicacy The ' Lady of the Lake ' His lesser poems . Edits Swift's works The ' Bridal of Triermain ' The ' Lord of the Isles ' . Publication of ' Waverley ' 294 295 295 296 296 297 297 298 299 299 299 300 301 301 302 302 XIV CONTENTS. Scott's freedom from envy Character of Scott's poetry Of his works Bankruptcy of the Ballantynes Great energy of Scott ' Woodstock ' The 'Life of Napoleon' . He is attacked by paralysis Dies ... Extracts from the ' Lay ' . ' Lady of the Lake ' ' Marmion ' CHAPTER XVn. Birth of Lord Byron .... He is educated at Harrow He publishes ' English Bards and Scotch Eeviewers ' The first cantos of ' Ohilde Harold ' Rapidity of his subsequent publications . His marriage ..... Leaves England and lives abroad . ' Don Juan '..... He espouses the cause of the Greeks Dies at Missolonghi .... Extracts from ' Childe Harold ' . ' The Giaour "... ' The Bride of Abydos ' ' The Corsair ' Character of Shelley .... Extract from ' Adonais ' . CHAPTER XVm. Birth of Francis Bacon The Cecils are jealous of him Essex's friendship for him His ingratitude to Essex .... Under James he becomes Attorney-General He publishes his Essays .... Archbishop Whately's edition of them Publishes his treatise on the Advancement of Learning, Novum Organum .... Character of Bacon's philosophy . His corruption as Attorney-General and Chancellor He dies in 1 626 . Specimens of his Essays . and the CONTENTS. ■XV CHAPTER XIX. Birth of Addison ..... Makes acquaintance with Dryden and Congreve . Writes a poem on the peace of Eyswick . Publishes ' The Campaign "... Becomes a member of Parliament . Becomes Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland The ' Tatler ' and ' Spectator' The -wit and humour of Addison . He publishes ' Cato' .... Quarrel between Pope and Addison Addison marries Lady Warwick . Becomes Secretary of State The 'Freeholder' ..... Dies ...... Johnson'& eulogy of his style Extracts from the ' Spectator ' — the Vision of Mirza PAGB S61 364 365 366 366 366 367 368 370 370 371 372 372 373 CHAPTER XX. Character of Goldsmith's Essays . Extracts from the ' Chinese Letters ' 379 379 CHAPTER XXI. Birth of Johnson . . 389 Marries, and becomes a schoolmaster in Lichfield . 390 He settles in London . . . ' . . 390 He publishes ' London ' . . 391 And ' The Vanity of Human Wishes ' . 392 And his Dictionary . 393 His quarrel with Lord Chesterfield . 394 Publishes the 'Rambler' . . 395 And 'Easselas' . 396 The Literary Club . 396 His acquaintance with Boswell . 397 Character of BosweU's abilities and work . 397 Johnson's political pamphlets , 399 His 'Lives of the Poets' . . 399 Dies .... , 400 Extracts from the ' Eambler ' . 401 XVI CONTENTS, CHAPTEK X'^ll. PAGE Birth of Charles Lamb. (Elia) . . . . .407 He, publishes a volume of poems in conjunction with Coleridge . 407 Character of hie Essays ...... 408 Extracts from them ...... 409 Extract from Macaulav's Essay on Maehiavelli . . 412 CHAPTER XXIII. The general fondness for lyric' poetry. David, Sappho, Horace .' 415 Sappho, Horace, Tyrtaeus ...... 417 The ancient ballads : 'Chevy Chase ' . . . . 418 The 'Nut-brown Maid' . . . . . .427 CHAPTER XXrV. Ben Jonson's ' Ode to the Moon ' . . . . .431 Sir E. Lovelace to Althea ..... 432 Character of Edmund Waller . . . . 433 Odes of WaUer .... . 434 Extracts from Milton's ' Ode on the Nativity ' . . . 435 Dryden's ' Alexander's Feast ' . ... 437 Pope's ^ Ode on St. Cecilia's Day ' . . 442 CHAPTER XXV. Sketch of Gray's career ..... 446 'The Bard' . . . . . . .447 The ' Elegy written in a Country Churchyard ' . . . 452 The miserable career of Collins ... . 455 ' Ode on the Passions ' . . . . . . 456 CHAPTER XXVI. Birth of Burns ..... . 45»| Publishes a volume of poems in 1786 . . 460 Becomes a farmer and an exciseman ^ . . .461 He sympathises with the French Eev(ftution . . . 461 He dies in 1796 .... .462 Character of his genius and poetry . . . 462 Extracts from ' The Vision ' . . . . 463 ' Lament of Mary Queen of Scots ' .... 467 ' Ode to a Mountain Daisy ' . . 469 •Ae fond kiss' . . .470 CONTENTS. XVll ' Highland Mary ' . ' To Mary in Heaven ' . ' Scots wha hae ' . ' On the Seas and Far Away ' Extracts from ' The Cotter's Saturday Night ' fagh 471 472 473 474 475 CHAPTER XXVII. Birth of Moore .... Publishes ' Little's Poems,' and duel with Jeffrey He becomes acquainted with Byron Publishes the ' Irish Melodies' Character of his odes Publishes ' Lalla Rookh ' . He settles on the Continent Publishes humorous poems Writes prose : a life of Sheridan And a life of Byron And a history of Ireland . Dies in 1852 ' Melologue on National Musie ' Extracts from ' Irish Melodies ' Extract from ' Lalla Eookh ' ' Song of Miriam ' . 477 478 479 479 480 480 480 480 481 481 481' 482 482 485 489 490 CHAPTER XXVni. Sketch of Campbell ' Ye Marimers of England ' ' The Battle of Hohenlinden ' ' The Last Man ' . ' Ode to the Rainbow ' Scotf s ' Ode on the Massacre of Glencoe ' 'Young Lochinvar' Byron's ' Destruction of Sennacherib ' The Isles of Greece ' 492 493. 494 495 497 499 500 502 633 CHAPTER XXIX. Eloquence has always flourished in Britain . . . 606 Halifax, Walpole, Bolingbroke, Pitt .... 607 Burke's are the earliest speeches which are fully reported . 807 Birth of Burke . . . ... .507 Imitates the style of Bolingbroke ..... 508 Treatise ' On the Sublime and Beautiful ' ... 508 Plans and edits the ' Annual Eegister ' , . . . 508 XVIU CONTENTS. PAOB Marries and seeks a consulship at Madrid . . . 609 Becomes Secretary to Mr. &. Hamilton .... 609 Becomes Secretary to the Maiquis of Rockingham . .510 Is returned to Parliament . . . . . .510 He at once establishes a character for eloquence . . .610 He heads the opposition to the Duke of Grafton's measures 511 Character of his political pamphlets . . . .611 He becomes Agent to the State of New York . . .612 Loses his seat for Bristol . . . . . .513 Burke holds office in Lord Rockingham's second ministry . 613 His BiU for Economical Reform . . . . .614 Lord Rockingham dies . . . . . .515 Burke joins the Coalition Ministry . . , .515. The impeachment of Hastings . . . . .516 Burke's ' Reflections on the French Revolution ' . . .617 His'AppealfromtheNewto the Old Whigs' . . .618 His ' Thoughts on a Regicide Peace ' . . . .619 He dies in 1797 . . . . . . .619 Character of his eloquence . . . . .619 Extracts from his speeches on American afiairs . . . 620 Extract from his Speech to the Bristol electors . . . 526 CHAPTER XXX. Birth of W. Pitt . . . . . . .528 His pre-eminent statesmanship ..... 628 Enters at Lincoln's Inn ...... 629 Is returned to Parliament for Appleby .... 630 He brings forward a motion for parliamentary reform . . 631 He becomes Chancellor of the Exchequer .... 532 Receives and refuses the offer of the Treasury . . .533 The Coalition Ministry . . . . . .634 Pitt becomes prime minister ..... 535 His enlightened policy towards Ireland .... 636 The Union with Ireland . . . . . .636 He dies in 1806 . . . . . . .536 Character of his administration ..... 636 Character of his eloquence . . . .637 Extract from his speech on the slave trade . . . 539 Speech on the Union .... 543 CHAPTER XXXI. Birth of Grattan . ... . . .546 Becomes a student of law in England .... 646 Applies himself to poetry ...... 547 CONTENTS. XIX PAGE The Octennial (Irish) Bill . . . . 547 Becomes a member of the Irish House of Commons . 547 The repeal of Poyning's Act . . . 548 His quarrel with Flood .... . 549 He follows Fox on the Eegenoy question . . . 549 Agrees with Burke on the French Kevolution . 549 Opposes the Union . . . . 550 Dies in 1820 ... ... 550 Extracts from his speeches on Irish rights . . .551 Extract from his speech on the return of Napoleon from Elba , . 555 CEIAPTER XXXn. Literary splendour of the era of the Kestoration . Birth of Jeremy Taylor .... He attracts the notice of Land He joins the King at the beginning of the Eebellion Becomes a schoolmaster in Wales His theological works : his ' Life of Christ ' He is thrown into prison . He removes to Ireland Is made Bishop of Down . Dies in 1667 Extract from his sermoms . Character of Dr. Chalmers Extracts from his sermons 558 658 559 559 559 559 560 560 560 561 561 565 566 CHAPTER XXXni. Resemblances of the novelist to the poet .... 569 Universality of the novel. The Cyropsedia . . . 570 Cervantes, Le Sage, Madame de Stael .... 570 Birth of Defoe . . • • • • .571 He joins Monmouth's army . . . • .571 Is favoured by William III. ..... 572 Writes political pamphlets .... 572 Is put in the piUory for his ' Shortest Way with Dissenters ' . 573 Is employed by the ministry .of George I. . . 574 Publishes 'Eobinson Crusoe' . . ■ • .676 ' The Memoirs of a Cavalier,' and of ' Captain Carleton ' . . 577 He dies in 1731 . • • - • • -^78 Extract from ' Eobinson Crusoe ' ..... 579 The Memoirs of a Cavalier' . . . 679 XX CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXXIV. PAQK Birth of Swift . . . . . , .581 He is introduced by Sir W. Temple .... 582 Becomes a clergyman . . . . . . 582 ' His essay on the contests of Athens and Eome . . . 683 He becomes acquainted with the chief English scholars . . 584 The 'Tale of a Tub' . . . . . .584 Is appointed Dean of St. Patrick's .... 585 -He joins the Tories ...... 585 Writes in the ' Examiner ' .... 585 Stella and Vanessa ...... 585 He marries Stella ....... 586 Death of Stella ...... 587 The ' Drapier's Letters ' ... . . 587 GuUiVer's Travels . . .... 588 The Voyage to the Houyhnhnms ..... 590 He loses his faculties . . . . .691 He dies in 1745 ....... 591 Character of his genius and writings .... 691 Extracts from ' Gulliver's Travels ' . . . . 592 CHAPTER XXXV. Character of the novelists of the 18th century Eielding, Smollett .... Sterne . . . . . , Walter Scott's novels. Extracts from ' Bob Eoy ' Extracts from ' Ivanhoe ' . ' Waverley ' ' The Antiquary ' Birth of Miss Edgeworth . Extract from ' The Absentee' 595 596 597 69S 699 604 606 608 609 CHAPTER XXXVI. Birth and services of Captain Marryat Character of his naval novels Extract from ' Peter Simple ' Birth of J. F. Cooper Cliaracter of his novels Extract from ' The Last of the Mohicans ' Birth of Dickens . Publishes ' Sketches by Boa ' The ' Pickwick Papere ' . His other works : ' Oliver Twist,' &c. 612 613 614 618 618 619 623 623 623 624 CONTENTS. XXI Dies in 1870 ...... PAGE 624 Character of his writings ..... Extract from ' Pickwick ' . 625 627 Birth of Thackeray ..... His travels on the Continent 631 631 Publishes ' Vanity Fair ' . 'Pendennis,' 'Esmond' 631 632 ' The Newcomes ' . 632 General cheiracter of Thackeray's genius and writings He dies in 1863 ...... 633 634 Extracts from ' Vanity Pair ' . . . . 635 ' Pendennis ' . . . . 636 'Esmond' ..... 637 APPENDIX. Birth of Chaucer . . . . . He is sent as ambassador to Genoa and to France Becomes a member of Parliament . Plot of the ' Canterbury Tales ' Character of Chaucer's writings Extract from the ' Knight's Tale ' . Birth of Spenser . Goes to Ireland as Secretary to the Lord Deputy Becomes a friend of Sir W. Ealeigh Publishes the ' Faerie Queene ' His own description of the poem . The Irish rebels bum his house . Character of his writings . Extract from the ' Faerie Queene ' 639 640 640 640 641 642 644 644 644 644 645 645 646 647 LECTURES ON ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. There is probably no subject whatever which does not gain or lose in proportion as it is treated in a more or less comprehensive manner. There is perhaps also none to which this observation applies with greater truth and force than the study of literature ; because, while literature itself is susceptible of many divisions ai)d subdivisions, there is scarcely a single class or description of pure literature which may not, it might be said must not, derive illustration from other classes ; there is not one which does not lose some- thing if studied exclusively by itself ; not one which does not derive additional embellishment and attraction by being placed in juxtaposition with, varied by, it may even be con- trasted with, some other. This observation seems equally applicable to writings of every kind, whether they be grounded on facts, or whether they be the pure offspring of the fancy and imagination. Even if we take history to be, as it certainly deserves to be accounted, the most important of all branches of literature, it is still too plain to need more than a bare assertion that the work of the historian often has fresh light thrown upon it not only by those kindred artists the orator and the essayist, but by poets also ; by epic poets, still more by dramatists, and not unfrequontly by satirists. The historian also should have, if not actually some portion of the poetic spirit, at least such an acquaint- ^ ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. I. ance with the finest productions of the Muse as may serve to animate himself, and to enable him to display in vigorous or picturesque portraiture those striking periods and events ■which the annals of every country occasionally present. Since, without such variations from the ordinary sobriety of the narrative, a history would be flat and uninteresting; and uniform tediousness is even more intolerable than an uniform appearance of labour. Poets again, and most es- pecially those of the highest class, epic poets and tragedians, usually presuppose in the reader an acquaintance with the writings of the historian ; not unfrequently with those also of the labourer in the paths of science, as (to name a single instance, which the slightest reference to the works of Homer, Virgil and Milton, will abundantly exemplify) of the astronomer. It may te added, that a familiarity with the works of the best prose writers is as serviceable, as neces- sary, to form or at least to enrich the style of the poet, as a knowledge of great poems is to the prose writers, a fact which was singularly brought out by the acknowledgment of no less a poet than Byron, who, being praised by an eminent critic for his unequalled mastery of our language in all its prodigal richness, which perhaps no other poet has exhibited in an equal degree, attributed it to his early familiarity with the sermons of Jeremy Taylor. The doc- trine, therefore, of the connection between poets and prose writers, and their mutual dependence on each other, may, I think, be looked upon as sufficiently established ; and may indeed be summed up in the brief rule that he who would attain the highest rank in aay species of composition must be acquainted with the most perfect speciQiens of every kind of literature. It will therefore be very useful to point out first the various divisions into which literature in general, and especially that of our own country, naturally seems to fall, and then to endeavour to direct the atten- tion of the youthful reader to those authors in each section who have most nearly attained excellence. Por the most important admonition of all to be inculcated on students at a time of life when their eagerness for know- ledge is (I will not say unfortunately) in advance of their judgment, is to avoid all that is of an inferior class, and to Ch. I.] INTRODUCTION. 3 fix their attention solely on the most perfect specimens of each. Those whose scheme of life and ample fortune enable them to pass their time, if so disposed, in literary leisure, may without injury, nay with a certain degree of profit, pass downwards to second-rate writers, after having mastered the best. But I am addressing myself to those, by far the larger part of every society in every country, to whom lite- rature is a relaxation, not an occupation. And for them it is almost self-evident that, as they cannot read every- thing, it is best to confine themselves to those authors and to those works which most nearly approach perfection. The exceEent, the first-rate writers in each department, will afford a sufficiently wide field of study ; and every hour which is devoted to the perusal of authors of inferior power or merit must necessarily be so much time taken from the study of what is better. The only exception that, as it seems to me, should be made to this rule, is in the case of history. The great, the universal, the paramount interest of the subject, the impor- tant position which a knowledge of history must ever occupy, as the groundwork of almost all other literary knowledge, necessitates the exception. For every period of history, even of our own country, is not equally well treated ; stiU less is the history of other nations : of Prance, of Germany, of Italy, of Spain. And therefore, of historians, the student must often be contented w'ith what is only comparatively good ; the best attainable ; remembering also that the standard by which we determine the merit of his- torical works differs from that which we apply to literature of other kinds. We turn to the historians for information as to facts, and therefore must not jadge of them by their style so much as by their fidelity and accuracy ; but where we can depend upon the soundness of their judgment, their patience in investigating the truth, and their honesty and candour in relating it, we must excuse them if they be somewhat deficient in the graces of composition. "We must be con- tented to trust where we cannot admire ; and, if we be called on to make our election between different qualities, must prefer impartiality and truth to vividness and vigour, when purchased at the expense of these more sterling quahties. B 2 4 KNGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. I. But in other departments of literature we should make no such allowances. We must study no oratory but that of the most eloquent statesmen. A middling speaker is at least as great a weariness to men, gods, and the readers of the newspaper columns, as a mediocre poet. To bear us out in passing unheeded the less gifted votaries of the Muse we have the highest classical and critical authority. Non ragionam di lor, ma guarda e passa. A middling essayist or a middling preacher is even worse. He not only sends us to sleep, the most innocent effect of his tediousness, but he runs the risk of leading us to impute to his subject the deficiency of interest which of right attaches only to his mode of treating it. With respect to dramatists the case is stronger still. They, writing solely for the sake of amusing and interesting the spectator, are wholly destitute of excuse, and disentitled to toleration, if they fail; as, if insipid, void of character, consistency and. vivacity, fail they must, But sound and universally applicable as this rule is, I am not unaware that there are those who may feel a wish to controvert, if not the rule itself, at least the right of any one person to direct another how he is to apply it, or to dictate to him by what standard he is to measure excellence ; and in support of this objection they will quote the old pro- verb that tastes vary, that the differences of opinion among' mankind are as numerous as men themselves. Such arguers mistake the meaning of the adages on which they rely. Certainly tastes differ ; that they do so is well not only for the comfort of individuals, but for the benefit of the world at large. The difference of tastes is itself the parent of excellence in all the various arts and sciences which em- bellish human life. The advantages which all mankind has derived from one man being led by his natural taste, or by what we may call in other words the bent of his genius, to the study of abstract sciences ; from another pre- ferring the more practical arts ; from a third devoting him- self to the more flowery though less fruitful field of literature, is too obvious nOt to be generally admitted. On the same principle it is well that different students prefer different Ch. I.] INTEODtrCTION. 5 classes of composition ; one may place prose above poetry, another may assign it by far the lower rank. Again, of prose writers, one may give the palm to the philosophical essayist, others to the historian, to the orator, to the no- velist ; or in poetry, this reader may dwell with admiration on the grandeur of the epic poet ; that one, with inclinations of a lighter cast, may yawn over elaborate worka in many books, and may turn from such with eagerness to the airy strains of the lyric minstrel. To this extent tastes may justifiably, nay beneficially difier, the only condition which a critic or a teacher has a right to exact being that in every case what is so preferred shall be excellent of its kind. But as to what excellence is in the various kinds of composition, there no snch license of differing is allowable or even in- telligible ; though, again, it must be remembered that the qualities which confer excellence in one class of writing are not in every case the same as those which entitle another to high praise ; as in nature, the beauty of an animal differs from that of a flower ; and, again, as the pro- perties of different animals vary : as we look for strength in the horse, for speed in the deer, for accuracy of scent in one kind of hound, for keenness of vision in another, so do we by no means require the same qualities in writers of different classes, though some points of perfection are of course common to all. That what are beauties in a poet would often be objectionable in a prose writer is sufficiently obvious ; but we do not even require the same beauties in all poets, nor in all prose writers. In an epic bard we look chiefly for vigour and grandeur ; in a didactic or moral poet for correctness of sentiment and clearness of precept ; in a lyric m.instrel we expect grace and tenderness. So, again, the copious illustration, the fiery energy of the orator, would be out of place in a history ; the easy flow of narra- tive, mingled with judicious reflection, which we chiefly seek in the pages of the historian, would seem tame and lifeless in a speech whose object is to produce an instant effect on the feelings and passions. On the other hand, there are some qualities which are indispensable to all ; some which all can display, and without which, though caprice, fashion, or, perhaps oftener still, the absence for 6 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. I. tlie moment of any formidable rival, may invest a writer ■with, a temporary popularity, none can achieve a lasting reputation. Such are a thorough understanding and an accurate appreciation of the subject ; harmony of the style with the subject ; mastery of language ; richness and variety of expression ; a deep feeUng for and correct judgment of the beautiful and the good; fidelity to general character alike in the description of animated or inanimate nature. It is equally undeniable that, in every kiud of composition, pomposity, prolixity, irrelevance, inconsistency, homeliness, t)bscnrity, false metaphors, unnatural ornaments, are vices of style carefully to be avoided by the writer, and equally to be shunned by the reader, in spite of the perverted or partial criticisms which would dignify bombast as loftiness, or give to prosy baldness the undeserved honours of sim- pUcity, On these points there is, as I have said, an agree- ment, so fixed by the general common sense of mankind, that no dissent from it can be allowed. To use the com- parison of Burke : ' What appears to be light to one eye appears light to another ; what seems sweet to one palate is sweet to another ; on the contrary, what is dark or bitter to one man is dark or bitter to another ; ' and with a still further unanimity, 'all men agree in the efieot of these qualities with regard to pleasure and pain ; all concur in calling sweetness and light pleasant, sourness, bitterness and darkness unpleasant ; and, if any one denied this, we should pronounce his palate vitiated, his organs corrupted, his whole judgment and himself absolutely deranged or mad.' One more general remark it seems desirable to make, that the criterion by which we estimate the genius of an author differs from that by which we judge of the perfection of his writings. In gauging the abiUty of the man, we must look at his finest; passages, his loftiest bursts of sublimity, his tenderest pathos, his richest efforts of imaginative painting. Tti rating his work we must have regard at least as much to the just proportions of the whole, to the harmony of the several parts, to the degree in which at times it sinks, as well as to the height to which it occasionally rises. Writers may be classed in two ways : according to their style and subject, or according to the periods at which they Ch. I.] INTEODUCTION. 7 lived. In otlier words, we may divide them into writers of prose and writers of poetry ; and again we may subdivide the first into historians, orators, essayists and novehsts, and the second into epic poets, dramatists, lyric poets, di- dactic poets ; or we may arrange them with reference to the eras in which they lived, as the authors of the reign of Eliza^ both, or of Anne, or of George III. 'It is well to keep both classifications in mind, and to a certain extent to employ both. And therefore I propose to divide the authors whose works we are about to examine into seven classes : dramatists in verse and prose ; poets, whom again I shall subdivide into two classes, so as to take lyric poetry separately from that of other kinds ; historians ; essayists ; orators, both in the senate and in the pulpit ; and novelists ; while the writers in each class I shall take in chronological order. For students in general our literature may be taken as commencing in the reign of Elizabeth ; or, in other words, young students should not be recommended to devote their attention to any writers of an earlier date. It is true in- deed that, though, for some centuries after the Conquest, Latin was the language employed by all the votaries of learn- ing in these islands, there were those who, before the close of the fourteenth century, built up for themselves a high reputation as composers of works in the language which was beginning to be called EngUsh, a reputation whiph, in one instance, has survived to the present day. I allude to Geoffrey Chaucer, who, though a layman, attained a degree of learning not surpassed among his contemporaries by any monastic student, being aided by a genius of singular richness and delicacy. Fertile in invention, acute in ob- servation, he set his countrymen an example of felicity of expression which, in all likehhood, could not have been vrithout its fruit in exciting successful imitation, had not, in the first place, the minds of men been turned in another direction by the troubles which shortly afterwards fell on the land ; and had not, secondly, the language itself been so greatly altered in the latter part of the next century, as to prevent his diction from being looked upon as a model. Nor was Chaucer the only poet who in that age courted the Muse in his own tongue. A Scotch minstrel, John Bar- 8 ENGLISH LITEEATUBE. [Ch. I. bour, Archdeacon of Aberdeen, wrote as nearly as possible at the same time ; and his poem on the exploits of the Bruce contains passages of a noble and peculiarly classical spirit. We for our lyvys, And for our cBildee and for our wyvys, And for our fredome, and for our land As strengeit into battle stand/ reads like a translation of ^schylus.' But the study of works of this age belongs rather to the antiquarian than to the modern scholar. The language, at the end of the fourteenth century, when Chaucer wrote, was in a state of transition, differing so greatly in inflection, and even in grammar, from our present usage, that Hallam speaks of it as ' an old obsolete English which went out of use about the accession of Edward IV.' * And our business is with modern English : that which we use at the present day, and which in the last three centuries has undergone but little alteration. Within that period all our greatest writers have lived ; and it would be but a waste of time to go back from them, and to their exclusion, to the works of others, which, however curious and interesting as indica- tions of the gradual growth and progress of the language, and however admirable as proofs of the power of genius to surmount the greatest difSculties and hindrances (for Chaucer and Barbour lived before the invention of printing, and therefore knowledge had unrolled for them but few of her stores), are nevertheless not examples of English as it exists now. And we must keep in view what has been the principal object which has influenced those who of late have so strongly urged the addition of the study of English literature to the courses formerly adopted at schools and colleges. They have evidently hoped that, by acquiring a correct knowledge of the structure and grammar of the English language, and by devoting a fair portion of time ' Compare jEsehyliis : — 'n TralSes 'EX\7ji/tu;/ Ire, e\ev6epovTe TrarpiS*, eKeuBepovre Se TraiSas, yvvaiKas, Bewv re itarp^fov e^t], BijKas T6 irpoydvwv' vw irnep irdvTWV ay^v.-^Tersts 403. Ch. I.] INTRODUCTION. 9 and labonr to the study of the wovks of its greatest masters in their respective lines, students should them- selves attain a facility and correctness in the use of that language ; should write with purity and elegance, it may be letters, it may be essays, it may in future time be sermons, or (where nature and enthusiasm lend their in- spiration) it may be poetiy. But, whatever may be the species of composition which they select, it is clear that their models must be sought for among those who have written since our language was brought into its present form ; and therefore, however worthy he may be of the attention of ripe scholars, I shall for the present pass over Chaucer. And, though he flourished in the very reign in which I have placed the commencement of modern Eng- lish literature, yet, as a writer, Spenser resembles the older bard in one point too closely to be separated from him. Spenser's richness of imagination, delicacy of senti- m.ent, and vivid brilliancy of description, woald indeed place him in the very front rank, if he had not himself, with a deliberate perverseness of taste or, to say the least, a wilful and wayward disdain of popularity, shut up his writings from the ordinary reader by an adoption of what even his own learned contemporary, Ben Jonson, calls Chaucerisms, the old forms of the language, that is, which had been used by Chaucer, but which had long become obsolete, and which, except to the studious few, were already unintelligible ; indeed in another passage Jonson complaius that Spenser had not really understood the antique style which he professed to imitate ; but, in copying theancients, had written what was in fact ' no language at all.' The de- sultory intricacy of the allegory which forms the plot of his principal poem, the ' Pairy Queen,' is perhaps an equal draw- back to its attaining any general favour. At all events the two causes combined always have prevented, and always wUl prevent, his works from being extensively studied ; and, though it is recorded of Gray that he made a practice of reading over a portion of them whenever he desired to attune his own genius to composition, still to minds of any other frame they must in general be so useless as a model, that I do not propose to include Spenser in the list of 10 ENGLISH LITEEATUKE. [Ch. I. those writers of whom I design to present sketches and specimens.' SHAKESPEABE. A.D. 1564-1616. In any classification of English writers, Shakespeare, in the division to which he belongs, must come first. But in respect to him it is impossible to follow the plan which in general it seems desirable to pursue with other authors, of giving a short sketch of his personal history, since the most careful research has failed to ascertain anything more than the following bare outline of his career ; and it must be added that the authority for portions of that is so slight that even of the circumstances which seem, to be the best ascertained some have been doubted, others positively denied ; though more perhaps because, to the zeal of his admirers, they seem inconsistent with their enthusiastic reverence for their idol, than because they have any more trustworthy account to substitute. "William Shakespeare was born at Stratford-on-Avon, in Warwickshire, on St. George's Day, 1564. He was the eldest son of a tradesman of some importance in so smp,ll a town ; indeed, in some accounts, his father is described as a merchant ; and, at one time, was one of the municipal magistrates, though, during his son's boyhood, he appears to have fallen into diflSculties, so that he was forced to resign the office of alderman. And William himself, as he grew up, got into trouble for poaching on the deer-park of Sir Thomas Lucy, the great man of the district, and was, in consequence, obliged to quit the neighbourhood, and to remove to London, to escape prosecution. There, for a time, he seems to have led a hard life. When he was only eighteen he had married Anne Hathaway, the daughter of a neighbouring yeoman ; and he was reduced, on first reaching the metropolis, io support himself and his wife by working, according to one tradition, as a call-boy, or prompter's ser.. vant, at one of the theatres ; according to another story, ' But biographical sketches of Chaucer and Spenser, with extracts from their works, are added in an Appendix to Chapter III. 1564—1616.] SHAKESPEARE. 11 by the still more precarious employment of holding the horses of the gallants who rode down of an afternoon to see the play. Whichever was his occupation, it seems to have introduced him to the notice of the actors, through the interest of some of whom he was made known to the manager, and promoted to tread the stage himself. Here he soon made two discoveries : one, that he was not highly qualified to shine as a performer ; the other, of far greater importance, that he had a genius, such as the world has produced no equal example of, for writing plays, which others should perform under his instruction. As am author he not only became instantly famous beyond all his con- temporaries and predecessors, but he also earned a fortune sufficient to enable him, after a few years, to become the proprietor of one of the principal theatres, the Globe ; and, when he had barely reached middle age, to return to his native town, and settle there in the enjoyment of a respect- able competency. There, on his fifty-second birthday, he died, leaving two daughters and a widow, who, however, peems to have lost her hold on his afiections, as we may judge from his at first omitting all mention of her in his will, and, when reminded of her claims upon him, bequeathing her nothing beyond a legacy which was hardly of a com- pUmentary, much less of an afiectionate character, his ' second best bed and furniture.' He had had one son, who died in his boyhood. His daughters both married well, and had children ; but neither of them had any grand- children; and, before the end of the century, the great dramatist's family was extinct. This is but little to be able to tell of him whom, with a rare unanimity, all admit to be the chief glory of oiir English Hterature. Yet it is all that we know. Attempts have been made by some of his editors to frame what might be caUed a sort of Hterary biography of him by arranging his plays in the order of their composition or representa- tion, but the Hi-success of those who have made the attempt is proved by the extent to which they differ. One tragedy, 'Macbeth,' is indeed so proved by internal evidence to have been written subsequently to the accession of the Scottish king to the English throne, that all uni+e in fixing that 12 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. T. play to the year 1606. But as to his other works, except that the ' Tempest,' ' Twelfth Night,' and ' Othello ' are generally regarded as among the very latest, and the dramas founded on Roman history as but little earlier, the disagreement could hardly be wider. No aid is to be obtained from the conduct of Shakespeare himself, since he was either so indifferent to posthumous fame,' or so modest in his own appreciation of his writings, tha.t he gave him- self no trouble about their publication ; and, though a few of them were published in his lifetime by the booksellers, it seems to have been done without any concert with him, and certainly without his bestowing any pains on their revision and correction. So that of the history of his plays, as well as of himself, we must be content to remain in com- parative ignorance. But if biographers have found Httle to say about Shake- speare, on the other hand no writer has ever existed who has famished so inexhaustible a theme for critics. While, without endorsing the biting sarcasm of a great writer of the present day that, as a general rule, critics are men who have tried their own hands at original composition only to fail in it, we may fairly say that he has been far more fortunate than usual in his judges, since those who in his case have taken that ofiBce on themselves are for the most part among the most brilliant and renowned ornaments of our literary annals : Dryden, Pope, Johnson, Scott, Camp- bell, and HaUam, have left names so universally esteemed as to raise a strong presumption in favour of the correctness of their judgment when they agree, and to command respect even if in any points we may feel constrained to differ from them. Four of them are among our most exquisite poets ; the other two are of the very highest esti- mation for many of the qualities which give the greatest weight to writings in prose. And all of them, poets as ' Coleridge (Biog. Lit. i. p. 33) quotes some of Shakespeare's sonnets, to prove that he was not unconscious of his claims to immortal fame. But . the very sonnet he quotes, though it speaks of the ' virtue of his pen ' as able to embalm his triend, does also say — ' Your name from hence immortal fame shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die.' 1564—1616.] SHAKESPEAEE. 13 well as prose -writers, agree in ascribing to Shakespeare a genius equalled by no predecessor or successor ; though, as might be expected ■ from the great diversity thaj exists between the characters of the critics themselves, they assign difi'erent, though not inconsistent, grounds for their homage. Availing ourselves in some degree of the gui- dance of them all, we may pronounce in the first place that if, as I think must be confessed, Shakespeare had but sHght acquaintance with any language except his own,' there yet never was any poet who could so well dispense with adventitious aid ; and that, in one point of view, his ignffrance of classical literature was even of actual advantage to him, since he might otherwise have been led to take the works of the great dramatists of classical antiquity for models, and to fetter his genius by an attempt to imitate others instead of drawing solely on his own unassisted and unfettered genius. For, in entering on the career of a dramatist, Shakespeare was launching his barque on what he must, in a great degree, have looked upon as an untried ocean. The very earliest compositions in our language which can be called dramas had been composed since the accession of Ehzabeth ; and, if Malone be correct in believing that the first part of ' Henry VI. ' was written the year after the destruction of the Armada, only a quarter of a century had elapsed since the very first play, which was neither a Mystery nor a Morality, had been exhibited on the public stage,^ when Shakespeare first appeared on it as an author ; and none of the works pro- duced in this brief interval deserved to be remembered after they had served their turn ; or gave any indication that England was about to vindicate to herself the pre-. ' Johnson, in his preface to Shakespeare, points out that in the story of Eomeo and Juliet, he is observed to have followed the English trans- lation wherever it deviates from the Italian original, and that the only Latin play from which he has borrowed anything (the ' Mensechmi' of Plautus) was also the only classical play which at that time existed in an English translation ; very curious coincidences, if, as has been con-- tended, he understood both Italian and Latin. 2 ' Gammer Gurton's Needle ' was acted by the students of Christ's College, Cambridge, in 1564 ; and ' Gordobuc, or Ferrex and Porrex,' by the students of the Inner Temple, not above a year or two earlier. 14 ENGLISH LITEEATURE. [Ch. I. eminence in dramatic composition, a superiority over even the grand Athenian literature, a faithful imitation of -which his French contemporaries confessed to be so far beyond their power, that their highest aim was to copy the Ro- mans,' as and because the Romans had copied the Greeks. Tet, to the glory of having won this triumph for his native land, Shakespeare has a claim which is hardly contested by the critics of any nation but these same French, still bowing in slavish obedience to the dictates of Boileau, and recognising no other standard of excellence but the code into which he enlarged the brief rules or principles which he imagined himself to tave found in Aristotle. Whether the great Athenian dramatists did really regulate their practice of their art by the laws which the logical Stagyrite deduced from their works or not, it is quite certain that Shakespeare followed no laws but those prescribed by his Own genius, his own innate sense of pro- priety, taking that word in the very widest sense for all that was suitable to the work he had before him, in whatever aspect it could be regarded ; and recognised no rules of composition which did not approve themselves to his own untrammelled reason. It is to no pfedantic ad- herence to any fixed system that he owes his unrivalled and increasing fame, but to qualities as far superior to any technical knowledge or skill as nature is superior to art, to his deep insight into the heart of man in whatever rank, and under whatever circumstances he deals with him ; to his exact appreciation of every emotion or passion by which man's feelings are agitated, or man's conduct is governed. Indeed, it may be questioned whether this universality or versatility of comprehension was not his greatest and most distinctive attribute. It is a great triumph for the human intellect to portray with all the vividness of reality the horrors of insanity, the fierce audacity of guilt and some- times of despair, the remorseful cruelty of jealousy, the endurance and self-devotion of patriotism, the stern forti- tude and fiery energy of warlike ana.bition, the unswerving resolution of hatred and revenge : but our admiration is ' Du Bellay, a French writer under Henry II., urges his countarymon to copy the Eomans, as the Eomans had copied the Greeks. 1564—1616.] SHAKESPEARE. 15 immeasurably Increased if the mind which ia capable of successfully grappling with these grander topics can range with equal power in another and an opposite direction ; if it can with equal fidelity set before us the ardour and anxieties of love, the devotion of fihal duty, the grace and dehcacy of female purity, the divine beauty of compassion, the nobleness of resignation under calamity and disgrace ; the feeling is augmented still further if to the vigour exerted in delineations of the one class, and to the tenderness dis- played in those of the other, be added philosophy to instruct, wit and humour to amuse ; and if, beyond these qualities, which are mainly the fruit of keen observation and intelligence, an original and creative imagination at times transports the poet within the boundaries of the invisible world, and enables him to ' turn into shape ' and bring before the reader or spectator ' the forms of things unknown ; ' and if, lastly, this combination of mental en- dowments be set off by technical skill, by a mastery of the resources of the language which should enable the author to display and embellish them with all the felicity of a rich and varied diction and musical versification, it would be difficult to conceive what more could be required to entitle him in whom these gifts might be found to the glory of having attained as great perfection as the finite faculties of man can arrive at. Yet it is not too much to say that they all do meet in Shakespeare, and th9,t even this long enumeration does not exhaust the catalogue of his claims on our attention and admiration : nay, perhaps, in the eyes of those who regard chiefly the artistic skill of the dramatist, it does not include the highest of all, the union of fearless boldness and unerring correctness displayed in his delineation of character. His vehemence may at times swell into bombast, his wit may not unfreqaently degene- rate into that paltry play upon words which was the fashion of his day ; or, still worse, may be tainted with coarseness and indecency ; but no Zoilus has ever discovered a flaw in the consum.mate art with which he sets before us not only each separate character, but all the chief characters in each play, so combining and contrasting them that they serve to bring out each other's peculiarities. So great was 16 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. I. his capacity for transporting himself into every situation, and identifying himself with every disposition, that, in whatever conjuncture any of his personages are placed, they in- variably conduct themselves in it according to the general ^ laws of nature ; they never seem to do or say anything merely on account of the audience ; and yet the poet, by their conduct and language, communicates to the spectator or the reader the faculty of looking, as it were, into the most secret recesses of their minds, so that . Goethe has ingeniously compared his characters to watches in crystal cases, which not only tell the time correctly, but, at the same time, enable us to perceive the inward springs by which this end is accomplished. I have spoken of his extraordinarjf versatility ; and it must always be remembered that he is the first writer in any language who ever attempted to shine both in tragedy and comedy. Plato, indeed, represents Socrates as con-, tending that every tragic poet of the first class must have- within him the qualities requisite to enable him to excel in comedy also ; because, as he lays it down, opposites can , only be understood by and through each other ; and, con- sequently, we can only feel what is grand and serious if ' we know alio what is mirth-provoking and laughable. He was probably thinking of the satyric drama of his country- man ; but that corresponded to the modern burlesques rather than to any other kind of composition. It had cer- tainly no claim to the dignified name of comedy ; -and no dramatist of ancient days apparently regarded the assertion,; even though supported by two such philosophers, as any- thing better than an ingenious paradox. Certainly, none' ever tried to exemplify its truth by his own practice. That,, as well as other triumphs, was reserved for the poet who could draw Lear as well as Falstafi" ; Benedick or Malvolio,, as truthfully as Hamlet or Macbeth. His example was followed by many of our own drama- tists in the course of the next century ; not one of whom, however, can be said to have succeeded in both ; and by the great French tragedian, Racine, who, in his ' Plaideurs,' imitated the ' Wasps ' of Aristophanes, but who, apparently, was not very well pleased with his own performance, since he never repeated the experiment. But Shakespeare's 1564—1616.] SHAKESPEAEE. 17 trinmph in both has been so complete that his warmest Vpanegyrists have doubted which style was the most suited po his natural genius. It is singular that he abstains from one source of attraction on which comic writers in general mainly rely : the portrayal of the manners of his own age and country, which, as being such, are of necessity the most easily apprehended by, and most keenly appreciated by the audience. For the scene of his comedies is mostly laid in Italy ; and, when he introduces a comic English character on the stage, he places him in an earlier genera- tion of very different habits. Yet he has surmounted this drawback so completely that we never perceive it to be one: or, it may be more correct to say, so universal, so natural, so thoroughly human, was his genius, that the situations in which he places the personages in his comedies are as appro- priate to the time and place of their first representation as to the era or region in which the scene is laid, and to the present day as to that of their original composition. For He was not of an age; hut of all time. That there are occasional blemishes in his works it would be vain to deny. Indeed it is an injudicious eulogy that represents any man, or work of man, as absolutely faultless ; and does not content itself with showing the defects to be so far outnumbered and outweighed by the excellences as not to deserve to be taken into serious account. And with such a feeling we may certainly regard and speak of the flaws in Shakespeare ; too few and too insignificant to be put into the scale for a moment against the variety and greatness of the beauties which have been enumerated. We may agree with Schlegel that it is a not impermissible license in a poet to transfer hons and deadly serpents, the accredited horrors of all forests, to the Ar- dennes, though it certainly had been free from such mon- sters for ages before the date of 'As You Like It;' but when he represents Hamlet as having studied at Witten- berg, where no university was founded till Hamlet had been centuries iu the grave ; when he makes Eichard IH. quote Machiavelli, though the subtle author of ' II Prin- cipe ' was a boy at school when the Great Hunchback fell C 18 • ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Oh. I. at Bosworth ; and when he makes ships land their crews in Bohemia ; we can certainly not conclude with the acute but enthusiastic German that Shakespeare committed all these blunder.?, knowing them to be such, ' of set purpose and deliberately ; ' but we set them down to the deficiencies of his early education, and while doing so admit at the same time that they in no degree affect the real merits of the pieces in which they occur ; and that, if they are spots in the sun, they yet cause no visible diminution of his lustre. The obscurity of some of his expressions and sentences is a far greater blemish, which cannot always be explained as arising from errors of the copyist or the printer. Probably this also must be imputed to the same cause as the slips in geography and chronology, and may also be passed over on the same ground, since it fortunately happens that the sentences which can neither be understood as they stand, nor be corrected with any probability, occur for the most part in comparatively unimportant scenes, and in scarcely one instance spoil the effect of his grand speeches or inte- resting situations. 1564—1616.] SHAKESPEARE. 19 CHAPTER II. SHAKESPEABE—contianed. A.D. 1664-1616. It is absolutely impossible, by isolated quotations, to give the faintest idea of the pre-eminent merit of Sbakespeare. It is difficult to do so witb ■writers of other classes, so that Johnson has compared the critic who attempts such a task to the man mentioned by the old Greek anecdote-monger, who, being desirous to sell his house, pulled a brick out of the wall, and took it into the market-place. And it must be harder so to deal with a dramatist than with any other writer, because there is no other whose work so impera- tively requires to be judged as a whole. The suitableness of any speech to the personage in whose mouth it is put cannot be fairly estimated unless we take into our view all the other occurrences in the play which throw a light on the speaker's character. The propriety of any situation, the humour of any complication, still more requires that we should have aU the surrounding circumstances in view, that we may be able adequately and fairly to appreciate them. It must therefore be recollected that to present detached scenes, or parts of scenes, as specimens of his genius and art, is to exhibit Shakespeare at a great disad- vantage ; but it may be hoped that the passages so pre- sented will prove sufficiently attractive to induce a study of his different plriys in their entirety. We will begin with the first of that series of dramas on the history of England, to which so many readers in former generations were chiefly indebted for their notions of many of the most important events and characters in our annals. I have mentioned the truthful vigour with which the patriot and the warrior speak in his pages. The Bastard Faulconbridge in ' King John ' is both patriot and warrior. c 2 20 ENGLISH LITEEATUUE. [Ch. II. And it is in a fine siirain of manly eloquence that he tries to inspire his base sovereign with courage, when John is trembling at the report that — London hath received Like a kind host the Dauphin and his powers ; and that the English nobles ' are gone To offer service to the enemy. I should remark, in passing, that in this play, as after- wards (in a lesser degree) in ' Henry IV.,' the poet does injustice to one of the great men of our early history. The Hubert who in this scene is called 'a villain,' and, in a former act, A fellow by the hand of nature marked, Quoted, and signed, to do a deed of shame, so that it was his ' abhorred aspect ' that had tempted John to his foulest actions, was in reality the great justiciary Hubert de Burgh, to whom John's son was as deeply in- debted as to any baron in the land for the expulsion of the French and the peacefal enjoyment of his kingdom. The desertion of the nobles had been caused by their dis- covery of the death of Arthur, whom Hubert, in a previous scene of great power, had assured John that he had forborne to destroy, though the king had commanded his naurder. K. John. That villain Hubert told me he did live. * Bast. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew'. But wherefore do you droop ? Why look you sad ? Be great in act, as you have been in thought ; Let not the world see fear, and sad distrust Gotern the motion of a kingly eye ; Be stirring as the time ; be fire with fire ; Threaten the threat'ner, and outface the brow Of bragging horror ; so shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviour from the great Grow great by your example ; and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution. Away ; and glister like the god of war, "When he intendeth to become the field : Show boldness, and aspiring confidence ; What, shall they seek the lion in his den, And fright him there ? and make him tremble there ? 0, let it not be said ! — Forage, and rim 1664—1616.] SHAKESPEARE. 21 To meet displeasure further from the doors ; And grapple with him, ere he come so nigh. K. Mm. The Legate of the Pope hath been with me, And I have made a happy peace with him ; And he hath promised to dismiss the powers Led by the Dauphin. Bast. O inglorious league ! Shall we, upon the footing of our land, Send fair-play orders, and make compromise, Insinuation, parley, and base truce, To arms invasive P Shall a beardless boy, A cocker'd silken wanton, brave our fields, And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil, Mocking the air with colours idly spread, And find no check ? Let us, my liege, to arms. In a subsequent play, where the speaker, a brave man, speaks to brave men, bis tone is even more noble. Every- one recollects the circumstances tbat preceded the battle of Agincourt ; how Henry V. had invaded France with an army wholly disproportioned to such an enterprise ; and how at last, on October 24, the eve of St. Crispin's day, he found himself confronted by a host of which the cavalry alone outnumbered his whole force. He himself would willingly have avoided a conflict in which success appeared almost hopeless, and volunteered proposals of peace, but the French princes were too confident of triumph to grant him such as he deemed consistent with his honour. He was compelled, therefore, to prepare to risk all on the chance of a battle ; and, as great men always feel, his cou- rage and the resources of his mind rose with the demands made upon them. It was not strange, however, that among his officers some who had less responsibility should have a less buoyant spirit ; nor, indeed, that there should not be a general wish that some of their comrades who were still in England were now standing by their side ; and Shakespeare accordingly gives us the expression of such a wish by one who was no faint-hearted warrior, and the king's reproof of it. (Henry V. Act ir. Se. iii.) Westmoreland. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of tho.se men in England, That do no work to-day ! 22 ENGLISH LITEEATUKE. [Oh. H. K. Henry. What's he, that wishes so ? My cousin Westmoreland ? No, my fair cousin : If we were marked to die, we are enough To do our country loss ; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will ! I pray thee, wish not one man more, By Jove, I am not covetous for gold ; Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost ; It yearns me not, if men my garments wear ; Such outward things dwell not in my desires : But, if it he a sin to covet honour, I am the most ofl'ending soul alive. No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England : God's peace ! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more, methinks, would share from me, For the hest hope I have. 0, do not wish one more: Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, 'through my host, That he, which hath no stomach to this fight. Let him depart ; his passport shall be made. And crowns for convoy put into his purse ; We would not die in that man's company, That fears hi^ fellowship to die with us. This day is call'd the feast of Criapian : He, that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He, that shall live this day, and see old age, WiU yearly on the vigil feast his friends. And say To-morrow is saint Crispian : Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars. And say, these wounds I had on Crislpian's day. Old men forgpt, yet all shall he forgot. But he'U remember, with advantages. What feats he did that day : then shall our names, Familiar in their mouths as household words, — HaiTy the king, Bedford, and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glosier, — Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd : This story shall the good man teach his son ; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world. But we in it shall be remembered : We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne"er so vile, 1564^1616.] SHAKESPEARE. 23 This day shall gentle his condition : And gentlemen in England, now a-bed, Shall think themselves accursed, they were not here ; And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks, That fought with us upon St. Crispin's day. It may be unnecessary to point out ttat ' to gentle his condition ' means to raise him to the rank of gentleman ; but it is worth noticing how, while giving expression to the resolution of his own unconquerable spirit, the king mingles with it the motives most powerful to animate his followers ; the prospect of immortal fame, contrasted, with the shame of him who, fearing to die in his company, would take money for his passage home and desert his comrades ; and not only glory for those already noble and illustrious, but advancement and honour for those who as yet are but of lowly rank. We have seen the lifelike utterances of courage which Shakespeare puts into the mouth of heroes. We may contrast with them the expressions of despair extorted from one whose fault was not so much timidity as levity and irresolution ; and who now, feeling his sceptre falling from his grasp, and his dignity if not his Ufe menaced by a kinsman at once bold, perfidious, and unscrupulous, might well feel almost unmanned and hopeless. Intelli- gence has reached him of the progress of Bohngbroke, and of the sad fate of some of his own adherents who had fiiUen into his hands, and been executed as having given their sovereign pernicious advice ; and after such a disaster a weak man may well see no comfort. (Richard II. Act iii. So. ii.) Aumerle. Where is the duke my father, with his power ? K. Richard. No matter where ; of comfort no man speak : Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors, and talk of wills : And yet not so, — for what can we bequeath. Save our deposed bodies to the ground ? Our lands, our lives, and all, are Bolinghroke's, And nothing can we call our own, hut death ; And that small model of the barren earth, 24 ENGLISH LITEEATURE. [Ch. II. Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the death of kings : — How some have been deposed, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd ! Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping kill'd ; All murder'd : — For within the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps death his court : and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state ; and grinning at his pomp ; Allowing him a breath, a little scene To monarchise, be feared, and kill with looks ; Infusing him with self and vain conceit, — Aa if this flesh, which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable ; and, humour'd thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king ! Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence ; throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty. For you have but mistook me all this while ; I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief. Need friends t — Subjected thus. How can you say to me, I am a king ? Of wit and humour Shakespeare has given us an infinite variety. We have the wit of high-breeding, or what was then accounted such, in Benedick and Beatrice, whose con- versation is more lively raillery than very sparkling brilliancy of idea. And as a contrast to it we have the jovial, boisterous, ever ready recklessness, of Falstaif. We have the more deliberate wit of jesters by profession, such as Touchstone, the nameless fools in ' Lear ' and ' Twelfth Night ; ' and the unconscious humour of ignorant boors, such as Bottom or Dogberry ; while in theatrical effect, perhaps, no contest of repartee or playfulness of set description surpasses the scenes in which bragging cowardice is brought to shame, as Pistol by Fluellen ; or vanity like Malvolio's, held up as a jest even to men who are not much wiser than himself. We will first take Benedick and Beatrice, the hero and heroine of ' Much Ado about Nothing ; ' both the gentle- man and the lady are of similar tempers, professed enemies to love, while in reality each cherishes a secret liking for 1564—1616.] SHAKESPEARE. 25 the other ; and each has railed so much about matrimony as to be ashamed to own or to show it. Beatrice is the niece of Leonato, Goyernor of Messina, and her first meeting with Benedick in the play is where he comes in the train of Don Pedro, the Prince of Aragon, to pay his respects to her uncle; her cousin Hero, Leonato's daughter, is likewise present, and Benedick cannot forbear addressing to his prince some eulogistic remarks on her beauty, on which Beatrice, who apparently has suflB.cient fancy for him to be somewhat jealous, breaks in. (Act i. Sc. i.) Beat. I wonder that you will still be talking, Signer Benedick; nobody marks you. Bene. What, my dear lady Disdain ! are you yet living ? Beat. Is it possible disdain should die, while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signer Benedick ? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence. Bene. Then is courtesy a turn-coat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted : and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart, for truly, I love none. Beat. A dear happiness to women : they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me. Bene. God keep your ladyship still in that mind, so some gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face. Beat. Scratching could not make it worse were it such a face as yom's were. Bene. Well you are a rare parrot-teacher. Beat. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours. Bene. I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer : but keep your way o' God's name : I have done. Beat. You always end with a jade's trick — I know you of old. A jade is an animal easily tired. In a subsequent scene we have a soliloquy of Benedick in denunciation of love. Claudio, his bosom friend, is in love with Hero ; but Bene- dick has no belief that the woman exists on earth who can induce him to commit himself in like manner. (Act ii. Sc. iii.) Bene. Boy. . Boy. Signer. 26 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch.II. Bene. In my chamber window lies a book ; bring it hither to me in the orchard. Jioi/. I am here already, sir. Bene.. I know that; but I would have thee hence and here again. I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he has laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love. And such a' man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and fife, and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe ; I have known when he would have walked ten mile a-foot to see a good armour, and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain, and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier ; and now he is turned orthographer : his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted, and see with these eyes ? I cannot tell ; I think not : I will not be sworn, but love may transform me to an oyster ; but I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair ; yet I am well : another is wise ; yet I am well : another virtuous ; yet I am well : but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain ; wise, or I'll none ; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her ; fair, or I'll never look on her ; mild, or come not near me ; noble, or not I for an angel ; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be whatever colour it please God. Ha ! the prince and monsieur Love ! I will hide me in the arbour. He does not, however, hide himself as effectually as he imagines. Monsieur Love, that is, Claudio, sees him, and gives a hint of his position to Don Pedro, who, knowing that Benedick is within hearing, leads Leonato to talk of his niece's real love for Benedick, in spite of her 'in all outward behaviours and seeming ever to abhor him.' ' She swears she will never make known her affections to him.' Claudio adds that she takes on so .that Hero is ' sometimes afraid she will do herself a desperate outrage,' and Hero says, ' she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known.' Leonato's speech was no trick, though Pedro's leading him on to make it, and the obser- vations with which Claudio corroborates it, are ; and Bene- dick, hearing the tale, is softened. 1564—1616.] SHAKESPEAEE. 27 Benebick advances from the arbour. Bene. This can be no trick : the conference ■was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady ; it seems her affections have their full bent. Love me ! ■why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured : they say, I ■will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her ; they say too, that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. — ^I did never think to marry ■ I must not seem proud. Happy ai'e they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair : 'tis a truth I can bear them ■witness : and virtuous ; 'tis so, I cannot reprove it ; and wise, but for lo"ving me : By my troth, it is no addition to her wit ; nor no great argument for her folly, for I ■will be horribly in love with her. 1 may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage. But doth not the appetite alter ? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences, and these paper bullets of the brain, awe a man from the career of his humour ? No, the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were marrried. Here comes Beatrice : by this day, she's a fair lady; I do spy some marks of love in her. Enter Beaikice. Beat. Against my will, I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks, than you take pains to thank me ; if it had been painful I would not have come. Bene. You take pleasure in the message ? Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point and choke a daw withal : — You have no stomach, Signnr ; fare you well. ■ _ [-^«*- Bene. Ha ! Against my ■will I am sent to bid you come to dinner — there's a double meaning in that. I took no more pains for those thanks, than you took pains to thank me — that's as much as to say, any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks : — ^If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain ; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture. IVom these dissembling lovers we may fitly proceed to those who did not disguise their affections. Eomeo and Juliet, the son and daughter of two ^nfriendly families in Verona, who nevertheless have founcT^o make such ac- i. quaintance as has proved sufficient tft^spire them with 28 ENGLISH LITBEATUEE. [Cn. II. ardent mutual love. Romeo, like a faithful wooer, ventures into her father's garden by night to speak with her at her window ; and poetry has never clothed the aspirations of true love with more exquisite imagery than he addresses to his mistress, nor is the lady insensible to his eloquent passion. (Eomeo and Juliet, Act ii. Sc. ii.) JSnter Romeo. Horn. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. [Juliet appears above, at a window. But, soft ! what light through yonder window breaks ? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun 1 — Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief. That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she : Be not her maid, since she is envious ; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it ; cast it off. — It is my lady ; 0, it is my love : 0, that she knew she were ! She speaks, yet she says nothing : What of that P Her eye discourses, I wiU answer it. — I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks : Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head P The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp ; her eye in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright. That birds would sing, and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 0, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek ! Juliet. Ah me ! Mom. She speaks: — 0, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds. And sails upon the bosom of the air. :564— 1616.J SHAKESPEAKE. 29 Juliet. Thou know'st, the mask of night is on my face ; Else would a maiden blush bepaint my. cheek, For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke ; but farewell compliment 1 Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say — Ay ; And I will take thy word : yet, if thou swear'st, Thou may'st prove false ; at lovers' perjuries, They say, Jove laughs. 0, gentle Komeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully, Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won, I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo ; but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond ; And therefore thou may'st think my haviour light : But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess. But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware. My true love's passion : therefore pardon me ; And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. But woman is not always uncertain, coy, and hard to please like Beatrice, nor ardent and passionate like Juliet. The affection of a motlier is deeper than that of any maiden, however beloved and loving ; her distress, if the treasure on which her heart is set, her child, be reft from her, more painful and more touching than even the despair which leads such a maiden to immolate herself on the dead body of him whose she had hoped to be in hfe, but who finds that she can only be united to him by death. And the mother's love and agony are depicted with painful HfeKke- ness in the lamentation of Constance for her son Arthur, who, she doubts not, has either been put to death by his uncle, John of England, or is in his power so completely that no hope can be entertained of his being allowed to hve. (King John, Act iii. So. iv.) King Philip. Bind up your hairs. Constance. Yes, that I will ; and wherefore will I do it ? I tore them from their bonds ; and cried aloud, O that these hands could so redeem my son. As they have given these hairs their liberty 1 30 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch.II. But now I envy at their liberty, And will again commit them to their bonds, Because my poor child is a prisoner. — And, father csirdinal, I have heard you say, That we shall see and know our friends in heaven : If that be true, I shall see my boy again; For, since the birth of Cain, the iirst male child. To him that did but yesterday suspire. There was not such a gracious creature born. But now will canker sorrow eat my bud, And chase the native beauty from his cheek, And he will look as hollow as a ghost ; As thin and meagre as an ague's fit ; And so he'll die ; and, risiag so again. When I shall meet him in the court of heaven, 1 shall not know him : therefore never, never Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. Pandulpk. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. Constance, He talks to me, that never had a son. ' Too heinous a respect of ' grief seems to mean, to cherish, grief to such, excess as to be hardly excusable. Pandulph, as a Roman ecclesiastic, was forbidden to marry and become a father, and therefore could not possibly sym- pathise with a bereaved mother. There is no more subtle touch of nature in all Constance's lamentation; none but those who have been in her position are entitled even to judge of her grief; and when Philip in some degree endorses Pandulph's reproof, ,the simile with which she replies to the king, endowing her very sorrow with the personality of her child, is an exquisite specimen of the union of poetry with the deepest feeling. K. Philip. You are as fond of grief as of your child. Constance. Grief fills the room up of my absent child. Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me ; Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words. Remembers me of all his gracious parts. Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; Then, have 1 reason to be fond of grief. Fare you well : had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do. — I wUl not keep this form upon my head, ITearinff of her head-dress. 1564—1616.] SHAKESPEARE. 31 When there is such disorder in my wit. O lord ! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son ! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world 1 My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's care ! We have seen Benedick's wit, such as we may be sure was fashionable in the days of Elizabeth, though it is some- what too unceremonious, too wanting in respect for the sex to be quite in keeping with the chivalrous feelings that ought to animate a high-bred noble. But the scenes in "which Falstaff is brought on the stage are more widely celebrated as specimens of wit than probably any passages in, any play that ever was written. It is curious why Shakespeare should have chosen for his dissolute old brag- gart the name of one who, so far from deserving such a character, was in fact one of the most gallant knights who upheld the credit of the English arms in France during the infancy of Henry VT., for the real Falstaff was the com- mander who defeated the very bravest of the French knights, the celebrated Dunois, in the battle of Herrings. And in the way of doing justice, at the same time, to one of our most brilliant national heroes, I may point out that the irregu- larity and license of Henry's own conduct are unduly exag- gerated by the poet. Even in ' Richard H.' (Act v. Sc. ii.) Shakespeare represents Bolingbroke as grieving over 'his unthrifty son ' frequenting ' the taverns ' with ' his unre- strained loose companions, beating the watch and robbing the passengers,' though he was then a boy of but eleven years old. And though the general tradition of his youthful excesses cannot but have had some foundation, it is clear that he was actually employed in the command of his father's army during a great part of the time that he is represented as rioting in London. But we must not blame too severely an exaggeration for which we are indebted to some of the richest comedy which any language can boast. As the prince is portrayed to us in the play of ' Henry IV.,' he is the head of a party of boon companions, of which Falstaff is the chief; of the others, Bardolph and Gadshill are copies of the worst parb of Falstaff 's character, drunken and cowardly ; Poins is more Hke the Prince himself, a roisterer, but frank and fearless, with a just scorn of the braggart humoui- of his 32 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. II. mates. And lie is iiit,roduced proposing to the wliole party a robbery of some pilgrims about to go ' to Canterbury with. rich offerings ' for the shrine of Thomas-a-Beokett ; his secret plan being, as he subsequently explains to the prince, that the prince and he shall fail in keeping their appoint- ment with the rest ; and when the others have accomplished the robbery, the prince and he shall set upon them and carry off the booty. He has provided ' visors and cases of buckram ; ' and in reply to a question whether the four ' will not be too hard for them,' he answers : — (Eirst Part of King Henry IV. Act i. Sc. ii.) Poins. Well, for two of them, I know them to be as true-bred cowards as ever turned back ; and for the third, if he fights longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will be the incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at supper : bow thirty, at least, he fought with ; what words, what Hows, what extremities he endured ; and in the reproof of this lies the jest. The plot succeeds exactly as Poins has designed it, and its development is related in the following scene. The Prince and Poins are sitting at supper at their favourite Boar's-head, Eastcheap, when Falstafi' and the rest come in. (Actii. Sc. iv.) Poins. Welcome, Jack, Where hast thou been ? Falstaff. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too ! Marry, and amen ! Give me a cup of sack, boy. — Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew netherstocks, and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards ! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. la there no virtue extant ? \_IIe di-inks. • P. Henry. Did'st thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter ? pitiful-hearted Titan, that melted at the sweet tale of the son ! If thou did'st, then behold that compound. Falstaff. You rogue, here's lime in this sack too: There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man : Yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it,^a villainous coward. — Go thy ways, old Jack ; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, he not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhang'd in England ; and one of them is fat, and grows old : God help the while! A bad world, I say ! I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or anything : a plague of all cowards, I say still. 1561—1616.] shae;espeaiie. 33 p. Henry. How now, woolsack ? what mutter you ? FaUtaff. A king's son ! If I do not beat thee out of thy king- dom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, Til never wear hair on my face more. You prince of Wales ! P. Henry. Why, you great round man ! what's the matter ? Falstaff. Are you not a coward? answer me to that; and Poins there P Poim. 'Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, I'll stab thee. FaUtaff. I call thee coward ! I'll see thee damned ere I call thee coward : but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders, you care not who sees your back: call you that backing of your Mends ? A plague upon such backing ! give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack: — I am a rogue if I drunk to-day. P. Henry. O villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drunk'st last. Falstaff. All's one for that. A plague of all cowards, still say I. {_He drinks. P. Henry. What's the matter ? Falstaff. What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'eu a thousand pound this morning. P. Henry. Where is it, Jack ? where is it ? Falstaff. Where is it ? taken from us it is : a hundred upon poor four of us. P. Henry. What, a hundred, man ? Falstaff. I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet ; four through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw, ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a man : all would not do. A plague of all cowards !— Let them speak : if they speak more or less than truth they are villains, and the sons of darkness. P. Henry. Speak, sirs ; how was it ? Gadshill. We four set upon some dozen,— Falstaff. Sixteen, at least, my lord. Gadshill. And bound them. Peto. No, no, they were not bound. Falstaff. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. • Gadshiil. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us, — 34 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. II. Falstaff. And unbound the rest, and then come in the other. P. Henry. What, fought ye with them all ? Falstaff. AU ! I know not what ye call all ; but if I fought not with fifty of them I am a bunch of radish : if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two- legged creature. Poins. Pray God you have not murdered some of them. Falstaff. Nay, that's past praying for : for I have peppered two of them : two, I am sure, I have paid : two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, — if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse: Thou knowest my old ward ; — here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me, — P. Henry. What, four P thou said'st but two, even now. Fahtaff. Four, Hal ; I told thee four. Poins. Ay, ay, he said four. Falstaff. These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. 1 made me no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus. P. Henry. Seven ? why there were but four, even now. Falstaff. In buckram. Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits. Falstaff. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. P. Henry. Prythee, let him alone ; we shall have more anon. Falstaff. Dost thou hear me, Hal ? P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too. Jack. Falstaff. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram, that I told thee of, — P. Henry. So, two more already. Falstaff. Their points being broken, — Poins. Down fell their hose. Falstaff. Began to give me ground : but I followed me close, came in foot and hand; and with a thought seven of the eleven I paid. P. Henry. monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two. Falstaff. But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves in Kendal Green came at my back, and let drive at me ; — for it was so dark, Hal, that thou could'st not see thy hand. P. Henry. These lies are like the father that begets them ; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Falstaff. What, art thou mad r art thou mad ? is not the truth the truth? P. Henry. Why, how could'st thou know these men in Kendal Green, when it was so dark thou could'st not see thy hand ? Come, tell u3 your reason ; what sayest thou to this ? 1564—1616.] SHAKESPEARE. 35 Pvins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason. Fahtaf. "What, upon compulsion ? No ; were I at tlie strap- pado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on com- pulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries I would give no man a reason upon compul^ sion, I, P. Sem-y. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh ;— Falstaff. Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you stock-fish, — 0, for breath to utter what is like thee ! — you tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck ; — P. Henry. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again : and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this. Poins. Mark, Jack. P. Henry. We two saw you four set on four ; you bound them, aud were masters of their wealth. — Mark now, how plain a tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four : and, with a word, out-faced you from your prize, and have it ; yea, and can show it you here in the house: — and Falstafi', you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf What a slave art thou to hack thy sword as thou hast done ; and then say, it was in fight ! What trick, what device, what starting- hole, canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame ? Poins. Come, let's hear. Jack : What trick hast thou now ? Faldaff. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters : was it for me to kill the heir appa- rent? Should I turn upon the true prince ? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules : but beware instinct ; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter ; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my life ; I, for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money. — Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. — Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you ! What, shall we be merry ? shall we have a play extempore ? P. Henry. Content; — and the argument shall be, thy running away. Faldaff. Ah ! no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me. In the last scene of the same play, lie, Falstaff, is again d2 36 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. II. introduced on a different field of action at the battle of Shrewsbury, Tjut still preserving the same character of' ■willingness to avoid danger and willingness to obtain credit as a forward encounterer of it. Tet when the battle is on the point of commencing, he cannot altogether stifle his alarms. He 'would it were bed- time and all well.' The prince reminds him that he ' owes God a death,' and this gives occasion for a soliloquy on honour, which I quote the more because we shall hereafter have an opportunity of comparing with it another description of honour drawn by the vrittiest of our modern dramatists. (Act V. So. i.) Falstaff. 'Tis not due yet ; I would be loath to pay Mm before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me ? Well, 'tis no matter ; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on ? how then ? Can honour set to a leg ? No. Or an arm ? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is honour ? A word. What is in that word, honour ? What is that honour ? Air. A trim reckoning ! — Who hath it ? He that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? No. JDoth he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living ? No. Why ? Detraction will not suffer it ;— therefore, I'll none of it : — Honour is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism. But it wonld not be fair to Shakespeare's higher attri- butes that the last impression of him be conveyed to your minds by Falstaff' s buffooneries. We have seen Richard fall with despairing weakness. We will close onr extracts with the -contemplation of the dignified resignation of a greater man. (Hem'y VIII. Act iii. So. ii.) WoUey. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell ; And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be ; And sleep in dull cold marble, where no menticn Of me more must be heard of, — say, I taught thee. Say, Wolsey, — that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded .all the depths and shoals of honour ; — 1564—1616.] SHAKESPEAEE. 37 Found thee a way, out of hia wreck, to rise in ; A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; By that sin fell the angels ; how can man then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't ? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee: Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not : Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's ; then if thou fall'st, Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ; And, — Prythee, lead me in : There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. Iq this beautifal passage we shall not be doing full justice to Shakespeare if we omit to notice not merely the beauty of the sentiments, wearing nothing but devotion, patriotism and sincerity, here put in Wolsey's mouth, but their con- sistency with his real feelings of repentance, prompted, it may be, by the change in his fortunes. But that that penitence was real is proved by the fact that the last lines in his speech are but a poetical rendering of his real words. ' If I had served God as diligently as I have done the king, he would not have given me over in my grey hairs, howbeit this is my just reward for my worldly diligence and pains to do him service, not regarding my godly duty.' ' An almost similar incident is related of the great Colbert : — ' When he was on his death-bed Louis wrote him a letter, but its contents are not known. Dreading that it might contain fresh reproaches, the heart-sick old man refused to open it, exclaiming to his attendants, in language which he might almost seem to have borrowed from our own Wolsey, ' If I had but served my God as faithfully as I » Sharon Turner, Modern History of England, ii. 305, quoting Cave. 38 ENGLISH LITEEATtlRE. [Ch. II. have served this man, I might lov-g since have worked out my salvation, but now what awaits me ? ' ' There is a remarkable resemblance, too, to the sentiment here expressed, in Sadi's ' GruHstan,' translated by Ross, p. 171, Apologue 29. — ' One of the king's ministers went to Zuannun (Jonah), the Egyptian, and asked his blessing, Baying, " Day and night I am occupied in the service of my prince, hoping for his favour and dreading his displeasure." Zuannun wept and answered, " Had 1 feared the Most High God as you have feared the king, I should have been among the number of the elect. Were there not the hope of re- ward and punishment hereafter, the foot of the dawesh had stept into' the celestial sphere. Had the vizier stood in the same awe of God that he did of the king, he might have been an angel of heaven. '" ' History of France under the Bourbons, ii. 290. 1575—1637.] BEN JONSON. 39 CHAPTER in. BEN JONSON. A.D. 1675-1637. The genius of Sliakspeare throws all the other dramatists of his own and the succeeding age so completely into the shade, that, on the principle which I laid down as that which should guide us in these lectures, of speaking of no authors but those of ahsolutely first-rate excellence, I might per- haps be justified in passing them over altogether ; and shall only speak of one of those who followed in what may in some sense be called the same 'school of the drama. I shall pass over Massinger, though he has left us one excellent acting-play, the ' New "Way to Pay Old Debts ; ' Beaumont and Fletcher, who, with very different tastes, and talents of a very dissimilar caste, entered into a strange sort of partnership to write plays together, though there is pro- bably no sort of composition which so imperatively requires the impress of a single mind as a drama ; Dryden, who has left us such a number of specimens both in tragedy and comedy that they might have been supposed sufficient to occupy all his time ; but whose genius was so wholly un- suited to the theatre, that even his great name has not been able to make a single play popular, either on the stage or in the closet, though, as might be expected, several are adorned with passages of great energy, spirit, and poetic beauty. And the only two of whom I propose to speak are Jonson, Ben Jonson as he is universally called, who was a contemporary of Shakespeare himself, and who was looked on by the great poet so much as a friend, that he performed a principal part in at least two of his plays ; and Otway, who wrote in the latter part of the seventeenth century, and who, though dying at an early age, had already achieved a reputation beyond that of any contemporary tragedian, and 40 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. III. wlio has even been extolled by modern critics of tte highest eminence as rivalling Shakespeare himself in some points,' though I confess that that praise appears to me to be greatly exaggerated. Of Jonson's personal history we have not been left in the ignorance which we are forced to confess when speaking of Shakespeare : on the contrary, the chief events of his life have been handed down to ns with a ful- ness of detail which goes back even into his early youth. He was originally of a Scotch family, but his grandfather had crossed the border, and had obtained a post under the English government at Carlisle. His father, with the desire which the Johnson of the last century considered the most natural feeling for every Scotchman, to withdraw still further from Scotland, removed to the south, took orders, and settled in Westminster ; and, at the great school just founded in that city by Elizabeth, who, with all her faults, was a steady encourager of learning and a generally judi- cious patroness of mepi of learning and genius, the young Jonson was placed, and there acquired that classical learning of which he was very proud, and of which in more than one of his works he makes an unseasonable parade. But, his father having died in his infancy, or, according to some ac- counts, before he was born, his mother after a time married a builder, who caring little for learning, and seeing that his stepson was a stout and strong-hmbed boy, took him, by a destiny the exact opposite to that of Demosthenes,^ from school, and employed him in his own trade. He was not well pleased with the change ; he had acquired not only a tincture of, but a real fondness for classical studies ; and it is said that he constantly carried books in his pocket ; and the future favourite of the court, with his hod on his shoulder, would halt on the ladder's steps, and beguile his time by stopping to refresh his memory with some of the masterpieces of ancient literature. To his stepfather such ' ' The talents of Otway in his scenes of passionate affection, rival at least, and sometimes excel, those of Shakespeare.' — Scott's Essay on the Drama. ' Quem pater ardentis massse fuligine lippus A carbone, et forcipibus, gladiosc[ne parante Incude, et Inteo Vuloano ad ihetora mjsit, — Jut. x. 130. 1575—1637.] BEN JONSON. 41 a diversion seemed a sad waste of time; but it led to that other change in his mode of life to which we owe our ac- quaintance with him. As his story is commonly told, a lawyer at Lincohi's Inn, where some new buildings were in progress, saw the youth resting on the scaffolding, and heard him recite or read a passage of Homer with a zest which showed that he felt its beauties. He enquired his history, and procured him aid sufficient to enable him to resume his more congenial studies to greater advantao-e. Ben was sent to Cambridge, and there he studied for a while with great assiduity, though his stay there is understood not to have been uninterrupted. Why he quitted the uni- versity we do not know, but there seems no doubt that, shortly after his first admission to it, he left it, and enlisted in an expedition which was sent to the Continent, probably that which in the year 1591 the Queen sent under the command of Essex to the aid of Henry IV., then engaged in a contest which his inferiority to the great Duke of Parma rendered terribly unequal. The English troops," however, distinguished themselves by their steadiness and good conduct ; and Jonson himself, though only a youth of seventeen, is said to have won the favourable notice of his officers. But apparently military glory was as little to his taste as the more useful labours of the builder. At all events his period of service was of short duration : he re- turned to Cambridge, only however to quit it again after a brief probation, probably from want of pecuniary means ; as, at the beginning of 1594, when he was hardly twenty years of age, we find him married and supporting, or en- deavouring to support himself and his wife by engaging in a theatrical company which had a small theatre in the north of London. His acting was bad : but it led him to fortune by procuring him the acquaintance of Shakespeare, who conceived his talents to be better fitted to produce plays of his own than to represent those of others ; and en- couraged him to write for the stage, giving him valuable hints and even assistance. His occupation in this way was interrupted, and in a less creditable way than his Cambridge studies had been ; he was of a jealous, imperious and quar- relsome temper, and, having killed a brother actor in a 42 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. in. brawl, he was committed to prison, thougli he must have been acquitted of legal guilt, or at all events have escaped with but a short confinement, since, as early as 1598, he produced his first play, which in some respects is his best, ' Every Man in his Humour.' One scene in it, where the jealous merchant Kitely is called off to important business (Act iii. Sc. iii.), when he beheves his wife is expecting visitors of whom he is suspicious, and when he is anxious to station his servant as a spy over her, and yet ashamed and afraid to discover his jealousy to him, is extolled by Schlegel as such a masterpiece that if ' he had always written so we must have been obliged to rank him among the first of comic writers.' But he does not always write so. On the contrary he seems to have conceived that his genius lay more in tragic delineation of character i; per- haps because such gave him greater opportunities of dis- playing his classical scholarship, of which he was immo- derately proud ; but in which in truth he has exhibited rather his want of taste than his dramatic genius. His scholarship in his own eyes gave him a superiority over Shakespeare, whom, in spite of his great obligations to him, he took great delight in decrying ; but, though Shakespeare's classical dramas are far from being his best, the worst of them is greatly superior to the best of Jonson's. Shake- speare had the art of being true to history, and yet satis- fying the demands of poetry. In Jonson's hands the sub- ject continues history without becoming poetry. ' Catiline ' and ' Sejanus ' are solid dramatic studies after Sallust and Cicero, but not dramas. They are a history in dialogue. And in the last scenes of ' Catiline ' the poet has actually translated whole passages out of the speeches as given by Sallust, and in Cicero's works, without' attempting to raise them to any poetical elevation. It is no wonder that pieces written on such a plan and in such a spirit failed to attain the popularity of Shakespeare. But Jonson was not inclined to accept the verdict of the public. He was conscious of considerable abilities, of a solid understanding, and of great industry and earnestness. And when he found that the spectators would not accept these qualities in lieu of, or as equivalent to skill in the contrivance of plots, acuteness in 1575—1637.] BEN JONSON. 43 . the portrayal of character, JTidgment in the preservation of it, and that subtle art easier felt than described, which in Shakespeare gives not only life to the personages of the play, but reality to the most improbable incidents, he blamed everyone but himself. He blamed his rivals or contempo- raries whose works were preferred to his own, and scattered over his prologues and epilogues, and even over his later plays, comments in disparagement of their most admired compositions, with, sarcastic allusions to those qualities to which he conceived them to owe their popularity ; at times even venting his displeasure on the actors and spectators themselves, saying for instance in one case, that one of his plays had been ' not acted, but most negligently played by some, the king's servants, and more squeamishly beheld and censured by others, the king's subjects.' I have said that he began with comedy ; after two attempts at tragedy he returned to comedy again ; but he had no skill in the management of his plots ; and he was equally defi- cient in that light and easy raillery which plays harmlessly round its scenes, seeming to be the natural effusion of a gay and happy temperament. Jonson, on the contrary, did everything by rule ; and even when, as in one or two in- stances he did, he had contrived a happy or ingenious plot, he devoted so much space to what he conceived to be the fall delineation of his characters, that he lost sight of the action necessary to keep alive the attention of the specta- tors. Schlegel compares him in this respect to those over- accurate portrait painters who, to insure a Hkeness, think they must copy every carbuncle or freckle ; but though he fails to present us with characters which fix themselves in the memory, he has succeeded to a great degree in seizing the manners of his age and nation ; and it is for these qualities that his plays are now chiefly valuable. In the Alchemist, for instance, he shows us, though with too much profuseness of detail, the almost universality of the belief in alchemy. In 'Every Man in his Humour' (Act i. Scene i.) he satirises the extreme devotion to field sports, which many considered then, as indeed many do now, the sole occupation worthy of a gentleman. But there is no lightness in the dialogue ; and I cannot better show the 44 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. III. difference between his and Shakespeare's wit than by sub- joining one of the most celebrated scenes in which Bobadil gives the rein to his boastfnl spirit, and which every reader's recollection will lead him instinctively to compare with Falstaff's indulgence of the same propensity. His plays, as I have said, were not very successful. One of them, or rather one in which he had but a third share with two other writers. Chapman and Marston, had nearly proved disastrous to him ; since some reflections on the Scotch, which appeared in the preface, so offended King James, that the whole trio were thrown into prison and threatened with the pillory. But Jonson's peace with the vain and irritable monarch was soon made by some of the courtiers, whose favour he secured by his skill aud ra- pidity in composing the semi-dramatic entertainments then known as Masques, which even Milton did not think be- neath his Muse. And before the end of the reign he received the appointment of poet laureat, the emolument of which was afterwards augmented by King Charles. He received also a pension from the city of London ; and thus in his latter years had the means of living in comfort, and even in luxury. He died in 1637 at the age of sixty-one, and was buried in Westminster, which, as a schoolboy, he had attended, and where a stone with the quaint inscrip- tion ' rare Ben Jonson ' still marks his resting-place. I have said that he was of a jealous and quarrelsome temper, and this can hardly be better illustrated than by a circumstance mentioned by no less a person than the great Lord Clarendon, who records that he was intimate with him in his youth, but that Jonson discarded him out df pique on finding that he applied himself to the study of his profession, ' -which he believed ought never to be preferred before his company.' Clarendon bestows high praise upon him, but it is such as belongs rather to a critic than to a poet, saying with great judgment and truth that ' his natural advantages were judgment to govern the fancy rather than excess of fancy. And that as he did exceed- ingly exalt the English language in eloquence, propriety, and masculine expressions, so he was the. judge of, and fittest to prescribe rules to poetry and poets of any man 1575—1637.] BEN JONSON. 45 who had lived with or before him, or since, if Mr. Cowley had not made a flight beyond all men, with that modesty yet as to ascribe much of this example and learning to Ben Jonson.' Our first extract is that to which I have already alluded, in which. Captain Bobadil (whose name has become almost proverbial as synonymous with a braggart) boasts of his prowess to Master Matthew, out of whose combined timorousness and simplicity be contrives to extract a liveli- hood. (Every Maji in his Humour, Act iy. So. vii.) Kno\veM. Captain, did you ever prove yourself upon any of our masters of defence here ? Mattheto. O good sir ! Yes, I hope he has. Bobadil. I will tell you, sir. Upon my first coming to the city, after my long travel, for knowledge (in that mystery only) there came three or four of 'em to me, at a gentleman's house, where it was my chance to be resident at that time, to intreat my presence at their schools; and withal so much importuned me, that (I pro- test to you as I am a gentleman) I was asham'd of their rude demeanour out of all measui'e : well, I told 'em that to come to a publia school, they should pardon me, it was opposite (in diameter) to my humour ; hut, if so be they would give their attendance at my lodging, I protested to do them what right or favour I could, as I was a gentleman, and so forth. Eno'well. So, sir, then you tried their skill ? Bobadil. Alas, soon tried ! You shall hear, sir. Within two or three days after they came ; and, by honesty, fair sir, believe me, I grac'd them exceedingly, shew'd them some two or three tricks of prevention, have purchas'd 'em since a credit to admiration ! They cannot deny this : and yet now they hate me, and why ? Because I am excellent, and for no other vile reason on the earth. Kno'weU. This is strange and barbarous ! as ever I heard. Bobadil. Nay, for a more instance of their preposterous natures ; but note, sir. They have assaulted me some three, four, five, six of them together, as I have walked alone in divers skirts i' th' towD, as Tothill, Whitechapel, Shoreditch, which were then my quarters; and since, upon the exchange, at my lodging, and at my ordinary ; where I have driven them afore me the whole length of a street, in the open view of all our gallants, pitying to hurt them, believe me. Yet all this lenity will not o'ercome their spleen ; they will be doing with the pismire, raising a hill a man may spurn abroad with his foot at pleasure. By myself I could have 46 ENGLISH LITEEATURE. [Ch. III. slain them all, but I deligM not in murder. I am lotli to bear any other than this bastinado for 'em : yet I hold it good polity not to go disarm'd, for though I be skilful, I may be oppress'd with mul- titudes. Kno'weU. I believe me, may you, sir : and, in my conceit, our ■whole nation should sustain the loss by it, if it were so. Bohadil. Alas, no : what's a peculiar man to a nation ? not seen, Kno^well. 0, but your skill, sir. Bohadil. Indeed, that might be some loss ; but who respects it ? I will tell you, sir, by the way of private, and under seal ; I am a gentleman, and live here obscure, and to myself; but were I known to her majesty and the lords (observe me), I would under- take, upon this poor head and life, for the public benefit of the state, not only to spare the entire lives of her subjects in general; but to save the one half„ nay, three parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think you ? Kno'weU. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive. Bohadil. Why thus, sir. I would select nineteen more to my- self throughout the land ; gentlemen they should be of good spirit, strong and able constitution ; I would choose them by an instinct, a character that I have ; and I would teach these nineteen the special rules : as your punto, your reverse, your stoccato, your , imbroccato, your passado, your montanto, till they could all play very near, or altogether as well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong, we twenty would come into the field the tenth of March or thereabouts ; and we would challenge twenty of the enemy ; they could not in their honour refuse us ; well, we would kill them ; challenge twenty more, kill them ; twenty more, kill them ; twenty more, kill them too ; and thus would we kill every man his twenty a day, that's twenty score, that's two hundred ; two hundred a day, five days a thousand ; forty thousand ; forty times five, five times forty ; two hundred days kills them aU up by computation. And this will I venture my poor gentleman-like carcass to perform, provided there be no treason practised upon us, by fair and discreet manhood ; that is, civilly by the sword. Oursecoiid extract is from one of Ha classical plays ; since a comparison of this scene, in which life has done little more than, translate the speeches which are recorded by Sallust, or were actually delivered by Cicero, with Shakespeare's tragedies on classical subjects, and especially with Anthony's noble funeral oration over Csesar, will show in a very re- 1575—1637.] BEN JONSON. 47 markable and sufficient manner the vast difference between the genius of the two men. (Catiline's Conspiracy, Act v. Sc. tI.) Cicero. Your sentence, Caius Csesar. CcEsar. Conscript fathers, In great affairs, and doubtful, it behoves Men that are asked their sentence, to be free From either hate or love, anger or pity ; For where the least of these do hinder, there The mind not easily discerns the truth. I speak this to you in the name of Home For whom you stand ; and to the present cause ; That this foul fact of Lentulus, and the rest. Weigh not more with you than your dignity ; And you be more indulgent to your passion. Than to your honour. If there could be found A pain or punishment equal to their crimes, I would devise and help : but if the greatness Of what they've done exceed all man's invention, I think it fit to stay where our laws do. Poor petty states may alter, upon humour. Where, if they offend with anger, few do know it, Because they are obscure ; their fame and fortune Is equal and the same. But they that are Head of the world, and live in that seen height, All mankind knows their actions. So we see The greater fortune hath the lesser Ucense. They must not favour, hate, and least be angry ; For what with others is call'd anger, there Is cruelty and pride. I know Syllanus, Who spoke before me, a just, valiant man, A lover of the state, and one that would not, In such a business, use or grace or hatred ; I know too, well, his manners and his modesty ; Nor do I think his sentence cruel (for 'Gainst such delinquents what can be too bloody ?) But that it is abhorring from our state. Since to a citizen of Rome offending. Our laws give exile, and not death. Why then Decrees he that ? 'Twere vain to think, for fear ; When by the diligence of so worthy a consul. All is made safe and certain. Is't for punishment? Why death's the end of evils, and a rest i8 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Oh. Ill Eather than torment : it dissolves all griefs ; And beyond that, is neither care nor joy. You hear, my sentence would not have 'em die. How then ? Set free, and increase Catiline's army ? So will they, heing but banish'd. No, grave fathers^ I judge 'em first to have their states confiscate ; Then that their persons remain prisoners In the free towns, far off from Rome, and sever'd ; Where they might neither have relation, Hereafter, to the senate, or the people. Or, if they had, those towns then to be mulcted, As enemies to the state, that had their guard. Senate. 'Tis good, and honourable, Csesar hath utter'd. Cicero. Fathers, I see your faces and your eyes All bent on me, to note, of these two censures Which I incline to. Either of them are grave, And answering the dignity of the speakers. The greatness of th' afiair, and both severe. One urgeth death : and he may well remember This state hath punish'd wicked citizens so : The other, bonds, and those pei'pettial, which He thinks found out for the more singular plague. Decree which you shajl please : you have a consul, Not readier to obey than to defend. Whatever you shall act for the republick ; And meet with willing shoulders any burden. Or any fortune, with an even face. Though it were death : which to a valiant man Can never happen foul, nor to a consul Be immature, nor to a wise man wretched. OTWAY. A.D. 1651-1685. A SATIRIST has called a coat out at elbows the lively of the Muses, and. of all the poets of wkom we shall have to speak there is no one who experienced the misery and degradation of want more than Thomas Otway, the only dramatist of the Restoration period from whose works it is possible to produce ex;tracts. That in so licentious an age he should have avoided its besetting and foulest sin is very creditable to him, and he has n«ed that what can be said in 1651—1685.] OTWAY. 49 his favour should not be suppressed, for his distresses seem to have been attributable to nothing but his own mis- conduct. He was born in 1651, and being the son of a Sussex clergyman, received a good education at Winchester and Oxford, but he left the university without taking a degree ; and when he was twenty-one he appeared in one of the London theatres as an actor. In that profession he was unequal to his competitors for fame : his talents in that respect, like those of Shakespeare, were more suited to dramatic composition than to the representation of the writings of others ; but he acquired from his engagement an insight into the requirements of stage effect which he speedily began to turn to good account, and very soon afterwards he came out as an author of tragedies, choosing first a classical subject, ' Alcibiades ; ' taking for his next •theme the tragical fate of Don Carlos, a transaction still shrouded in some degree of mystery, and being encouraged by the success of these two pieces to an imitation of the 'Berenice ' of Racine, the play of the great French dramatist which more perhaps than any other displays a genius akin to his own. Adopting the fashion of the day, he wrote them in rhyme, and this no doubt contributed to their success, which was very decided, though they are pieces of very modeiate merit, which have long been judged un- worthy of preservation. The money they produced him his extravagance soon dissipated ; but they procured him a friend and patron. Lord Plymouth, who introduced him to a less precarious profession by obtaining for him a commission in the army. But in this honourable position his conduct became worse than ever. He was cashiered for misbehaviour, and returned to his old employment of writing for the stage, following now a more natural model than the rhyming French dramatists, and adopting the blank verse of Shakespeare and his contemporaries ; and in one respect he has his reward. It may be doubted whether plays which he now produced were more popular in his own day than 'Don Carlos' or 'Titus ' and 'Berenice' had been ; but posterity has' unanimously assigned ' The Orphan ' and ' Venice Preserved ' a high place among dramatic composi- tions, attributing to the author in his pathetic passages a E 50 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. IU. power only inferior to that of Shakespeare himself. Walter Scott has gone even further, saying, that 'the talents of Ot-way, in his scenes of passionate affection, rival at least, and sometimes excel those of Shakespeare. More tears have been shed probably for the sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia than for those of Juliet and Desdemona.' Most readers will deem this exaggerated praise ; but there can be no ques- tion that the scenes between Jaffier and Belvidera have high merit. They not only breathe the purest senti- ments of tenderness, but are strictly in keeping with the characters of the speakers, a point of which the poet was at times so careless that in a tragedy which he wrote about the same time, and of which the hero was the great Roman conqueror of the Cimbri, he actually borrowed a number of scenes ffom Shakespeare's ' Borneo and JuHet,' with nothing but a few verbal alterations, and put the impassioned speeches of the lover of Verona into the mouth of the least sentimental soldier who ever led his pro- cession in triumph to the Oapitol. Otway's end was peculiarly miserable ; though he received considerable sums from the managers for the performance of his plays, they were always insufficient to support his extravagant profli- gacy. Within three years of the production of ' Venice Preserved ' he was actually starving ; and it is said that his death was produced by the charity of one who, pitying his miserable condition, gave him a piece of bread, which he swallowed with such ravenous eagerness that it choked liim. The story rests, perhaps, on somewhat doubtful authority ; but it is certain that he died in the greatest distress in 1685, when he was barely thirty-four years old. The subject of 'Venice Preserved ' resembles partly that of ' Othello,' partly that of ' Marino Faliero.' Jaffier, a citizen of Venice, had won the heart of Belvidera, daughter and heiress o£ the Senator PriuJi, by saving her from drown- ing. She had become his wife, and the mother of a son ; but Prinili had never forgiven her ; he curses her husband for having stolen her from him ' like a thief at dead of night,' and announces his determination to leave them both to beggary. While Jaffier is brooding angrily over his denunciations, he meets Pierre, who jb at the head of a con- 1651—1685.] OTWAY. 61 spiracy to overthrow the oligarchy whinh has long tyran- nised over the city, and who tells him that Priuli has just signed a decree to seize all his property, which the officers of the law are at that moment executing. Maddened at the intelligence, Jaffier agrees to join the conspiracy, but reveals it to Belvidera, who, to save her father, persuades him to abandon it ; he yields to her entreaties, betrays the conspiracy to the Doge, on promise of pardon to the con- spirators, of whom he gives a list. But the Senate violates the promise, and condemns them all to death ; and on the scaffold, Jaffier, to save Pierre from the ignominy of a pubhc execution, stabs him to the heart, kills himself with a second blow, and Belvidera dies of a broken heart. (Venice Preserved, Act i. Sc. i.) Enter Belvideka. BeM. My lord, my love, my refuge ! Happy my eyes, when they behold thy face ! My heavy heart will leave its doleful beating; At sight of thee, and bound with sprightful joys. Oh, smile ! as when our loves were in their spring, And cheer my fainting soul ! Jaffier. As when our loves Were in their spring ! has, then, my fortune chang'd thee ? Art thou not, Belvidera, still the same Kind, good, and tender, as my arms first found thee ? If thou art alter'd, where shall I have harbom- ? Where ease my loaded heart ? Oh, where complain ? Belvi. Does this appear like change, or love decaying, When thus I throw myself into thy bosom, With all the resolution of strong truth ? I joy more in thee (embracing him) Than did thy mother, when she hugg'd thee first. And bleas'd the gods for all her travail past. Jaffier. Can there in woman be such glorious faith ? Sure, all ill stories of thy sex are false ! Oh, woman ! lovely woman ! Nature made thee To temper man : we had been brutes without you ! Angels are painted fan-, to look like you : There's in you all that we believe of heav'n ; Amazing brightness, purity, and truth, Eternal joy, and everlasting love ! Seld. If love be treasure, we'll be wond'rous rich ; E 2 52 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. III. I have 30 much, my heart ■will surely break with't ; Oh ! lead me to some desert, wide and wild, Barren as our misfortunes, where my soul May have its vent, where I may tell aloud To the high heavens, and ev'ry lisfning planet. With what a boundless stock my bosom's fraught. Jaffler. Oh, Belvidera ! doubly I'm a beggar ; Undone by fortune, and in debt to thee. Want ! worldly want ! that hungry meagre fiend. Is at my heels, and chases me in view. Canst thou bear cold and hunger ? Can these limbs, Fram'd for the tender offices of love. Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty ? When banished by our miseries abroad (As suddenly we shall be) to seek out (In some far climate where our names are strangers) For charitable succour, wilt thou then. When, in a bed of straw we shrink together, And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads, Wilt thou then talk thus to me ? Wilt thou then Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with love ? Belvi. Oh 1 I will Jove thee, ev'n in madness, love thee ! Tho' my distracted senses should forsake me, I'd find some intervals, when my poor heart Should 'suage itself, and be let loose to thine. Tho' the bare earth shall be our resting-place. Its roots our food, some cliff our habitation, I'U make this arm a pillow for thine head ; And as thou sighing liest, and swell'd vsdth sorrow, Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest ; Then breathe a prayer, and watch thee till the morning. Jaffler. Hear this, you heav'ns, and wonder how you made her ! Reign, reign, ye monarchs that divide the world ; Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know Tranqidllity and happiness like mine ; Like gaudy ships, the obsequious billows fall, And rise again, to lift you in your pride ; They wait but for a storm, and then devour you. I, in my private bark, already wreck'd. Like a poor merchant driven to unknown land, That had, by chance, pack'd up his choicest treasure, In one dear casket, and sav'd only that; 1651—1685.] OTWAY. 53 Since I must wander farther on the shore, Thus hug- my little, but my precious store, Resolv'd to scorn, and trust my fate no more. [Exeunt. Enter Bblvidera. Belvi. Whither shall I fly ? Where hide me and my miseries together ? Where's now the Roman constancy I boasted ? Sunk into trembling fears and desperation ! Not daring to look up to that dear face. Which us'd to smile, ev'n on my faults, but down, Bending these miserable eyes to earth, ilust move in penance, and implore much mercy. Jaffier. Mercy ! kind heaven has surely endless stores Hoarded for thee, of blessings yet untasted : Let wretches loaded hard with guilt as I am, Bow with the weight, and groan beneath the burthen. Creep with a remnant of that strength they've left, Before the footstool of that heav'n they've injur'd. O, Belvidera 1 I'm the wretched'st creature E'er crawl'd on earth ! now, if thou'st virtue, help me ; Take me Into thy arms, and speak the words of peace To my divided soul, that wars within me, And raises every sense to my confusion. Belvi. Alas ! I know thy sorrows are most mighty. I know thou'st cause to mourn ; to mourn, my Jaffier, W^ith endless cries, and never-ceasing wailings ; Thou'st lost Jaffier. Oh, I have lost what can't be counted ; My friend, too, Belvidera — that dear friend. Who, next to thee, was aU my heart rejoic'd in. Has us'd me like a slave — shamefully ua'd me : 'Twould break thy pitying heart to hear the story. Bdm. What has he done ? Jaffier. Thoud'st hate me, should I tell thee. O, my dear angel ! in that friend I've lost All my soul's peace ; for every thought of him Strikes my sense hard, and deads it in my brains ! Belvi. Speak ! Jaffier. Before we parted — wouldst thou believe it ? — Ere yet his guards had led him to his prison, Full of severest sorrows for his suft^rings. As at his feet I kneel'd, and sued for mercy, 54 EN&LISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. III. Forgetting all our friendship, With a reproachful hand he dash'd a blow : He struck me, Belvidera ! by heav'n, he struck me 1 Buffetted, call'd me traitor, villain, coward. Am I a coward ? am I a -villian ? tell me ? Thou'rt the beat judge, and mad'st me, if I am so. Damnation I coward ! Belm. Oh ! forgive him, Jaifier : And, if his suffrings wound thy heart already, What will they do to-morrow ? Jaffler. Ah ! Belvi. To-morrow, When thou shalt see him stretch'd in all the agonies Of a tormenting and a shameful death, What wiU thy heart do then P Oh I sure 'twill stream, Like my eyes now. Jaffler. What means that dreadful story ? Death and to-morrow P BehA. The faithless senators, 'tis they've decreed it, They say, according to our friend's request, They shall have death, and not ignoble bondage P Declare their promis'd mercy all as forfeited ; False to their oaths, and deaf to intercession — Warrants are pass'd for public death to-morrow. Jaffier. Death ! doom'd to die ! condemn'd unheard ! un- pleaded I (Gazing wildly at her) Belvi, Nay, cruel'st racks and torments are preparing To force confession from their dying pangs, Oh ! do not look so terribly upon me 1 How your lips shake, and all your face disorder'd ! What means my love ? Jaffier. Leave me, I charge thee, leave me 1 Strong temptations " Wake in my heart. Belvi. For what ? Jaffier, No more, but leave me. Bdvi. Why ? Jaffier, Oh ! by heav'n, I love thee with that fondness, I would not have thee stay a moment longer Near these cursed hands. (pidls the dagger half out of Ms bosom, and puts it back again unseen by her) There's a lurking serpent Ready to leap and sting thee to thy heai-t : Art thou not terrified ? 1651—1685.] OTWAY. 55 Seliii. Ko. Jaffier. Call to mind What thou hast doue, and whither thou hast brought me. Belvi. Ha ! Jaffier. Where's my friend ? my friend, thou smiling mischief! Nay, shrink not, now 'tis too late, for dire revenge I3 up, and raging for my friend. He groans ! Hark, how he groans ! his screams are in my ears ! Already ! see they've fixed him on the wheel. And now they tear him — Murder ! perjur'd senate ! Murder 1 Oh ! hark thee, traitress, thou'st done this ! Thanks to thy tears, thou false persuading love. {feels for his dagger) How her eyes speak ! oh, thou bewitching creature ! Madness can't hurt thee — come, thou little trembler, Creep ev'n into my heart, and there lie safe ; 'Tis thy own citadel. — Hah ! yet stand ofiF, ' Heav'n must have justice, and my broken vows Will sink me else beneath its reaching mercy. I'll wink, and then 'tis done Belvi. What means the lord Of me, my life, and love ? What's in thy bosom, Thou grasp'st at so ? (Japfier draws the dagger, and offers to stab her) Ah ! do not kill me, Jaffier ! pity — pity. {falh on Iter knees') Jaffier. No, Belvidera ! when we parted last, I gave this dagger with thee, as in trust, To be thy portion, if I e'er proved false. On such condition was my truth beUev'd : But now 'tis forfeited, and must be paid for. {offers to stab her again) Selvi. Oh ! mercy ! Jaffier. Nay, no struggling. Belvi. {leaps on his neck and kisses him) Now, then, kUl me. While thus I cling about thy cruel neck. Kiss thy revengeful lips, and die in joys Greater than any I can guess hereafter. Jaffier. I am, I am a coward — ^witness't, heav'n, Witness it, earth, and ev'ry being witness : 'Tis but one blow ! yet, by immortal love, I cannot longer bear a thought to harm thee. (he throws atoay the dagger and embraces her) 56 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. III. The seal of Providence is sure upon thee ; And thou wast horn for yet unheard-of wonders! Oh ! thou wert either born to save or damn me ! By all the pow'r that's given thee o'er my soul — By thy resistless tears and conqu'ring smiles — By thy vi'ctorious love that still waits on thee — Fly to thy cruel father, save my friend, Or all our future quiet's lost for ever. Fall at his feet, cling round his reverend knees, Speak to him with thy eyes, and with thy tears Melt his hard heart, and wake dead nature in him ; Crush him in thy arms, torture him with thy softness : Nor till thy prayers are granted, set him free. But conquer him, as thou hast vanquish'd me. l_Jlxeunt. 1728—1774.] GOLDSMITH. 57 CHAPTER IV. GOLDSMITH. 1728-1774. At the same time that Otway was moving the sympathies of the audience by the sorrows of Belvidera, there arose another school of dramatists, whose object seemed to be to set all feehng as well as all propriety at defiance. So far as the especial office of comedy is to represent the scenes of everyday life, they were the most genuine comedians that the country had at that time witnessed, since they certainly professed to portray the manners of their own time with far greater fidelity than had been consistent with either Jonson's plan or Jonson's abilities. And if their plays were a true picture of the state of EngUsh society in the latter part of the seventeenth century, it is hard to conceive a greater condemnation of it. The protest which the pro- fligacy of the court of Charles II. seemed intended to utter against the pharisaical strictness of the Puritans who had recently oppressed the land, was not unnaturally re-echoed still more loudly by the dramatists, who had been altogether silenced under the Commonwealth ; and it may be feared that those writers were but following the taste of the nation when they set themselves to work to hold up not only religion, but virtue, and even decency to scorn, and to preach licentiousness and vice as the one duty of all men and aU women. The most celebrated of the class are four in number : Wycherly, Congreve, Earquhar, and Sir John Vanbrugh ; the last of whom combined theatrical talent with another, which seems to have but slight connection with it. He was an architect ; the builder of Blenheim and of more than one other of the great baronial palaces of England. A strong family likeness runs through the whole quartet, and I confess that it seems to me that none of 58 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. IV. them quite deserve the praise which has been lavished on them. Critics have been in the habit of ascribing to them a peculiar skill in the delineation of character ; but, in that branch of their art, they are certainly very deficient in the first requisite of all, variety. The chief personages in every one of their plays are as monotonous as their pursuits, which are limited to two : intrigue and gambling, a pastime im- ported by Charles from France. Their wit, especially that of the two first, is greatly extolled, some critics having even gone the extravagant length of saying that Congreve has too much wit ; a charge afterwards brought against Sheridan. Perhaps a more correct judgment would find fault rather with its quality than with its quantity ; and would allege that, abundant as Congreve's wit unquestion- ably is, it is not of the right kind, but displays an epi- grammatic sparkle rather than the true comic vein. It is the wit not of a man naturally witty, but of one who plans and polishes his jokes beforehand with a constant straining after effect, which is so perceptible, that it deprives them of it. Those who look upon a natural liveliness as one of the most essential qualities of a good comedy, may perhaps give the palm to Farquhar. Vanbrugh is decidedly the least attractive of the four ; but were they ever so witty or ever so lively, wit and liveliness would still not be the pre- dominant feature of their plays. The one feature which, above all others, forces itself on our notice in every work of the whole school, is the absolute shamelessness of every person portrayed, male or female. Not one of their leading characters is represented with the slightest conception that the grossest vices are things to be concealed ; chastity is derided by the ladies as unblushingly as by the gentlemen, and vice is not only rampant but triumphant. So glaring was their iniquity that, in the last years of the century, it provoked a chastisement from a clergyman of great learning as well as courage, and by no means destitute of the power of appreciating true wit, since he was himself endowed with it in. no slight degree. In 1698 he published an essay on ' The Profaneness and Immorality of the English Stage,' in which he attacked not only Wycherley and Congreve, but Dryden also, whose comedies, very poor as compositions, 1728—1774.] GOLDSMITH. 59 were nearly as Kcentious as those of the others. Dryden, now sinking into the grave, frankly and gracefully owned his error, and avowed his repentance. But Wycherley, Congreve, and Vanbragh resolved to show that the shame- lessness with which they invested the characters of their plays belonged to themselves also. They wrote pamphlets in their own defence, but had the mortification to find that the majority of their readers sided with CoUier. They scorned, indeed, to amend, and their plays written after the commencement of the controversy are not more decent than their earlier works, but they had no imitators. The dramatists of the next generation, if, on the whole, rather dull, were decorous ; nor was it tiU George III. was on the throne that the stage was enlivened by plays which showed the possibility of uniting the most absolute propriety with the most lively humour and the most brilliant wit. The authors of the most brilhant comedies of that age were two Irishmen, Goldsmith and Sheridan ; the first-mentioned of whom, is remarkable as having been the first writer in our language who sought and attained the praise of first-rate excellence in more than one Une of composition. Dryden, indeed, had written prose, and good prose, but it was ancillary to his poetry, and only criticism on poetry ; while his plays were confessedly poor. But the subject of our present consideration was multifarious beyond him or any other man. Johnson's epitaph on him, though dictated by friendship, was no exaggeration. ' Nullum fere scribendi genus non tetigit ; nullum quod tetigit non omavit.' ^ And it is no sHght testimony to his power as well as to his versatility, quahties which are not often combiued, that we shall have to recur to his works in no fewer than three of our divisions, and may, perhaps, have our judgment called in question if we do not also speak of him in relation to a fourth. Oliver Goldsmith was born in 1728, at PaUas, in the county of Longford, where his father, a younger son of a gentleman of good family, had a curacy. He was a sickly ' There was hardly any kind of writing which he did not attempt, and there was not one which he did attempt to which he failed to do thonour. 60 ENGLISH LITERATQHE. [Ch. IV. and ungainly child. A severe attack of small-pox, wliicli permanently disfigured tis features, impaired his health, also, till he gradually outgrew the weakness which it had left behind it ; and these combined infirmities made him a butt for the rough schoolboy ill-nature of his playmates, whose inconsiderate wantonness cowed his spirits, so that he was commonly accounted a dunce of more than usual hopelessness. But it was a character which one or two of those who were set over him saw from the first he did not deserve ; and, indeed, to those who cared enough about him to remark him carefully, he showed decided indications of latent ability. From his childhood he was fond of rhyming ; and, of his quickness, far beyond his years, at repartee, many instances were preserved. Fi'om school at Elphin he was removed to Trinity College, Dublin, by which time he had so entirely outgrown the ill-efiects of his early bullying, and recovered the gaiety of temper which was natural to him, that he was more distinguished for riot than for learning ; though, in at least one noted instance, he bore the discredit of irregularities in which others had really taken the leading share. In 1749 he took his de- gree. But, if this termination of his university career was in one sense the end of his troubles, in another it was only the beginning of them ; since it rendered it necessary for him at once to decide on a profession, and there was none for which both his friends and himself thought him qualified. Of his perplexities, and generally of the anxieties and diffi- culties that beset him for some years, we obtain a fair notion from his own writings ; not of a direct or autobio- graphical kind, but through his fondness for drawing on his own experience for incidents to enliven his diiFerent works. And thus we learn that his family wished him to take orders ; but, when the Bishop of Elphin refused him ordination, he did not take the disappointment greatly to heart, because ' to be obliged to wear a long wig when he liked a short one, or a black coat when he generally dressed in brown,' he thought too great ' a restraint on his liberty.' He would have preferred the bar ; but he does not seem ever to have made any serious attempt to become a lawyer a profession for which his desultory disposition and absent 1728— 177i.J GOLDSJIITH. 61 manner wholly unfitted him. While he was doubting, a friend procured him employment as a private tutor, of which he soon became so weary that he resolved to emi- grate in preference to continuing in it, and actually paid his passage to America, but the ship sailed sooner than he expected, leaving him behind ; and, as his fare had taken nearly all his money, he was reduced to greater straits than ever. It is characteristic of his impulsive good-uature that though he had but five shillings left to carry him back home, a distance of more than 100 miles, he gave half-a- crown of it to a poor woman who met him on the road with a tale of grievous distress ; hoping, indeed, to obtain a farther supply from a friend whom. he had often obliged in the same way, but who ungratefully turned his distress into ridicule, and gave him no aid beyond the present of an oak stick, which, following, in all likelihood unconsciously, the advice of Bishop Jewel to Hooker, he facetiously called a safe nag to cai-ry him forward on his journey. Goldsmith ' was in some doubt whether he should not in the first in- stance apply it to his pate,' ' but his unworthy friend's head was saved by the arrival of another visitor. And when he reached his mother's house at Ballymaton, his family pro- vided him with some more funds, with which he crossed over to Edinborgh to study medicine, a science for which apparently he was as unsuited as for the law, but for which the frequency with which he resumed the idea seems to show that he had a real predilection. But the Scotch metropolis did not at that time deserve the high reputation as a school of medicine which it has since attained, and in May, 1763, he decided on removing to Leyden. And a comical distress which delayed his voyage saved his life. He went by sea to Newcastle, intending from that port to cross over to the continent ; but some of his messmates were Scotchmen in the French service, and on his arrival at Newcastle he was arrested with them on the charge of enlisting soldiers for the French king, or perhaps for the Pretender, and was ' ' You are going, my boy,' cried I, ' to London on foot, in the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled there before you. Take from me the same horse that was given him by the good Bishop Jewel, tliis staff. — Vicar of Wakefield, chap. 3. 62 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. IV. thus prevented from embarking in the ship in which he had intended to sail, and which was wrecked on her passage, every one of the crew being drowned. At the end of a year he got tired of Leyden, and resolved to spend some time in travelling, not being daunted by his poverty, because a Denmark scholar had recently traversed almost the whole of Europe ' on foot, without money, recommendations, or friends ; a good voice and a trifling skill in music being the only finances he had to support an undertaking so ex- tensive ; so he travelled by day, and at night sang at the doors of peasants' houses to get himself a lodging.' ' Goldsmith had no voice, but he played the flute with con- siderable taste and some skill, and his instrument was often put in requisition to pay for the hospitality exercised towards him. Oft Would the village praise his wondrous power, And dance forgetful of the noontide hour ? But he lived not entirely among the lower classes ; some- times, when in possession of more resources than usual (not impossibly obtained from the gaming-table, to which he was too much addicted), he mixed in higher society; in one of his letters he speaks of having beheld the beauty which graced the Court of Versailles ; and he was a visitor of Voltaire, for whose high-breeding, general ability, and more especially of whose wit and conversational powers, he con- ceived the most enthusiastic admiration. It is a strong testimony to his possession of that quality, for which he has rarely been given credit, shrewd good sense, that his appreciation of the brilKancy of the author of ' Candide ' and ' Zaire * did not in the least blind him to the faults of the French character: Very few prose writers, in grave essays, have m.ore graphically or more correctly delineated the frivolous capricious vanity of the nation, or have pointed out how it was the parent of that intellectual demoralisation from which such fearful miseries soon began to flow in a stream which, even down to the present day, seems as rapid and as turbid as at its first outpouring. In ' The ' Enquiry into the State of Polite Learning, chap. vi. 1728—1774.] GOLDSMITH. 63 Traveller,' which he began at this period, he points how 'praise,' the sole object of a Frenchman's ambition Too dearly loved or warmly sought, Enfeebles aU internal strength of thought. The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause ; while, with an equal acnteness of political speculation, he discerned in the language and acta of the Parhament indi- cations of a disposition to throw off the shackles which had hitherto deprived the people of all freedom ; and, in a peri- odical which he began to publish shortly after his return to England, he ventured to predict the coming struggle, at a time when, with the single exception of Lord Chesterfield, whose letters show that he had conceived the same opinion, probably no statesman in Europe had a suspicion of danger. From France he proceeded into Italy, and at Padua he is generally believed to have received the degree of Doctor of Medicine, but he did not extend his travels further to the southward, being probably deterred by the signs of a speedy renewal of hostilities between France and England, and in 1766 he returned to England, having apparently exhausted his resources ; for the variety of occupations in which during the next few months he engaged, is of itself a proof of the extreme difficulty he found in maintaining himself. In spite of his former dislike of the profession of a tutor, he became an usher in a school, then a chemist's assistant, then he set up on his own account as a physician in Southwark, where he got no patients but such as were too poor to seek more experienced advice, or to pay for his. There are vague stories, not authenticated, but not dis- proved, of his having even formed a company of strolling players. He complained that there was, in London, a pre- judice against his countrymen which was sufficient to keep him unemployed ; and on one occasion, in later years, he spoke of himself, probably in allusion to this period of his career, as having ' lived among the beggars in Axe Lane.' His distresses had almost broken even his unconquerable cheerfulness. In a letter to a friend he describes himself as having been at last left without ' friends, recommenda- 64 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. IV. tions, money, or impudence ; ' and declares that ' many in sucli circumstances would have had recourse to the friar's cord or the suicide's halter.' But with all his folhes he had principle to resist the one, and resolution to combat the other. In truth, there was a manliness in Goldsmith's disposition which prevented him for ever despairing. He could hardly be unconscious of the possession of great talents for literature, the only path of life for which his poverty was no disqualiiication. On the contrary, he con- ceived that it was a natural guide ' to the gates of the Muses,' the mischief beiag that it often persisted in favour- ing poets with its company after their introduction within the temple. However, before the end of the next year, he obtained employment as a regular writer on the ' Monthly Review,' published by a man named Griffiths, who gave him board, lodging, and a regular salary ; but who, though perfectly illiterate, not only took upon himself to correct his writings, but allowed his wife the same privilege. Such a connection was not likely to last long, nor did it. Gold- smith broke it off at the end of five months, and was again for a time in great poverty. Once more he resumed the idea of practising mediciae, bat the College of Surgeons refused to pass him as possessed of knowledge sufficient to qualify him to act as mate of a hospital ; and he was thrown back, sorely against his will, on literature as a profession. Scott has called literary work a good stick but a bad crutch ; good as an auxiliary, miserable as the sole means of liveli- hood ; and few have had greater reason to adopt this view than Goldsmith, for his principal employment was still for some time only as a writer in reviews and magazine work, which, even at the present day, is very inadequately paid, and for which, in his day, the remuneration was miserably scanty. Nor, if we may take George Primrose's account of his literary talents, intended for a picture of his own, did he himself conceive his abilities calculated for such tasks. George Primrose found that ' the easy simplicity of his style, and the harmony of his periods, were unnoticed by the public ; ' ' while the writers of far inferior power were preferred by the booksellers because they wrote with greater rapidity ; and reviews, for which the publishers were most « ' Vicar of Wakefield, chap. xx. 1728-1774.] GOLDSMITH. 65 anxious, were especially distasteful to him, Tet the relief which he first sought was almost identical with his griev- ance, except that he became his own master. A treatise which, in 1759, he had pubhshed under the title of 'Axi Enquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe,' had attracted a good deal of attention, and had made his name known to thoughtful readers by whom his anonymous magazine articles had been unnoticed. And the reputation which it had procured him gave him self- reliance enough to undertake a periodical of his own, on the plan of the ' Spectator,' to which he gave the name of the 'Bee.' But it failed to answer his expectations, and after eight numbers he discontinued it and formed a regular engagement with another pubhsher of the name of ISTew- bery, to contribute a series of essays, similar to those of the ' Bee,' to a new paper or magazine which was to come out in January 1760. They wei-e called Chinese letters, professing to be written by a Chinese traveller who had taken up his residence in England, and who aimed at giving his friends at home an idea of the manners of the singular people in the West among whom he had settled. The idea was not new ; one or two works on the same plan had lately been pubhshed in France, and, at the beginning of the cen- tury, Swift had contemplated a similar series in the character of an Indian, but afterwards complained that he had men- tioned the plan to Steele, who had used it in the ' Spectator,' but had compressed into a single number what he himself had designed to work out into a volume. But Swift's talents, great as they were, were of a less playful cast than Goldsmith's ; as a satirist he was more hke Juvenal than Horace, and we may well doubt whether he would have been able to set off the lucubrations of his Indian with the felicitous sportiveness that still makes the letters, now better known by the name under which they were subse- quently published in a collected form, of ' The Citizen of World,' the most popular work of their class. John- son, with whom Goldsmith had lately become acquainted, and who, with his ' Eambler ' and ' Idler,' was a worker in the same field, praised them highly, declaring that ' no one could pen an essay with such ease and elegance as Gold- 66 ENGLISH lilTEEATUEE. [Ch. IV. smith.' But ease and elegance -were not tlie highest qualities perceptible in either the ' Letters ' or the ' Bee.' If he re- sembled Horace, as he perhaps does, more than any other English writer, resemble him in the slyness of his humour and the dehcacy of his raillery, he is not less distinguished by acuteness of obserTation, strong good sense, and invari- ably correct feeling. In more than one instance these essays prove him in advance of his age, as when he raises his voice against the severity of the penal laws, which in his day were not only a disgrace to civilisation but a bar to it ; and, again, when he pleads for rehgious toleration, while some of the sentiments which he from time to time lets drop, have passed into proverbs, or have been quoted as witticisms of men of still greater eminence or rather of more recent notoriety.' No greater proof could perhaps be given of the reputa- tion which these writings procured him among those whose praise was honour, than is supplied by the circumstances that when, at the beginning of 1764, Johnson and his friends estabhshed the celebrated Literary Club, he was invited to become one of the original members, with such men as Burke and Eeynolds, to whom indeed the merit of first proposing the club is ascribed. And he had hardly joined it when he placed his cla,im to belong to such a society on a higher foundation by the publication of ' Thg Traveller,' a poem which, if its comparative brevity compels us to rank it as but a cabinet picture by the side of other works of more pretentious magnitude, yet for truth and purity of feeling, correctness of imagery and dehcacy of execution, need fear a comparison with few of its bulkier rivals. As has been already mentioned, he had begun it several years before, and it is chiefly founded on his own experiences : as is ' The Deserted Village,' an equally exquisite, and unluckily equally short poem which he wrote six years afterwards. ' For instance, in the third number of the ' Bee ' we read that ' the true use of speech is not so much to express our wants as to conceal them,' an apothegm which Voltaire thought worth stealing for his tale of ' Le Chapon et la Poularde,' and which has since been constantly at- tributed (with a slight verbal alteration) to Talleyrand. 1728-1774.] GOLDSMITH. 67 Between the publication of the two he came before the ■« orld in two new characters : as a novelist, and as a dra- matist. In 1762 or 1763 he one day sent for Johnson in great distress, having been just arrested by Ms landlady ; Johnson, whose roughness of manner never checked the eagerness of his friendship, hastened to obey his summons ; and, learning from him that he had a novel ready for the press, took a rapid glance at a few pages of it, carried it to Newbery, and sold it for 60Z. ; but apparently the book- seller did not think much of his bargain, for he kept it by him for some time, till ' The Traveller ' had become universally celebrated ; then, in 1 766 he published it, and it at once sur- passed in general popularity not only all his previous works, but, it may almost be said, every work of fiction in the lan- guage. It was translated into most European languages ; and its attractiveness is but little diminished at the present day. It has been to no purpose that critics have pointed out numerous absurdities in the construction of the plot. He, as it may be said, had already pleaded guilty to them in the preface, saying that there were ' a hundred faults in it, and a hundred things might be said to prove them beauties, but it is needless ; a book may be amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single absurdity.' And with such unanimity has posterity en- dorsed the approbation of his contemporaries, that his tale has had the singular good fortune of eliciting the warmest panegyrics from the three greatest writers of this century : Goethe, Byron, and Walter Scott. The incidents are no doubt improbable, if not impossible ; but the characters are faultless in their drawing and exquisite ia their concep- tion. Goldsmith's uniform purity of feeUng is nowhere set off vnth more exquisite humour. So that, to borrow the words of the greatest of all novelists, ' we bless the memory of an author who continues so well to reconcile us to human nature.' The next year he tried his talents ia a new field, which has led to our placing our sketch of him here among the dramatists, rather than among the poets, essayists, or nove- lists. It is a remarkable proof of the technical principles on which critics in general exercise their judgment that his f2 68 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. IT. first play was rejected by Garrick, though a personal friend, and that Colman, a manager only second to Garrick, could hardly be prevailed upon to accept the second. Tet ' The Good-natured Man ' is distinguished by keenness of observa- tion and great skill in drawing and maintaining character, qualities which he afterwards displayed in a striking man- ner in his amusing poem of ' Retaliation ; ' and ' She Stoops to Conquer,' by its wit and originality, on its first appearance charmed both the audience at the theatre, and critics like Johnson in the closet ; and to this day, by its constant viva- city and genuine comic power, keeps possession of the stage, one of the" incidents in it being actually borrowed after- wards by Sheridan, not for one of his own plays, but for a scene in real life, when, to trick Madame de Genlis into prolonging a visit which she was paying to him, he bribed her post-boy to drive her about a number of cross-lanes in a perfect circuit for several hours ; till, finding that she was engaged in a journey which seemed to have no end, and no entertainment save a set of views from the window which seemed rather monotonous, she became so alarmed that she bade the man drive her back to the house where Sheridan, exulting in the success which he had anticipated to his trick, received her with well-feigned surprise. By ' She Stoops to Conquer ' he made several hundred pounds ; but he had long before accumulated such a mass of debt that the supply thus furnished could only mitigate, but by no means remove, his distresses ; which, as he grew older, pressed upon his spirits more than he had allowed them to do in his youth. His friends recommended him to publish a collected edition of all his works by subscription, which, we can hardly doubt, would have proved profitable ; but, while he was revolving this and other plans, he was at- tacked by a fever, which in the opinion of a friendly phy- sician. Dr. Turton, was aggravated by anxiety of naind, and in the first week of April 1774 he died, leaving behind him a literary reputation the genuine quality of which, as I have intimated in speaking of his different works, is suffi- ciently proved by its durability. The first of the following extracts is from ' The Good- natured Man.' Mr. Honey wood is the hero, who devotes 1728-1774.] GOLDSMITH. 69 himself with such good nature to the affairs of his friends that he has no time to spare for his own, which in conse- quence go to ruin. But the most humorous character is Croaker, whose name indicates his character ; and of which according to BosweU, Goldsmith owned that he had takei^ the idea from the description of Suspirius in the ' Rambler.' (The Goodnatured Man, Act i.) Hmieyxoood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain Miss Rich- land's consent, do you think I could succeed with her ^ardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his wife ; who, though both very fine in their way, are yet a little opposite in then: dispositions, you know ? Jarvis. Opposite enough, heaven knows ! the very reverse of each other : she all laugh and no joke ; he always complaining and never sorrowful ; a fretful poor soul, that has a new distress for every hour in the four-and-twenty Soneywood. Hush, hush ! he's coming up, he'll hear you. Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing bell. Hmieywood. Well, well ; go, do. Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief; a coffin and cross-bones ; a bundle of rue ; a sprig of deadly nightshade ; a— {Honeyioood, stopping his mouth, at last pushes him off.) [JS.Tit Jaevis. Soneywood. I must own my old monitor is not entirely wrong. There is something in my friend Croaker's conversation that en- tu-ely depresses me. His very mirth is quite an antidote to aH gaiety, and his appearance has a stronger effect on my spirits than an undertaker's shop. — Mr. Croaker, this is such a satisfac- tion Enter Ceoakee. Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, and many of them. How is this ? You look most shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this weather does not aflfect your spirits. To be sure, if this weather continues — I say nothing. But God send we be all better this day three months ! Soneywood. I heartily concur in the wish, though, I ovsti, not in your apprehensions. Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies what weather we have in a country going to ruin like ours ? Taxes rising and trade falling. Money flying out of the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming into it. I know at this time no less than a hundred and twenty Jesuits between Charing Cross and Temple Bar, Soneywood^ The Jesuits wUl scarce pervert you or me, I should hope. 70 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. IV. Croaker. May be not. Indeed, -what signifies whom they per- vert in a country that has scarce any religion to lose. I'm only afraid for our wives and daughters. Honeywood. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, I assure you. Croaker, May be not. Indeed, what signifies whether they be perverted or no ? The women in my time were good for some- thing. I have seen a lady drest from top to toe in her own manu- factures formerly. But now-a-days, the devil a thing of their own manufacture's about them, except their faces. Honeywood. But, however these faults may be practised abroad, you don't find them at home, either with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, Or Miss Richland. Croaker. The best of them will never be. canonised for a saint when she's dead. By the bye, my dear friend, I don't find this match between Miss Richland and my son much relished, either by one side or t'other. , Honeywood. I thought otherwise. Croaker. Ah, Mr. Honeywood, a little of your fine serious ad- vice to the young lady might go far: I know she has a very exalted opinion of your understanding. Honeywood. But would not that be usurping an authority that more properly belongs to yourself? Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of my authority at home. People think, indeed, because they see me come out in a morning thus, with a pleasant face, and to make my friends merry, that all's well within. But I have cares that would break a heart of stone. My wife has so encroached upon every one of my privileges, that I'm now no more than a mere lodger in my own house, Honeywood. But a little spirit exerted on your side might per- haps restore your authority. Croaker. No, though I had the spirit of a lion ! I do rouse sometimes. But what then ? Always haggling and haggling. A man is tired of getting the better before his wife is tired of losing the victory. Honeywood. It's a melancholy consideration indeed, that our chief comforts often produce our greatest anxieties, and that an in- crease of our possessions is but an inlet to new disquietudes. Croaker. Ah, my dear friend, these were the very words of poor Dick Doleful to me not a week before he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. Honeywood, I never see you but you put me in mind of poor Dick. Ah, there was merit neglected for you ! and so true a friend ! We loved each other for thirty years, and yet he never asked me to lend him a single farthing. 1728-1774.] GOLDSMITH. 71 Eoneyioood. Pray -what could induce him to commit so rash an action at last P Croaker. I don't know : some people were malicious enough to say it was keeping company with me, because we used to meet now and then and open our hearts to each other. To be sure I loved to hear him talk, and he loved to hear me talk ; poor dear Dick ! He used to say that Croaker rhymed to joker, and so we used to laugh. Poor Dick ! In ' Slie Stoops to Conquer ' the fun is of a more lively kind. Mrs. Hardcastle, by a previous marriage, has a son named Tony Lumpkin, vrhom she has let run wild till he is a mere lout, with a taste for nothing but low company and practical jokes. She has also a wealthy niece, Con- stance Neville, of whom she is guardian, and whom she wishes to marry to her son. Constance, however, has another lover, with whom she is prepared to elope, and vnth this view demands from her aunt a casket of jewels which are in Mrs. Hardoastle's keeping. Mrs. Hardcastle seeks to evade giving them ; but Tony, who has no fancy for Miss Neville, gets possession of the jewels and gives them to her lover. (She Stoops to Conquer, Act iii.) Mrs. Hardcastle. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as you want jewels ? It will be time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when your beauty begins to want re- pairs. Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. Mrs. Hard. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That natural blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don't you see half the ladies of our acquaint- ance, my lady KiUdaylight, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and mar- casites back. Miss Neville. But who kno.ws, madam, but somebody that shall be nameless would like me best with all my little finery about me ? Mrs. Hard. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see if with such a pair of eyes you want any better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear? Does your cousin Con, want ajiy jewels in your eyes to set off her beauty ? Tony. That's as hereafter may be. Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me. 72 ENaiilSH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. IV. Mrs. Sard. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and table cut things. They would make you look like the court of King Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, I believe, I can't readily come at them. They may be missing, for aught I know to the contrary. Tony. {Apmi, to Mrs. Hardcastle.^ Then why don't you tell her so at once, as she's so longing for them ? Tell her they're lost. It's the only way to qrnst her. Say they're lost, and call me to bear witness. Mrs. Hard. (Apart to Tony,') You know, my dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I say they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you ? He ! he ! he ! Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I'll say I saw them taken out with my own eyes. Miss.NeroUle. Idesire them but for a day, madam. Just to be per- mitted to show them as relics, and then they maybe locked up again, Mrs. Hard. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if I could find them you should have them. They're missing,,! assure you; lost for aught I know; but we must have patience wherever they are. Slie departs under pretence of searching for them ; but finds that they are gone, and during her absence Tony tells his cousin that lie has taken them, and has given them for her to Mr. Hastings. Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what you can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your spark ; he'll tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. Miss Neville. My dear cousin ! Tony. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them already. {Exit Miss Neviile.) Zounds how she fidgets and spits about like a Catherine wheel. Enter Mrs. Haedcasti,e. Mrs. Hard. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! We are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. Tony. Oh ! is that all ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! By the laws, I never saw it acted better in all my life. Eeod, I thought you was ruined in earnest, ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs. Hard. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest ; my bureau has been broken open, and aU taken away. Tony. Stick to that; ha ! ha! ha ! stick to that. I'll bear wit- ness you know ; call me to bear witness. Mrs. Hard. I tell you, Tony, by all that's precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever. 172S-1774.] GOLDSMITH. 73 Tony. Sure 1 know they are gone, and I'm to say so. Mrs. Hard. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They're gone, I say. Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh, ha! ha! I know who took them well enough, ha ! ha ! ha ! Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can't tell the difference between jest and earnest ? I tell you I'm not in jest, booby. Tony. That's right, that's right ; you must be in a bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect either of us. I'll bear witness that they ai'e gone. Mrs. Hard. Was there ever such a cross-grained brute, that won't hear me ? Can you bear witness that you're no better than a fool ? Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves on the other ? Tony. I can bear witness to that. Mrs. Hard. Bear witness again, you blockhead you, and I'll turn you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will be- come of her ! Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you en- joyed my distress ? Tony. I can bear witness to that. Mrs. Hard. Do you insult me, monster ? I'll teach you to vex your mother, I will. Tony. I can bear witness to that. {He runs off, she follows him) SHERIDAN. A.D. 1751-1816. Sheejdan in his own day earned a brilliant fame in two capacities, as one of the greatest orators as well as one of our greatest comic writers ; certainly as the most brilliant of all whose wit is not defaced by such indecorum as pre- vents their being quoted, and should forbid them being read. In Goldsmith there is great humour and occasional wit ; in Sheridan there is eVen keener humour united to wit of the highest quahty, and so overflowing in quantity that the only charge that has been brought against ' The School for Scandal ' is that he has scattered it too profusely over aU his characters ; giving even the underUngs and servants a conversation as sparkHng as their masters. In this perhaps he is not richer than Congre ve, though we may think the edge of his wit has a more dehcate poHsh. But 74 ENQLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. IV. in deconun and propriety he is infinitely Hs superior. Thackeray's description of Congreve is that in him we have ' a humorous observer to whom the world has no moral at all, and whose ghastly doctrine seems to be that we should eat, drink, and be merry when we can, and go to the deuce (if there be a deuce) when the time comes.' Whether hfe had a moral for him or not, it is too plain that it had no morality ; but the tone of Sheridan's plays is free from such impurity. In one, ' The School for Scandal,' an intrigue indeed is aimed at, but is baffled, and the intended seducer is covered with confusion and disgrace ; and, though the hero of the piece, as Charles Surface may be called, is repre- sented as a spendthrift and a libertine, it is as a reformed rake that he is finally rewarded ; and if precise virtue might require some more distinct evidence of an amended life, we cannot reasonably expect such a rigorous censor- ship on the stage ; but may fairly own that the defeat of Joseph's machinations, and the promised reformation of his humbled though still hght-hearted brother, are as clear a homage to virtue as one could expect from a oomic writer whose very business is to present everything in the hghtest point of view. In his other plays, in ' The Rivals,' which George III., an ardent play-goer, preferred to ' The School for Scandal,' and in ' The Critic,' no hint of intrigue or libertinism whatever occurs, and Sheridan is fairly entitled to the praise of never transgressing the rules of decorum and propriety. Unhaj^ily of his speeches, unrivalled as they were in the efiect that more than one of them produced on his hearers, we have no sufficient record to enable us to give specimens of his eloquence ; but even had it been possible to do so, it would still have , seemed more appropriate to give a sketch of his life here, in connection with the stage, because in truth his whole life was a comedy or succession of entanglements, extrications, changes of fortune, both good and bad, troubles, successes, marvellous triumphs ending in degrada,tion and misery, that seemed to belong rather to the theatre than to real life. His very marriage was preceded by a duel that looked like a farce, but threatened at one time to prove a tragedy; and it may 1751-1816.] SHEEIDAN. 75 be doubted whether a more ridiculous encounter ever took place than that, as it was described at the time by the Somersetshire county paper. His antagonist was a Mr. Matthews. ' Both their swords breaking upon the first lunge, they threw each other down, and with the broken pieces hacked at each other rolling on the ground, the seconds standing by quiet spectators.' This was in 1772, when Sheridan was twenty-one years of age. His father had been a distinguished performer on the London stage, and afterwards a schoolmaster. His mother had a high fame as the authoress of a novel, much admired in its day, ' Sidney Biddulph,' and of two at least equally popular plays. Between writing plays and acting them the couple made money enough to afford to send their son, B.ichard Brinsley, to Harrow, where he probably acquired a good deal of his manly independent spirit and polished manners ; but certainly very little knowledge of Greek and Latin, though it liiay well be that while still a Harrow boy he became imbued with the rudiments of that science in which he was afterwards so unrivalled a proficient, the art of hving upon nothing. For, when he was barely fifteen, his father was driven by his embarrassments to retire to France ; and, though Richard remained at school three years longer, it may be doubted whether his stay proved expensive to anyone but his tutor. That when he left Harrow he should have tried to support himself by his pen is natural enough. In partnership with another boy, name Halhed, he began by a burlesque farce, to which he gave the name of ' Jupiter,' which, however, no manager would accept. Then they tried a periodical with scarcely better success, as the publisher declined venturing on a second number ; and, as neither plan answered, Sheridan at twenty tried a third expedient, and fell in love, despe- rately in love, with a most amiable and accomplished girl, a Miss Linley of Bath, who, in addition to her charms of mind and person, had the substantial attraction of SfiOOl. As we have already seen, his wife (for such the lady be- came before either of them were one- and- twenty) cost him a duel, and very nearly his life. But she seems to have been a woman worth any danger and any sufi"ering, and 76 ENGLISH LITEEATTIEE. [Ch. IV. ttough (had slie been a less perfect woman than she was, loving and admiring her husband with her whole heart, and only clinging to him the more the more they were surronnded with troubles,) she might well have repented marrying him, it is certain that she never did, and equally unquestionable that he never once wavered in his deep affection towards her. Tet it was a trying life on which the young couple entered. Three thousand pounds was, it is true, a larger sum then than it is now ; but still it could even then produce no great income; and it was every farthing, except Sheridan's own earnings, that they ever had in their lives. I have said that Sheridan's whole life was a play, and it woald be impossible to exaggerate its strange scenes. No doubt others before and since have Uved, that is, have endured life on resources equally, or even more scanty ; but Sheridan on his 3,000Z. Uved for nearly forty years in the most fashionable and aristocratic circles in England, associating with peers and princes of the blood, and sought by them rather than seeking them. Nor was this all. He, without money, did the very things that are supposed to require the greatest supply of money, and that ready money. He bought a theatre, he became a member of Parhament ; and if, as a manager, he set all the ordinary rules of business at defiance by the most invari- able iiTegularity and unpnnctuality, it must be owned, on the other hand, to his high honour, that as a politician he never sacrificed his principles to his necessities. As a rule, he was steadily faithful to his party and its leaders, even when adherence to it was not only adverse to his personal interests, but not wholly in accordance with his private opinion as "to what would have been the most political justifiable line of conduct. But in great national emer- gencies he disengaged himself from party ties, and showed that he considered his first duty of all was to his country. And in spite of some vices and many weaknesses, the evident sincerity of his patriotism has secured him a per- manent reputation which his wit and even his eloquence would have been unable to preserve for him. It was not, of course, till after he had obtained a seat in Parliament that it became known how brilliant, how powerful, how occa- 1751-1816.] SHERIDAN. 77 sionally irresistible was liis eloquence ; but before that day bis extraordinary powers .of social conversation bad opened to him the door to the most fashionable society in London ; and afterwards he rapidly achieved so high a reputation that, within two years of his first appearance in the House, when he was little more than thirty years of age, he was allotted a place in the ministry which was appoiated with the special object of terminating the American war. As has been already intimated, his first essays in author- ship gave no great promise of future success or excellence. And he took the Kterary and play-going world by surprise when, in January 1776, when he was only a month or two more than twenty-three years old, he produced ' The Rivals,' which, as soon as a bad actor, who on the first night spoilt one of the most prominent parts, was superseded by one of greater talent, was generally recognised as the best comedy of its class that had ever been acted on a British stage ; and which, if it has since in any degree lost that character, owes its comparative humiliation to nothing but the still greater brilliancy of ' The School for Scandal.' Theatrical success of any kind is full of fascinations, and Sheridan yielded to them in more ways than one ; following up ' The Rivals ' with a lively farce, ' St. Patrick's Day,' which however re- quires no farther mention ; with an opera, ' The Duenna,, acted at the end of the same year 1775, and which was de- servedly described by Byron as the best opera in the lan- guage, being, in truth, of a higher character than other pieces with the same title, in which the music is the only thing of consequence. In ' The Duenna ' many of the scenes are of the same high order of comedy as those of ' The Rivals,' while the songs show great poetical talent of the lighter kind. The success of ' The Duenna ' surpassed even that which ' The Rivals ' had met with ; and kindled in him a desire for a more permanent connection with the stao-e ; which resulted in a negotiation for the purchase of half of Drury Lane Theatre from Garrick, who was desirous to retire. Where he procured the money is a mystery which his biographer, Moore, confesses himself wholly unable to solve ; but in the spring of 1776 he became the purchaser of two-sevenths of Garrick's share in the theatre ; 78 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. IV. the other shares being divided between his father-in-law and a couple of other friends ; and a year or two later he became the purchaser of the other half, paying or promising to pay for the different shares of which he obtained posses- sion no less a sum than 72,000L In whatever way he had obtained the money or the credit, the purchase was a speculation on the success of which his whole fature prospects depended ; and the consciousness of this stimulated him to greater exertions, which at the beginning of the next year brought forth their fruit in ' The School for Scandal,' which for liveliness, knowledge of dra- matic effect, and above all for striking wit, surpasses all the efforts of Farquhar or Congreve ; and, though there were still some who preferred the humour of ' The Rivals,' seems fairly to deserve the character generally given to it of being the most perfect comedy which has been composed since the tim.e of Shakespeare. The animation is incessant, the wit never flags ; and the only fault which hyper-criticism itself has been able to discover is, as I have already mentioned, that the smart sayings and brilhant repartees are distri- buted to all the characters with almost equal profusion, and that this prodigality of cleverness displays a want of correct judgment ; but, though it may perhaps be admitted that some of the speeches are too refined for the speakers, it would be captious indeed to quarrel with a play for no other fault than being too uniformly diverting, and the justice of the general verdict of its pre-eminent excellence is sufBciently confirmed by its remaining undisturbed after the lapse of Kttle less than a century. Two years later he brought out another play : ' The Critic,' but little inferior to either of his masterpieces. It is usually called a farce in three acts, the two last being a mock tragedy, and the first an introduction rich in all the qualities of a great comedy, though perhaps it may be looked upon as an offence against the strict rules of a modem comedy that one of the chief characters, Sir Fretful Plagiary, was notoriously meant to satirise another dramatic author, Richard Cumberland, a writer of some consideration in his day, but one whose jealous, not to say envious, temper seemed to point him out as a mark for satire con- 1751-1816.] SHEEIDAN. 79 ceived in something of the spirit in which Aristophanes brings Euripides on the stage in his ' Progs.' Bat before the appearajice of ' The Critic ' the author had abeady yielded to a stronger fascination than that of the stage, in spite of the way in which his fortunes were involved in his theatrical property, the management of which required all his attention. He had become ac- quainted with Fox, and yielding to the influence which that eminent party leader exerted over nearly all who came within its range, he had become a politician ; adopt- ing aU his political views, and supporting them by pamphlets and articles in poKtical magazines. And at the general election of 1780 he was returned for Stafford, and in October of that year took his seat as a member of Parliament. From this time his theatre obtained but little of his attention ; he gave himself up wholly to politics, and very soon established his position as an orator on a height which few speakers in any country have attained, by the part which he took in the impeachment of Warren Hastings. In the present day probably no one wiU be found to deny that his country has had few greater servants than the Governor- General to whose vigorous and large-minded administration more than to any other single cause is owing the establishment of our Indian empire ; and that no one, not even Chve himself, was ever treated with such gross ingratitude ; but time had not yet been given to learn the extent of his services to the state. The general wisdom and great practical genius displayed throughout his career, crowned though it had been with general success, was not so manifest, so patent to a cursory observation as the deeds of violence and injustice by which occasionally his admiais- tration had been tarnished ; the severities of which Cheyte Singh, the Begums, and others, had been the victims, afforded a splendid theme for an orator ; and, by the con- fession of all who heard him, no speaker ever availed himself of the varied opportunities of a great subject with more admirable power and effect than Sheridan. It was probably owing to the solid fame acquired by his great efforts on this occasion that he became the most 80 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch, IV. trusted of all tlie friends and advisers of the Prince of Wales ; a prince whose life at this time was one of the most discreditable and ostentatious excess, but who was nevertheless endowed with an acuteness of perception and soundness of intellectual judgment that enabled him to estimate with great accui-acy the abilities of his various friends, and their capacity for aiding him in the way in which he needed their help ; and, among all his associates, there was none on whose talents in that way he relied so habitually as on Sheridan's. It was Sheridan to whom he applied to appease Mrs. Fitzherbert by doing away with the effect of Fox's denial of his marriage. It was Sheridan who composed for him the most important of his letters to the Queen at the time of the painful divisions in the royal family on the occasion of the King's derangement ; and, after his recovery, to the King himself, to justify his own and his brother's conduct. While so honourable was the disinterestedmess with which he nsed his influence over his royal friend, that there was no advice which he gave him more frequently or more earnestly than that, as heir apparent, it was his duty to avoid connecting himself with any party ; and that, as one placed by his birth above such divisions, he ought to extend his favour, or at least his courtesy, to all alike. In the division of the Whig party, which was caused by the extravagance with which Fox extolled the conduct of the movers of the French Revolution, and the equal vehemence with which Burke denounced them, Sheridan sided with Fox ; and, during all the early years of the revolutionary war, put himself forward as the most unsparing critic of the minister, who looked upon him as by far the most formidable of his adversaries, though more than once, in great emergencies, as at the time of the mutiny of the fleet, he laid aside party feeling and stood manfully forward in support of the Government. And his honourable conduct on these occasions impressed George III. himself so strongly in his favour, that he would willingly have made a distinction between him and the other friends of his son, whom, and especially Fox, he regarded with ■unmixed disapprobation, if Sheridan himself had not declined accepting any honour which might separate him 1751—1816.} SHEEIDAIT. 81 from his friends. Yet he was in fact beginning to differ from Fox in opinion on the one subject which engrossed the nation, the war and the character of Buonaparte, whose ambitious violation of the rights of nations he more than once denounced with great vigour ; and his pecuniary em- barrassments were becoming so heavy that any place or pension would have been of almost vital consequence to him. In the year 1804 the Prince of Wales did confer on him the first office that it had ever been in his power to bestow, that of Receiver of the Duchy of Cornwall, but, by that time, he was so deeply in debt that an increase of income could do no more than stave ofi" the evil day. He was compelled to part with a portion of his theatre, and, though in the ministry which came into office on the death of Pitt he returned to his old and lucrative post of Treasurer of the Navy, his occupation of it was too brief for its emoluments to be of any solid benefit to him. In less than a year and a half the leaders of the ministry. Lord Grenville and Lord Grey, as he said, not only ran their heads against a wall, but built a wall for that express purpose. And with their retirement, Sheridan's political life may almost be said to have ended. One more honour, to which, from the peculiar circumstances under which it was attained, he attached a high value, did indeed fall to his share. He was elected as Fox's successor for Westminster ; but it was his last gleam of good fortune, soon to be counterbalanced by a calamity which would have been scarcely sustainable by a man of greater resources, but which to one in his position was overwhelming : in 1809 Drury Lane Theatre, in which he still retained a large interest, was burnt down. He was absolutely ruined. The unabated esteem, indeed, in which the Prince of Wales held his judgment was once more displayed in the discussions which arose on the establishment of the Regency iu 1811, when the framiug of the Prince's public letters was entrusted to him ; and when (though, if the Whigs had returned to office, he was to have had the post which, as an Irishman, he might be supposed especially to have coveted, that of Chief Secretary for Ireland) it is understood to have been principally owing to his advice that the Prince, now Regent, G 82 BNaUSH LITEEATTIRE. [Ch. IV. determined to retain Percival as prime minister. It was Ms last political act. At tte general election in 1812 he lost his seat in Parliament. And ' through the short re- mainder of his life, it is,' as Moore says, ' a melancholy task to follow him.' Creditors pressed upon him ; to meet their demands he was forced gradually to part with the small relics of his property, even with his hooks and the different memorials of regard and esteem that had been given him by private friends or public bodies. He gave way more and more to habits of intoxication, to which (it was the vice of the age) he had always been too much addicted ; and excess of this kind, joined to mortification and anxiety of mind, brought on an illness, of which, in July 1816, he died, at the age of sixty-five. A short time before his death, Byron, with the generous enthusiasm of youth for great and brilliant talents, declared that whatever Sheridan had done had been, par exoellence, the best of its kind. He was the wittiest man in a society where there were many wits ; he had written the best comedy in the language ; he had delivered the best speech ever heard in the country. And the praise is hardly over- strained. The extraordinary power of his eloquence was attested by those who heard it ; though, as I shall have occasion to mention hereafter, the speeches thera.selves do not survive, and their dazzling and persuasive power we must take on trust. But of the brilliancy of his dramatic genius, surpassed by that of Shakespeare alone, we have ample means of judging for ourselves. The 'Rivals' was his earliest play. The ' School for Scandal ' is generally reckoned his masterpiece, and extracts from both are sub- joined. The heroine of the 'Rivals,' Miss Lydia Languish, is a young heiress, whose head has been so turned by reading romances that she fancies perfect happiness is only to be secured by a love match, which will offend all her relations and involve the forfeiture of her estate ; and a Captain Absolute, heir to a testy old baronet, who has fallen in love with her, knowing that, if she were aware how eligible a match he really is, she would reject him, has represented himself to her as a penniless Ensign Beverley. Meanwhile, his father proposes him to Lydia's aunt, 1751—1816.] SHEEIDAN. 83 Mrs. Malaprop, as a desirable husband for the niece ; and Mrs. Malaprop is highly pleased with the proposal, but is awai-e of the difficulties which her engagement to the sup- posed Beverley will cause. However, having esplained the case to Sir Anthony, she brings him in to introduce him to the young lady. (The Eivals, Act i. Sc. ii.) Enter Mrs. Maxapkop and Sir Anthont Absolttie. Mrs. Mai. There, Sir Anthony, there sits the dehberate sim- pleton who wants to (fisgrace her family, and laviah herself on a fellow not worth a shilling. Lydia. Madam, I thought you once Mrs. Mai. You thought, Miss ! I don't know any business you . have to think at all — thought does not become a young woman. But the point we would request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow, to ilUterate him, I say, quite from your memory. Lydia. Ah ! madam, our memories are independent of our wills ; it is not so easy to forget. Mrs. Mai. But I say it is, miss ; there is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. Fm sure I have as much forgot your poor dear uncle as if he had never existed — and I thought it my duty so to do ; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman. Sir Anth. "Why, sure she won't pretend to remember what she's ordered not ! ay, this comes of her reading ! Lydia. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus? Mrs. Mai. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself irom the matter ; you know I have proof controvertible of it. — But tell me will you promise to do as you're bid ? Will you take a husband of your friend's choosing ? Ijydia. Madam, I miist tell you plainly that, had I no preference for anyone else, the choice you have made would be my aversion. Mrs. Mai. What business have you. Miss, with preference and aversion ? They don't become a young woman ; and you ought to know that, as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to begin with a httle aversion. I am sure I hated your poor dear uncle before marriage as if he'd been a blackamoor, and yet, Miss, you are sensible what a wife I made ! and when it pleased heaven to release me from him, 'tis unknown what tears I shed ! But suppose we were going to give you another choice, will you pro- mise us to give up this Beverley ? G 2 84 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. IV. Lydia. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words. Mrs. Mai. Talie yourself to your room. You are fit company for nothing but your own ill-humours. Lydia. Willingly, ma'am ; I cannot change for the worse. But when Sir Anthony proposed marriage to his son without naming the lady, he found him as unwilling as Mrs. Malaprop had found Lydia. A violent quarrel en- sued, in. which he threatened to disinherit him ; but he had hardly quitted him when the Captain found that his intended hride was the Tery girl of whom he was ena- moured. So he resolves to reconcile himself to his father, under pretence of submitting his own wishes to the parental authority. (Act iii. Sc. i.— The North Parade.) Enter Captain Absolxtie. Ahs. 'Tis just as Fag told me iudeed. Whimsical enough, faith ! My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plotting to run away with ! He must not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these matters. However, I'll read my recantation instantly. JMy conversion is something sudden, indeed, but I can assure him it is very sincere. So, so — here he .comes. He looks plaguy gruff. \_8teps aside. Enter Sir Anthonx Absolute. Sir Anth. No — I'll di« sooner than forgive him. Die, did I say ? rU live these fifty years to pla,gue him. At our last meeting his impudence had almost put me out of temper. An obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy ! Who can he take after ? This is my return for getting him before all his brothers and sisters ! for putting him at twelve years old into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a year besides his pay ever since ! But I hav* .done with him ; he's anybody's son for me. I never will see him -more, never, never, never! Abs. Now for a penitential face. Sir Anth. Fellow, get out of my way. Ahs. Sir, you see a penitent before you. Sir Anth. I see an impudent scoundrel before me. Ahs. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error, and to submit entirely to your will. Sir Anth. What's that ? 1751—1816.] SHERIDAN. 85 Abs. I have been revolTing and reflecting, and considering on your past goodness and kindness and condescension to me. Sir Anth. Well, sir ? Abs. I have been likewise weigbing and balancing what you were pleased to mention concerning duty and obedience and authority. Sir Anth. "Well, puppy P Abs. T\Tiy then, sir, the result of my reflections is — a resolution to sacrifice every inclination of my own to your satisfaction. Sir Anth. Why now you talk sense — absolute sense— I never heard anything more sensible in my life. Confound you! you shall be Jack again. Abs. I am happy in the appellation. Sir Anth. Why then. Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and vio- lence, you silly fellow, prevented my telling you at first. Pre- pare, Jack, for wonder and rapture — prepare. What think you of Miss Lydia Languish ? Abs. Languish ! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire ? Sir Anth. Worcestershire ! no. Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop and her niece. Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were last ordered to your regiment ? , Abs. Malaprop ! Languish ! I don't remember ever to have heard the names before. Yet, stay— I think I do recollect something. Languish ! Languish ! She squints, don't she ? A little red-haired girl ? Sir Anth. Squints ! a red-haired girl ! Zounds ! No ! Abs. Then I must have forgot ; it can't be the same person. Sir Anth. Jack ! Jack ! what think you of blooming, love- breathing seventeen. Abs. As to that, sir, I am quite indifierent. If I can please you in the matter, 'tis all I desire. Sir Anth. Nay, but Jack, such eyes ! such eyes ! so innocently wild ; so bashfully irresolute ! not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks! Jack ! so deeply blushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes ! Then, Jack, her lips ! O Jack, lips smiling at their own discretion ; and, if not smiling, more sweetly pouting ; more lovely in sullen- ness ! r ^ • 7 Abs. That's she, indeed. Well done, old gentleman. [Aside. Sir Anth. Then, Jack, her neck ! Jack ! Jack ! Abs. And which is to be mine, sir, the niece, or the aunt ? Sir Anth. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you ! When I was of your age, such a description would have made me 86 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. IV. fly like a rocket 1 TJie aunt, indeed 1 Odd's life ! wlien I ran away with your mother, I would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire. Abs. Not to please your father, sir ? S^r Anth. To please my father ! zounds ! not to please — Oh, my father — odd so ! yes, yes ; if my father indeed had desired — that's quite another matter. Though he wa'n't the indulgent fiither that I am, Jack. Abs. I dare say not, sir. Sir Anth. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so beautifuL Abs. Sir, I repeat it, — if I please you in this affair, 'tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome ; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, .and a few more graces of that kind. Now, without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back ; and though one eye may be very agreeable, yet as the prejudice has always run in favour of two, I would not wish to affect a singularity in that article. Sir Anth. What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you're an anchorite, a vile, insensible stock. You a soldier ! You're a walking block, fit only to dust the company's regimentals on ! Odd's life ! I have a great mind to marry the girl myself. Abs. I am entirely at your disposal, sir ; if you should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt ; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady — 'tis the same to me — I'll marry the niece. Sir Anth. Upon my word, Jack, thou'rt either a very gi'eat hypocrite, or — but come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a lie — I'm sure it must — come, now — damn your demure face ! — come, confess, Jack, you've been lying — ha'n't you ! You have been playing the hypocrite, hey ! — I'll never forgive you, if you ha'n't been lying and playing the hypocrite. Abs. I am sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you should be so mistaken. Sir Anth. Hang your respect and duty ! But come along with me ; I'll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you. Come along ; I'll never forgive you if you don't come back stark mad with rapture and impatience — ^if you don't, egad, I wiU marry the girl myself. [^Exeunt. In the ' School for Scandal,' Lady Teazle, a beautiful country-bred girl, has married Sir Peter Teazle, a man 1751—1816.] SHEEIDAN. 87 nearly three times her age, wliom she rather wearies by her eagerness for amnsement, though he is so fond of her that he wotild ■willingly procure her every gratification, were it not that his fretfulness and her petulance lead them to continual quarrels. But at hottom they are hoth tho- roughly amiable and good-hearted, so that the play ends by the establishment of a perfect reconciliation between them. The following scene is an admirable picture of the way in which quarrels between sincere friends often arise out of nothing but little infirmities of temper. (The School for Scandal, Act iii. Sc. i.) -Enter Ladt Teazle. Lady Teaz. Lud ! Sir Peter, I hope you haven't been quarrelling with JNIaria ? It is not using me well to he ill-humoured when I am not by. Sir Pet. Ah, Lady Teazle, you might have the power to make me good-humoured at all times. Lady Teaz. I am sure I wish I had ; for I want you to he in a charming sweet temper at this moment. Do be good-humoured now, and let me have two hundred pounds, will you F Sir Pet. Two hundred pounds ; what an't I to be in a good humour without paying for it ! But speak to me thus, and, i' faith, there's nothing I could refuse you. You shall have it, but seal me a bond for the repayment. Lady Teaz. Oh, no ; there — my note of hand will do as well. Sir Pet. And you shall no longer reproach me with not giving you an independent settlement. I mean shortly to surprise you ; but shall we always live thus, hey ? Lady Teaz. If you please. I'm sure I don't care how soon we leave ofi" quarrelling, provided you'll own you were tu-ed first. Sir Pet. Well, then, let our future contest be, who shall be most obliging. Lady Teaz. 1 assure you. Sir Peter, good nature becomes you. You look now as you did before we were married, when you used to walk with me under the elms, and teU me stories of what a gallant you were in your youth ; and chuck me under the chin you would, and ask me if I thought I could love an old fellow who would deny me nothing — didn't you ? Sir Pet. Yes, yes, and you were as kind and attentive Lady Teaz. Ay, so I was, and would always take your part, when my acquaintance used to abuse you, and turn you into ridicule. 88 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. IV. Sir Pet. Indeed! Lady Teaz. Ay, and when nay cousin Sophy Las called you a stiff, peevish, old bachelor, and laughed at me for thinking of marrying one who might he my father, I have always defended you, and said I didn't think you so ugly by any means. Sir Pet. Thank you. Lady Teaz. And I dared say you would make a very good sort of a husband. Sir Pet. And you prophesied right ; and we shall now be the happiest couple Lady Teas. And never differ again P Sir Pet. No, never — though, at the same time, my dear Lady Teazle, you must watch your temper very seriously ; for in all our little quarrels, my dear, if you reooUect, my love, you always began first. Lady Teaz. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter ; indeed you always gave the provocation. Sir Pet. Now see, my angel ! take care — contradicting isn't the way to keep friends. Lady Teaz. Then don t you begin it, my love ! Sir Pet. There, now, you — you are going on. You don't per- ceive, my life ! that you are just doing the very thing which you know always makes me angry. Lady Teaz. Nay, you know if you will be angry without any reason, my dear Sir Pet. There ! now you want to quarrel again. Lady Teaz. No. I'm sure I don't : but, if you will be so peevish Sir Pet. There now ! who begins first ? Lady Teaz. Why, you, to be sure. I said nothing — but there's no bearing your temper. Sir Pet. No, no, madam ; the fault 's in your own temper. Lady Teaz. Ay, you are just what my cousin Sophy said you would be. Sir Pet, Tour cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent gipsy. Lady Teaz. You are a great bear, I'm sure, to abuse my rela:- tions. '■ jSir Pet. — Now may all the plagues of marriage be doubled on me if ever I try to be friends v^ith you any more ! Lady Teaz. So much the better. Sir Pet. No, no, madam : 'tis evident you never cared a pin for me, and I was a madman to marry you, — a pert, rural coquette that had refused half the honest squires in the neighbourhood. Lady Teaz. And I am sure I was a fool to marry you — an old 1751—1816.] SHERIDAN. 89 dangling bachelor, who was single at fifty only because he never could meet with anyone who would have him. Sir Pet. Ay, ay, madam ; but you were pleased enough to listen to me ; you never had such an oifer before. Lady Teas. No ! didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who everybody said would have been a better match ? for his estate is j ust as good as yours, and he has broke his neck since we have been married. Sir Pet. I have done with you, madam ! You are an unfeeling, imgrateful — but there's an end of everything. I believe you capable of everything that is bad. Yes, madam, I now believe the reports relative to you and Charles, madam. Yes, madam, you and Charles are, not without grounds iarfy Teaz. Take care, Sir Peter ; you had better not insinuate any such thing ! I'll not be suspected without cause, I promise you. Sir Pet. Very well, madam ! very well ! A separate main- tenance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divorce ! I'll make an example of myself for the benefit of aU old bachelors. Let us separate, madam. Zady Teaz. Agreed ! agreed ! and now, my dear Sir Peter, we are of a mind once more, we may be the happiest couple, and never diifer again you know : ha ! ha ! ha ! Well, you are going to be in a passion, I see, and I shall only interrupt you — so, bye ! bye ! Sir Pet. Plagues and tortures ? can't I make her angry either. Oh, I am the most miserable fellow ! But I'll not bear her pre- suming to keep her temper ; no ! she may break my heart, but she sha'n't keep her temper. [Exit. 90 ENGLISH LITEEATtTEE. ^ [Oh. V. CHAPTER V. CLARENDON. A.D. 1608-1674. We have spoken of history as affording an exception, the only exception, to the rule which young students should inflexibly lay down for themselves, of studying the. writings of none hut the finest writers, because the object with which we fix our attention on historical works is different from that which leads us to linger over the effects of the poet, the dramatist, or the orator. Their writings we seek for amusement and relaxation, of a high and intellectual class, indeed, and calculated to have a really beneficial effect on our minds, to refine our taste, and to elevate our feelings, but still amusement. And that wiQ not be attained unless the style of the writers whom we select for our companions is good in all points. Our taste will not be refined by reading middling poetry, nor our feelings and aspirations elevated by heavy, ill-argued, and worse- expressed speeches. But choice language and well-turned periods, though not less attractive in a historical work than elsewhere, and perhaps not less indispensable to its perm.anent reputation and popularity, are nevertheless not the first qualities which we seek. We read such works for information. The first thing, therefore, that we require is to be able to depend on the correctness of the account presented to us ; in other words, on the strict veracity, candour, and impartiality of the writer. When we have obtained this confidence in the general accuracy of the statements submitted to us, our next wish is to be enabled to form a sound estimate of the value of the facts related, of their bearing on subsequent events and on the charac- ters of the chief actors in them. And with this desire we next demand in a historian weight of thought, grasp of 1608—1674] CLARENDON. 91 Tttind, largeness of view, and sobriety of judgment. These qualities, therefore, in a historian are of far greater im- portance than any graces of style. Not, indeed, that pic- turesqueness, vivacity, vigour, are less admirable here than elsewhere. As making the study attractive they are far from insignificant. It is only meant that they do not come first, and are no substitute for the more sterling; qualities. Without impartiality and fidelity in relating the facts, history is no better than a romance or a party pamphlet. Without judgment in estimating their value it is still but a bald chronicle, little better than an old almanac. But, as long as these qualities are found in a historical work, we must not be deterred from the study of it because the author does not add to them descriptive power, or skill in rounding ofi'his sentences. It is, however, our peculiar good fortune that the literature of our country presents a most unusual number of writers in whom all the requisites of a great historian are combined. And in many respects he who comes first in chronological order yields to none of his fellow-labourers in the same field. The life of Edward Hyde, better known by his title of Earl of Clarendon, belongs to the history of his country. He was born in 1608, as the son of a country gentleman in Wiltshire, and on leaving Oxford he was sent to London to study law, a profession in which the eminence of his uncle, Nicholas Hyde, at that time Chief Justice, seemed to afford him a prospect of early advancement. The contest between the King and his Parliament had, in the opinion of many, terminated by Charles's assent to the Petition of Right ; but Hyde's father apparently did not agree with that opinion, but foresaw other disputes of the same kind, since it is recorded that, ' when his son first engaged in the law, he exhorted him with great earnestness to shun the practice, too common in that profession, of straining every point in favour of prerogative, and perverting so useful a science to the suppression of liberty.' ' The admonition was impressed on the young man's mind with peculiar solem- nity, since, as Hume, who has given us the account, con- tinues : ' In the midst of these rational and virtuous ' Hume, ch. Ixiv. 92 ENGLISH LITKRATURE. [Ch. V counsels lie was suddenly seized with apoplexy and died.' And for many years Hyde showed how strongly he was imbued with its spirit, in the Parliament of 1640 enrolling himself in the country party, and when he strained points of law at all, straining them rather against than in favour of the King and his ministers. It was soon seen that his abilities were such as to make him independent of his uncle's patronage ; he rapidly rose into notice both as a sound lawyer and a powerfal advo- cate, but he was not a mere lawyer. From his youth he was an eager student of general literature, and especially cultivated the acquaintance of Ben Jonson, then by general consent esteemed the chief ornament of the literary world ; though after a time this familiarity was lessened by the peevish ill-temper and absurd pretensions of the poet, who thought himself slighted because the young lawyer would not entirely neglect the study of his profession for his society. In the year 1638 he greatly raised his forensic reputation by venturing to appear as counsel for some merchants in a suit which they had instituted against the Lords of the Treasury ; though it was an evil sign of the times when it could be thought that any m.an ran any risk, or could possibly give the least offence, by discharg- ing so plain a professional duty. But in the opinion of his contemporaries it marked him out as a man of an un- usually independent spirit ; many expressed a wish to see him in the House of Commons, and when, in 1640, Charles found himself compelled again to seek the advice of the great council of the nation, and issued writs for a new Parliament, the first that had been summoned since Hyde had come of age, he was returned as member for Shaftes- bury, and found the leaders of the country party predis- posed to welcome him as a valuable acquisition to their ranks, to which, on many subjects, his legal knowledge made him a recruit of great importance, since many of the abuses which Pym and Hampden were most eager to extinguish were connected with the administration of the law, as carried out in the Earl Marshal's Court, the Star Chamber, and other tribunals. But he was of too independent and honest a spirit to 1608—1674] CLAEENDON. 93 bind himself wholly to that party. He was not afraid to oppose Hampden when factiously endeavouring to procure a repeal of supply by a side wind ; while, on the other hand, having some personal acquaintance with Laud, he strove more than ever to persuade him to recommend moderation to the Bang, especially urging him to prevent the threatened dissolution of the ' Short Parliament,' giving advice which did not succeed, since that ParHament, by one of Charles's most fatal acts of impolicy, was dissolved a few weeks after its meeting. In the Long Parliament Hyde sat as member for Saltash. And, as in the interval the conduct of the Court had been more arbitrary than before, he now, addicting himself almost exclusively to poUtios, became more earnest in opposition, being very forward in procuring the abolition of the Star Chamber, the High Court of Prerogative, and other tribunals which had been perverted into becoming mere engines for lawless oppression. He was also very de- cided in the language in which he denounced the decision of the judges on the celebrated question of ship money, a deci- sion which was undoubtedly inconsistent, not only with Magna Charta, but with the Petition of Right which had been assented to in that very reign. Unluckily, as is not nnfrequently the case in such contests, his zeal in the cause of his party grew fiercer with each successive step ; and we soon find him worse employed in advocating some of the most iniquitous of all the proceedings of the Parliament, such as the impeachment of Strafford, and when that states- man's innocence of all legal offence was established, his attainder. And he also supported the bill to prevent the dissolution of the Parliament without its own consent ; though he afterwards so deeply repented of his conduct in this respect that he called the bill ' a measure to remove the landmarks and destroy the foundations of the kingdom.' Indeed the only act of his at this period which gives any token of his old manliness of spirit was his opposition to his friend Lord Falkland on the subject of the exclusion of the bishops from ParHament, for his attachment to the Church and religion was sincere and undeviating. And it w%3 the strength and sincerity of this feeling 9i KNGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. V. wBicli, when he saw that the popular party as a body was resolved on the destruction of the Church, determined him. on breaking off all connection with it, and joining the Royalists, by whom his talents and honesty were so fully appreciated that, when, in November 1641, the Parhament issued the mischievous manifesto which they called their remonstrance, it was to him that Charles entrusted the task of drawing up his reply. Shortly afterwards he became one of his ministers, with Falkland and Oolepepper ; and though, like all men of sense and attachment to the mo- narchy, he greatly disapproved of the King's unconstitu- tional and impolitic attempt to arrest the five members, he still continued to draw up all the papers which the Govern- ment issued from time to time, and which were so power- ful in argument, and produced so great an effect on the country in general, that the leaders of the other side began to attack him with virulence ; one member even giving notice of a motion to enquire by whose advice the King was acting, a motion which evidently was meant as a threat of impeachment. In the spring of 1642 he withdrew from the House of Commons to join his royal master in the North, was present at the raising of the standard at Nottingham and at the battle of Edgehill, and was very useful in obtaining supplies for the King, being especially instrumental in inducing the Universities to send in their plate to be coined. When the difficulties of the Exchequer became too great for Colepepper's skill to manage, Hyde succeeded him as Chancellor, and for the next three years was practically the Prime Minister, fixing his residence at Oxford, to manage all the proceedings of the King's Par- liament which sat in that venerable and faithful city. In the negotiations at Usbridge he was the leading Com- missioner on the King's side, where again he distinguished himself by the resolute stand which he made in support of the Church and Episcopacy. But his efforts to effect an accommodation were vain, as unquestionably one portion of the Parliamentary Commissioners had from the first resolved that they should be : and there was no peace for England till that more violent section of the King's opponents had overborne not only him but their own milder and honester 1608—1674] CLAHENDON. 95 colleagues, and had attained the power to involve hoth religion and monarchy in one common destruction. In 1645 Hyde relinquished the guidance of affairs at Oxford, to undertake vrhat the King considered a still more important duty. Though the Prince of Wales was but a hoy of fourteen, so many of the leading gentlemen of the western counties, in which lay a great portion of the King's strength, urged the propriety of sending him thither as a head around whom the well-affected might rally, that he was appointed ' General of all the King's forces in that district, and Commander of the Western Association,' and Hyde received the appointment of president of a council of hoth civil and military officers by whose advice his operations were to be guided. And at the beginniug of the next year, when, after the fatal battle of Naseby, the towns in Somersetshire fell one after another into the hands of the conquerors, and it was judged unsafe for the Prince to remain in any part of the kingdom, Hyde, by the King's express command, conducted him to Jersey, and though the Prince shortly afterwards joined his mother at Paris, he himself remained in that island for above two years, in order to be the more easily able to keep up a communication with his sovereign, to whom his misfortunes seemed only the more closely to attach him. It was during his residence at Jersey that he commenced the great work to which he owes his literary reputation : his ' History of the Rebellion,' quaeque ipse miserrima vidit Et quorum pars magna fuit, with the avowed object of vindicating the sounder part of the nation from the charge of ' universal apostasy from their religion and allegiance ' to which ' the prosperous wickedness of those times of which he wrote ' might seem to lay it open — though he probably was as yet far from foreseeing the fouler crimes on which the leaders of the army had already secretly resolved — and ' that the memory of those who, out of duty and conscience, had opposed that torrent which did overwhelm them, might not lose the recompense due to their virtue.' It was not strange that 96 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. V. Charles, to wlioin tlie undertaking was communicated, should take, as he did take, the most lively interest in a work thus designed to do with posterity that justice to his character and abilities which his own age refused him : he even assisted in it, sending the historian a narrative of the most important traftsactions which had taken place between the time when Hyde quitted Oxford and his own escape to the Scottish camp, and of which therefore Hyde could have no personal knowledge ; as, at a later period, he re- ceived from the Prince detailed memorials of Rupert's operations. Shortly before the King's murder, Hyde, always regulat- ing his movements by his direction, rejoined the Prince at Paris ; and tUl the Restoration acted continually as his chief councillor and minister, though often thwarted by Queen Henrietta, who, desiring to exercise over her son the same fatal influence which had been so pernicious to her too facile husband, sought to determine his mind to such arbitrary principles of government as are utterly at variance with the spirit of English law, and were at least equally calculated to prevent aU chance of his recovery of his kingdom ; and which, on both grounds, Hyde opposed with all his power. The purport of the advice which he gave was so generally known and correctly estimated in England, that on Crom- well's death, Charles, shrewdly perceiving how greatly it would aid his cause to make, as it were, public avowal of his influence over him, appointed him Lord Chancellor, an office which he retained for the first seven years of his actual reign. On the Restoration he received the title of Earl of Clarendon, by which he has ever since been known, and was so generally recognised as the head of the Government that the Duke of Ormond advised him to take the Lord Treasurer's stafi", and to become in name what everyone knew him to be in fact. But he preferred to leave that to Lord Southampton, and to content himself with that office which marked him out as the head of his profession. And of that we have the testimony of a suc- cessor of his in our own times, that he discharged the duties with a profound knowledge of law, and with the most un- bending integrity. To this last virtue indeed he was too 1608—1674] CLAEENDON. 97 steadfast for his permanent prosperity : it was not one mucli in favour with either King or courtiers, to whose licentious- ness every part of his conduct was a continual reproof While, from one of those delusions to which the mob is subject, after a few years he lost the favour of the people also, who attributed to him the sale of Dunkirk to Louis XIV., believing that he had been privately enriched by the transaction. Dunkirk House, a nickname given to a stately mansion which he was building on a plot of ground that Charles had granted to him, and part of which still exists in the Clarendon Hotel, long preserved the memory of the calumnies with which ignorant prejudice, or perhaps the artful malice of the courtiers, contrived to load him ; and presently, when two great calamities, the Plague and the Fire of London, and one great disgrace, the sailing of the Dutch fleet up the Thames, had irritated the whole nation, one general desire to make him the scapegoat of all these calamities and errors seemed to seize the whole people. So general was the feeling that the eccentric Lord Bristol thought to win popularity for himself by impeaching him : but it was properly decided that one Peer could not impeach another ; while his friends demonstrated that all the charges which it had been intended to bring against him could not, whether taken separately or united, amount to high treason. And the King himself, though weary of him, had grace enough to try to save him, though in a very irregular and unparliamentary way, by sending down a message to the House of Lords, in which he af&rmed that, of his own certain knowledge, many of Lord Bristol's statements were untrue. But in 1667 the disgraces of the •war, though in fact owing not to his mismanagement, but to the neglect of his advice (the money which had been voted for the campaign having been diverted to feed the rapacious extravagance of the king's mistresses), overthrew him. The persevering resentment of Lady Castlemaine at last overcame Charles's scruples at abandoning a servant of such tried fidelity ; and, to please that most shameless of women, Charles deprived him of the seals, the Duke of York, who had married his daughter, being unable to save him. Charles did indeed make a feeble efibrt to protect him from H 98 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. V. fortlier blows by promising the Parliament never again to employ him in any post whatever ; but the lady's influence was more mighty than even his, and Sir Edward Seymour moved his impeachment in the House of Commons. So ridiculous, however, in the eyes of the Commons themselves were the grounds of complaint which he alleged that, though the resolution for his impeachment was carried by a large majority, his enemies were actually ashamed to specify the charges, and limited their accusation to one of treason in general, which the House of Lords rightly pronounced to be illegal. However, Clarendon, to avoid the storm, retired from the country ; and a bill was passed, one of the most shameless acts of that most shameless reign, to condemn him to perpetual exile, unless he should return to England to submit to a trial befoi-e a certain day. An illness which attacked him prevented Ids complying with the condition thus imposed, and accordingly he was banished ; while Louis, to requite the general subserviency of the English Court to his policy, gratified its naalice against him by refusing to allow him to reside in France. Subsequently, when the French king was offended by Charles's accession to the Triple Alhanoe, he withdrew that prohibition ; and the exiled statesman, after spending a few months in the South, finally settled at Rouen, where, in 1674, he died, having, when he found his end approaching, in vain implored his ungrateful master's leave to return to his native land. He had occupied his last years in the completion of his History, which, however, he desired should not be made known to the world till all those who were directly afiected by the narrative should have passed from the scene ; and which, accordingly, was not published till the beginning of the next ' century ; and even then it was not given to the world as the author left it, but was mutilated by the injudicious prudence of the editors ; nor was it till 1826 that his own University, in whose great Library the manuscript had been preserved, printed it in its complete form, with a very elaborate autobiography. Even political animosity has not ventured to deny the great merit of the History. It is said that, so deeply was he imbued with a reverence for the great classical writers that. 1608—1674] CLAEENDON. 99 ' to turn his mind to liistorical composition and to improve his taste, he read over Livy and Tacitus and almost all the works of Cicero.' ' But, if the anecdote be true, it affords a curious instance of the difficulty which even the ablest men often find in carrying out their preconceived ideas, since few historians have written in a style less resembling the flowing picturesquenessof Livy ; while from the sententious brevity of Tacitus he is still further removed. His merits are his own, as indeed are his faults ; the latter (in point of style) may perhaps be limited to an extreme redundancy of expression, leading him. into a length of sentence which is absolutely unparalleled. The former are great gravity of reflection, dignity and justness of sentiment, keen delicacy of observation, and a most acute discrimination of character. In the most important qualification of a historian, fidelity; he displays a degree of candour and impartiality hardly to have been expected in one who had played so important a part in most of the transactions which he was relating that he could hardly avoid looking at them without a strong prejudice on one side or the other. Yet his relation of facts and of the conduct of others has not been successfully impeached in any material instance ; the only exception that is to be made to his uniform correctness seems to be when he is describing his own conduct, and there it must be ad- mitted that we cannot implicitly rely on his statements. It was indeed not unnatural, when he reflected afterwards on the atrocious and horrible result to which the opposition of the country party to the King's lawless proceedings had led, that he should have learnt to think more of the evils which had actually ensued,, of the death of one king, of the protracted exile of another, of the downfall of the Church, of the still severer tyranny of CromweU, than of the dangers which that opposition had checked in the bud and had never allowed to be felt as evils. And, as he himself had been for years a prominent member of that party on whose measures he had thus leamt Cromwell and his followers were wont to speak of 'the communications which they pretended "io hold with the Supreme Being, and 'to represent themselves as direct ministers of his will : but, even if the surmise be correct, it is but an explanation of, not an excuse for, his conduct. The imprudence of putting himself in a situation in which he was compelled to make Satan speak at all may be illustrated by the history of Byron's drama of"" Cain.' In that, also, Satan is one of the chief interlocutors, by his blasphemous subtleties tempting the previously contented and happy Cain into the com- mission of fratricide. In the opinion of two most com- petent conscientious judges, the language of ' Cain ' is in no respect more irreligious than that in ' Paradise Lost.' Sir Walter Scott, while admitting that ' it might shock one class of readers,' declared that the same men 'must condemn the " Paradise Lost,'' to be consistent.' ' And a still higher au- thority on such a point, Bishop Heber, who reviewed the drama in the ' Quarterly Review,' expressly af&rms that ' the expressions of Cain and Lucifer are not more offensive to the ears of piety than such discourses must necessarily be, or than Milton, without offence, has put into the mouths of beings similarly situated ; '-^ while Byron (as he took credit to himself for having done) had ' avoided introducing the Deity, -as in Scripture (though Milton does, and not very wisely either), and had adopted His angel as sent to Cain instead.' * On the justification of Byron's language afforded by the precedent of Milton, the Bishop's '©pinion may be surely 'taken as decisive. Unhappily, while Milton was believed to have been animated with devout feelings, and holy purposes, in composing ' Paradise Lo!?t,' no such fevorable interpretation was put on Byron's motives in writing ' Cain ; ' and the Lord Chancellor decided that ' Cain ' ' Byron's Life and Works, vol. xiv. p. 9. ' Ibid. p. 106. » IHd. p. 5. 1608—1674.] MILTCMs 197 was too blasphemous a production to be entitled to tbe protection of the law of copyright. If Lord Eldon's judg- ment was sound, and no greater judge has ever adorned the woolsack,, it was not wise of Milton to choose a subject which, with a judge who might hare happened to take an' unfavorable view of his character and motives, would have exposed him, to a similar condemnation.: To reeur to Johnson's criticism ; another, and perhaps, if the poem be looked at as a work of art, and with reference to its effect, a more serious drawback to the-subject, is that it comprises neither human action nor human manners ; the man and woman who act and suffer are in a state which no other human beings can ever know ; and the inevitable consequence is that the reader can feel little or no interest in their fortunes. And again, in the warfare between the devils and the Almighty, no act can prevent us from . constantly perceiving that the result of the conflict is not, and cannot be,, dubious; and some fluctuations of hope and fear are ■ indispensable, if human sympathy is to be excited. That,. if we keep the deficiencies inseparable from such a subject out of sight, the composition of the poem is admirable from . the order and clearness with which the different events pro-- ceed to their accomplishment, we may readily agree ; though Johnson has aiso pointed out some strange incon- sistencies, arising from the way in which Milton has 'un- happily perplexed .his poetry with his philosophy. His in- fernal and celestial powers are sometimes pure spirit, and sometimes animated' body.' A much more serious error, as . being a radical defect of taste, arising apparently from a . pedantic pride of scholarship, is his continual intrusion of allusions to the heathen mythology ; and one strange pas- sage- in the second book is hardly to be paralleled for the ^ strange perversity- of judgment which it displays in its misapplication of a classical allegory. Virgil, in that beauti- ful passage in which the Sibyl conducts .<3Eneas through the Elysian fields, has represented the spirits or shades of the blessed as enjoying the same pastimes that formed the recreation of the men themselves while oil earth. The ' magnanimous heroes ' of old wars still find pleasure in , the brightness o£ their armour and the speed of their ■ 198 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XL horses. Others still, as while in life, of ^milder mood, hang with delighted admiration on the sweet song of Orphens.' It is strange indeed that, becanse Ilus and Assaracus, and Dardanus,-the founder of Troy, were permitted suchenjoy- •ments, by the gods whose descendants they were, Milton ■shoiild think- it consistent with common sense or propriety to represent the devils as similarly indulged by their justly offended Maker. He even amplifies Yirgit's picture ; ag- •gravating, if possible, the- indecency by choosing as the moment of their holiday the hreaking - up of the Council, the Stygian- Clouncil, as he calls it, in which each fiend has -Tied with the other in blasphemous and threatening ■-machinations against the Most High. (Book ii. 528.) Part on the plain, or in the air suhlime, Upon the wing, or in swift race contend, '- Neenon Threicius longi cum veste sacerdos Obloqnitur Bumeris septem discrimina vooum ; Jamque eadem digitis, jam pectine pulsat eburno. Hio genus antiquum Teucri, pulchemma proles, ' Magnanimi heroes, Tiati meiioribus annis ; Ilnsque, Assaraieusque, et Trojse Dardanus auctor. Arma procul, currusque virum miratur inanes. - Stant terr^ defixse -hastae, passimque soluti Per Campos pascuntur equl ; quae gratia curruum Armorumque fuit.vivis, quae cura "nitentes Pascere eqnoB, eadem sequitur tellure repostos. — ^».-.vi. 645. "^Tlius translated by Dryden : — The Thracian bard, surrounded by the rest, There stands conspicuous in his flowing vest, His flying fingess and harmonious quill Strike seven distinguished notes, and seven .at once they fell. Here found they Teucer's old heroic race, Born better times and happier years to grace, Assaracus and Ilus here enjoy Perpetual fame with him who founded Troy ; The chief beheld their chariots from afar, VTheir shining arms, and coursers trained to war ; Their lances fixed in earth, their steeds around, Pree from their harness, graze the flowery ground : The love of horses, which they had alive, .■■And care of chariots after death survive. -DsjWDSNr^n, vi, 885. 1608-1674.] MILTON. l^gg As at th' Olympian games or Pythian fields ; Part curb their fiery steeds,, or shun the goal With rapid wheels, or fronted brigades form. Others more mild, Retreated in a silent valley, sing With notes angelical to many a harp Their own heroic deeds and hapless fall By doom of battle ; and complain that f a*e Free virtue should enthrall to force or chance. Their ^ong was partial ; but the harmony (What could it less when spirits immortal sing ?) Suspended Hell, and took with ravishment The thronging audience. It is almost superfluous to point out that lie is here giving Satan and lu's followers jojs which, before they had forfeited God's piawei', would have been as much beneath their notice as in their fallen state they were above their ' deserts. To counterbalance this, we must point out that there are other passages in which a happier imitation of the classic poets has inspired him with thoughts of noble and most appropriate sublimity. There is hardly a grander picture in the whole ' Ihad ' than that of the universal tumult which was spread through all creation by the battle of the gods ; when Strife *^ spri|ng to her feet, and Minerva, as she stalked along, shouted, now standing by the wall, and now on the storm-lashed shore ; and Mars, like a whirlwind, raised his battle-cry on the other side ; and Jupiter gave forth his thunders ; and from below, Neptune shook the earth and the lofby mountain-tops ; and Ida quivered, and the city of the Trojans, and the ships of the Greeks ; and ' ^ ^SSeiffev S' inreuepdev &va^ if4puif,*A'Ldaiye6s' Seiffas S' ix dp6j/ou &\ro, /col iax^, M^ oi Sirepde yaiav ava^pi]^eie Hoffeidday ^voffix^^Vf ffjuepSoXe', evpuef^ra, T(£ re aTiryeouffi $eoiirep, — II, xx. 65k As Pope translates it : — Deep in th' infernal regions of the dead, Th' infernal monarch rear'd his horrid head, Leapt from his thione, lest Neptune's arm should lay His dark dominions open to the day. And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes, Abhon^d by men, and dreadful eyen to gods. — II. ax. 62. 200 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XI. Pluto himself, the king of the dead, trembled, and sprang from his throne, and yelled with alarm lest Neptune should break up the very foundations of his realm, and lay open his lurid depths to the light of day. But, grand as the pic- ture is, Milton's description of the awful confusion when the victorious Messiah drove the defeated rebels thunder- struck before him down into the gulf is worthy of his model :— (Book vi. 867.) Hell heard th' insufferable noise ; Hell saw Heav'n ruining from heaven, and would have fled Affrighted ; but strict fate had cast too deep Her dark foundations, and too fast had bound. Nine days they fell : Confounded Chaos roar'd, And felt tenfold confusion in their fall Through his wild anarchy ; so huge a rout Encumber'd him with ruin. And it seems to me that it is in detached passages such as this, of a sublimity unequalled in our language, that Milton 's claim to pre-eminence is best founded. Another equal, and not unlike it, is his description of Death when the monster advances to his first meeting with Satan : — (Book ii. 666.) The other shape, If shape it might be call'd that shape had none, Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ; Or substance might be call'd that shadow seemed, For each seemed either ; black it stood as night, Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell, And shook a dreadful dart ; what seem'd its head The likeness of a kingly crown had on. Satan was now at hand, and from his seat The monster moving onward came as fast "With horrid strides : Hell trembled as he strode. Coleridge has remarked that Satan is Milton's hero, and that his distinctive character is pride and sensual in- dulgence, finding in itself the motive of action. But it must be observed that Milton's devils do not all resenable one another. On the contrary, there are perhaps no pas- sages in which his invention is more advantageously dis- played than in the different character which he assigns to each fiend in the grand council of war which opens the 1608—1674.] MILTON. 201 second book. Satan, of course, comes first, and is intro- duced with great pomp as the presiding spirit : — (Bookii. 1.) High on a throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand Showers on her kings harharic pearl and gold, Satan exalted sat ; by merit rais'd To that bad' eminence ; and, from despair Thus high nplifted beyond hope, aspires Beyond thus high ; insatiate to pursue Vain war with Heav'n ; and, by success untaught, His proud imaginations thus displayed. Despair is the one feeling which all the devils have in common. It is a part, and not the least dreadful part, of their punishment ; and despair makes all its victims fierce ; but Moloch, being less proud than Satan, is fiercer still ; he is more cunning, and still more desperate and reckless : — (Book ii. 43.) He ceas'd ; and next him Moloch, sceptred king. Stood up, the strongest and the fiercest spirit That fought in Heav'n, now fiercer by despair : His trust was with the Eternal to he deem'd Equal in strength ; and rather than be less Car'd not to be at all ; with that care lost Went all his fear : of God, cr Hell, or worse. He reck'd not ; and these words thereafter spake. The character of the next in order, Belial, seems borrowed in some degree fix)m that of Drances in the ^neid : ' fair to look at, eloquent and plausible, but cowardly. ' Turn Drances idem infensus, quem gloria Tumi ObliquA invidia stimuUsque agitabat amaris : Largus opum, et lingvi4 melior, sed frigida beUo Dextera, consiliis habitus non futilis auctor, Seditione potens. — ^n. xi. 336. Thus translated by Dryden : — Then Drances to'ok the word, who grudg'd long since The rising glories of the Daunian prince ; Factious and rich, bold at the council board, But cautious in the field, he shunn'd the sword, A close cavalier and tongue-valiant lord. — Mn. a. 510. 202 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XI (Book ii. 106.) He ended frowning, and his look denounc'd Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous To less than gods. On th' other side up rose Belial, in act more graceful and humane ; A fairer person lost not Heav'n ; he seem'd For dignity compos'd, and high exploit: But all was false and hollow ; thsugh his tongue Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear The better reason, to perplex and dash Maturest counsels : for his thoughts were low : To vice industrious, hut to nobler deeds Timorous and slothful : yet he pleas'd the ear. And with persuasive accent thus began. Of MammoiL we have no specific description : his name speaks for itself ; but Beelzebub is presented witb rare dig- nity ; he seems intended as a personification of the highest worldly wisdom ; of the most profound statesmanship which can exist without rehgion. And it is he who desires a diversion, by carrying their attacks into ' another iworld,' and its inhabitants, ' some new race call'd man.' (Book ii. 299.) Which when Beelzebub perceiv'd, /than whom, Satan except, none higher sat, with grave Aspect he rose, and in his rising seem'd A pillar of state ; deep on his front engraven Deliberation sat, and public care ; And princely counsel In his face yet shone, Majestic, though in ruin: sage he stood With Atlantean shoulders fit to bear The weight of mightiest monarchies ; his look Drew audience and attention still as night Or Summer's noon-tide air, while thus he spake. It deserves to be remarked, as indicative of ihe poet's very peculiar views on some subjects, that he not only endows the devUs with great capacity, in which he is clearly warranted, but also with some of the loftiest and purest of human virtues ; with disinterestedness, and if I may so say, patriotism. Satan" breaks up the council, and undertakes in person the investigation of the position of earth and its new-bom inhabitants ; recognising it at the 1608-1674.] MILTON. 203 same time as a task of no trifling difficulty and danger. The devils gratefnlly acknowledge his self-devotion : (Book ii. 480.) Nor fatil'd they to expresshow much they prais'd That for the general safety he despis'd His own : for neither do the spirits damn'd Lose all their virtue ; lest had men should boast Their specious deed& on earth, which glory excites, Or close 'ambition, varnish'd o'er with zeal. That the chief circumstances of the different tattles shonld be imitated from Homer is natural enough. The combat of Abdiel with Satan is full of resemblances to descriptions ia the ' Iliad,' too obvious to rec[uire pointing out: (Book vi. 189.) So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high, Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight. Nor motion of swift thought, less could his shield, Such ruin intercept : ten paces huge He back recoil'd ; the tenth on bended knee His massy spear upstay'd ; as if on earth "Winds under ground, or waters forciag way. Sidelong had push'd a mountain from his seat, Half sunk with allhis pines. Amazement seiz'd The rebel Thrones, but greater rage, to see Thus foil'd their mightiest ; ours joy fiU'd, and shout, Presage of victory, and fierce desire Of battle : whereat Michael bid sound Th' Arch-Angel trumpet ; through the vast of HeaVn It sounded, .and' the faithful armies rung Hosannah to the High'st : nor stood at gaze The adverse legions, nor less hideous join'd The horrid shook. Now storming fury rose, And clamour such as heard in Heav'n tiU now Was never; arms on armour clashing bray'd Horrible discord, and the madding wheels Of brazen chariots rag'd ; dire was the noise Of conflict; .overhead the dismal hiss Of fiery darts in flaniing volleys flew. And flying vaulted either host with fire. So under fiery cope together rush'd Both battles main, with ruinous assault . 204 ENGLISH LITEEATUEB. [Ch. XI* And inextinguishable rage. All Heaven Resounded ; and had Earth been then, all Earth Had to her centre shook. What wonder ? when Millions of fierce encount'ring Angels fought On either side, the least of whom could wield These elements, and arm him with the force Of all their regions : how much more of power Army against army numberless to raise Dreadful combustion warring, and disturb. Though not destroy, their happy native seat ; Had not th' eternal King omnipotent, From his stronghold of Heav'n, high over-rul'd And limited their might ; though number'd such As each divided legion might have seem'd A numerous host ; in strength each armed hand A legion ; led in fight, yet leader seem'd Each warrior single as in chief, expert When to advance, or stand, or turn the sway Of battle, open when, and when to close The ridges of grim war : no thought of flight, None of retreat, no unbecomiag deed That argued fear ; each on himself rely'd. As only in his arm the moment lay Of victory : deeds of eternal fame Were done, but infinite ; for wide was spread That war and various ; sometimes on firm ground A standing fight, then, soaring on main wing, Tormented all the air ; all air seem'd then. Conflicting fire. Long time in even scale The battle hung ; till Satan, who that day Prodigious pow'r had shown, and met in armis No equal, ranging through the dire attack Of fighting Seraphim confus'd, at length Saw where the sword of Michael smote, and fell'd Squadrons at once ; with huge two-handed sway Braudish'd aloft the horrid edge came down Wide wasting ; such destruction to withstand He hasted, and oppos'd the rocky erb Of tenfold adamant, his ample shield, A vast circumference. But when Milton represents tlie AlmigMy as having re- course to the same expedient for preventing a combat between Gabriel and Satan, wliioli Jupiter in the Iliad employs to determine whether Achilles or Hector ^all 1608—1674.] MILTON. 205 conquer, he is led by his fondness for copying the great Greek into an inconceivable disparagement of the omnipo- tence of the Almighty. It is strange indeed that anyone -n-ith a rightful feeling of reverence for the Lord of Lords should represent Him as in a state of alarm lest any deed of inferior spirits could affect His unapproachable, imperishable throne. Yet when Satan confronts the angel, Milton tells us (Book iv. 990.) Now dreadful deeds Might have ensued, nor only Paradise In this commotion, but the starry cope Of Heaven perhaps, or all the elements At least had gone to wrack, disturb'd and torn AVith violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray, Hung forth in Heav'n hia golden scales, yet seen Betwixt Astraea and the Scorpion sign, "Wherein all things created first he weigh'd. In these he put two weights, Thesequel each of parting and of fight : The latter quick up flew, and kick'd the beam.' It is a proof, worth noting (though I will content myself with pointing out the passage, instead of quoting it at length), of Milton's preference for Homer over Virgil that, though the idea of Michael conducting Adam to a hill from which he may look down on the future generations of man- kind is manifestly taken from Virgil, the passage in which we have the most unmistakable imitation of either is a copy not of the vision granted to jEneas, but of the shield of Achilles. The warriors who iv B' iriBet Sio Kvp^ ravTjKeyeos Bavdroio, T)^f /*ey 'A;ti\A.^os, t^v 5''"EKTopos l-iriroHiiOio' eA.'K€ 5€ jueiTffa Xa^&f ^eire 5' "^Topos atmfjLov ^ftap^ — 2L X. 209, Jove lifts the goMen balances, that show The faults of men, and ithings below, Here each contending hero's lot he tries. And weighs with equal hand their destinies, Low sinks the scale uncharg'd with Hector's fate, Heavy with th it sinks, and hell receive the weight. 206 ENaLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XI. to a city strong Lay siege encamped. The ' council at the city gates,' the heralds ; even The herd of beeves, fair oxen and fair Mne From a fat meadow-ground, read almost like a translation of the description of the orna- ments -with which Vulcan's handiwork was made worthy of the hero who was to Bear it. Milton is more original' in his softer passages : in his description of (Bbok iv. 132.) Ed«n, where delicious Paradise^,, Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, As with a rural mound, the champain head Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides With thicket overgrown, grotesqjie and wild,. Access denied ; and overhead up grew Iniiuperable height of loftiest shade. Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene ; and, as the ranks ascend Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops The verdurous wall of Paradise up sprung. And higher than that wall a circling row Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, Appear'd, with gay enamell'd colours mix'd r On which the Sun more glad impress'd his beams Than on fair evening cloud, or humid bow, When God hath shower'd the earth; so lovely seemed That landscape.' And there was no source but his own warm, genial, yet ever-pure imagination from which he could derive the account which Adam gives to Raphael of his rapturous admiration of Eve when first seen as the cause and partner of his happiness : — (Book viii. 462.) Abstract as in a trance, methought I saw, Though sleeping, where I lay, and saw the shape > See 11. xviii. 490-545. 1608—1674.] MILTOTT. 207 Still glorious before whom awake I stood ; "Who stooping open'd my left side, and took Prom thence a rib, with cordial spirits warm, And life-blood streaming iresh ; wide was the wound, But suddenly with flesh fill'd up and heal'd : The rib he form'd and fashion'd with hia hands ; Under his forming hands a creature grew, Manlike, but different sex ; so lovely fair, That what seem'd fair in all the world, seem'd now Mean, or in her summ'd up, in her contain'd And in her looks ; which from that time infus'd Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before. And into all things from her air inspir'd The spirit of love and amorous delight. She disappeared, and left me dark ; I wak'd To find her, or for ever to deplore Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure : Wben out of hope, behold her, not far oif,. Such as I saw her in my dreamj adom'd < With what all Earth or Heav'n could bestow To make her amiable : On she came, Led by her heavenly Maker, though unseen. And guided by his voice ; nor uninform'd Of nuptial sanctity and marriage rites : Grace was in all her steps, Heav'n in her eye, In every gesture dignity and love. I, overjoy'd, could not forbear aloud. This turn hath made amends ; Thou East fulfiU'd Thy words. Creator bounteous and benign, Giver of all things fair! but fairest this Of all thy gifts ! nor enviest. I now see Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, myself Before me : Woman is her name ; of Man Extracted : for this cause he shall' forego Father and mother, and to his wife adhere ; And they shall" be one flesh, one heart, one soul. She heard me thus ; and though divinely brought, Yet innocence, and virgin modesty. Her virtue, and the conscience of her worth. That would he woo'd, and not unsought be won,. Not obvious, nor obtrusive, but, retir'd. The more deiirable ; or, to say all. Nature herself, though pure of sinful thought. Wrought in her so, that, seeing,me,.she turn'd : 208 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XI. I foUow'd her ; she what ■was honour knew, And with obsequious majesty approv'd My pleaded reason. To the nuptial tower T led her blushing like the morn ; all Heaven, And happy constellations, on that hour Shed their selectest influence ; the earth Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill ; Joyous the birds ; fresh gales and gentle airs Whisper'd it to the woods, and from their wings Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub. Disporting, till the amorous bird of night Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening star Qn his hill-top to light the bridal lamp. I have already spoken of ' Comus.' No praise of its elegance or delicacy can be expressed that is not borne out by the following passages. The lady, who has been be- nighted, and has lost her way in the dense wood, yet fears no evil, so strong is her faith in the Anthor of all good, and in His ever- watchful protection of the innocent ; while even the dissolute god of revelry, to whom her song betrays her neighbourhood, is still more awed by her dignity than tempted by her beauty. (Line 201.) Cotiius. This is the place, as well as I may guess, Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear ; Yet nought but single darkness do I find. What might this be ? A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names - On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. These thoughts may startle well, but not astound The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended By a strong siding champion, conscience. welcome pure-ey'd Fanth ; white-handed Hope, Thou hovering Angel, girt with golden wings; And thou, unblemish'd form of Chastity ! 1 see ye visibly, and now believe That he, the Supreme Good, t' whom all things ill Are but as slavish ofiicers of vengeance. Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, 1608— 1674.J MILTON. 209 To keep my life and honour unassail'd. "Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night p I did not err, there does a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night, And casts a gleam over this tufted grove : I cannot halloo to my Brothers, but Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest 111 venture ; for my new-enliven'd spirits Prompt me ; and they perhaps are not fax off. Song. Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy aery shell. By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroider'd vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well ; Canst thou not teU me of a gentle pair That likest thy Narcissus are ? Oh, if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave, Tell me but where, , Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere ! So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies. Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment ? Sure something holy lodges in that breast. And with these raptures moves the vocal air To testify his hidden residence. How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness, till it smil'd ! I have oft heard My mother Circe with the Syrens three, Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades, Culling their potent herbs and baleful'drugs ; Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul, And lap it in Elysium : Scylla wept. And chid her barking waves into attention, And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause : Yet they in pleasing slumber lull'd the sense, And in sweet madness robb'd it of itself; p 210 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XI. But such a sacred and home-felt delight, Such soher certainty of waking bliss, I never heard till now. — I'll speak to her, And she shall be my queen. — Hail, foreign wonder ! Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, Unless the goddess that in rural shrine Dwell'st here with Pan, or Sylvan ; by blest song Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog To touch the prosperous growth of this tall wood. Lady. Nay, gentle Shepherd, ill is lost that praise That is address'd to unattending ears.; Not any boast of sMU, but extreme shift How to regain my sever'd company, Compell'd me to awake the courteous Echo To give me answer from her mossy couch. 1631— 1700.J DEYDEN. 211 GHAPTEE XIL SRYOEN. Aj). 1631-1700. CosTEMPOEAET with Milton, and in kis own day enjoying a reputation hardly second to- his, .was John Dryden. He was a member of a. knightly, family. in Northamptonshire; being the grandson of Sir Erasmus Dryden of Canon's Ashby in Northamptonshire, who was one of the- first baronets created when James I. hit npon that singular method of- replenishing his exchequer by inventing a new title for tlie purpose of putting it up to sale. He was bom in 1631, and was educated at Westminster, and at Trinity College, Cambridge, as a scholar of which noble foundation he took his degree in 1.653 ; and the next year, on the death of his father, who was the youngest son of the old baronet; he succeeded to a small estate, which, though not sufficient to render him independent, wag enough, in his own opinion, to justify him in addicting himself to literature instead of following a more regular and lucrative profession. Vhile- a boy he had won the praise of the great headmaster of West^ minster. Dr. Bushy, by the extreme facility and elegance of his poetical translations from the classics ; and at Cambridge he had distinguished himself less pleasantly by another kind of poetry, in which he was destined afterwards to reap pre-em.inent fame : satire, which involved him in a quarrel with a young nobleman, from which he did not extricate- himself without some discredit. But these early produce tions of his muse have perished ; and the first of his poems- which has come down to us, which is probably, also, the' first that he ever published, gave little indication of his future career, though it supplies but too -clear a proof of his utt-er want, of steadiness . to any principle, political or p2 212 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XII. religious, wKicli was his besetting fault throughout his life. His nearest relations, his uncle Sir John Dryden, and his cousin Gilbert Pickering were both zealous Puritans, and warm adnoirers of Cromwell. With Sir Gilbert Pickering he is understood to have lived for some time as a secretary, and by him he seems to have been imbued with such a beUef in the durability of the usurper's dynasty, that, after his death, he published a panegyric on him, which he entitled 'Heroic Stanzas on the late Lord Protector,' and which was generally admitted to be the best poem which the subject had elicited, though the veteran Waller was one of his rivals. But he soon found out that he had been mistaken in his anticipations ; Charles II. recovered his throne amid the acclamations of the nation, and Dryden hastened to efface the recollection of his eulogies of the departed tyrant by an equally elaborate prediction of the glories and blessings which were to be showered over the land through the restoration of the king, whom Astr^a Redux, ' Returning Justice,' was leading back to his country. His prophetic praise of the Sovereign who was to betray the interests of his kingdom to Louis XIV., and to sacrifice the lives of subjects whom he knew to be innocent to the perjuries of Titus Gates, was not much better justified than his glori- fication of the man who had massacred, not only the garrison, Tjut the unarmed inhabitants of Drogheda and Wexford in cold blood, and had sold hundreds of Englishmen to work as slaves in the West Indies for no offence but that of having 'fought for their king. However, his wit and his flattery gained him the favour not only of the Merry Monarch, but probably led to his being appointed, in 1662, one of the Fellows of the newly- eonstituted Royal Society, an honour which, as Scott fairly points out, ■* is an evidence of the respect in whicli his talents were already held,' and which was very fairly de- served by his learning, which was both extensive and accurate, though not of a scientific character. He became the author of numerous small poems, addresses to great men, songs and prologues, training himself for some more elaborate work, and labouring especially to purify 1631—1700.] DEYDEK 213. Englisli poetry of the false metaphysical wit which had been- in fashion during the earlier part of the century,. and polish- ing its measures into a greater regularity and smoothness ; and at last, in 1666, he celebrated the exploits of Prince Rupert and the Duke of Albemarle in the naval campaign, of the preceding year, in a poem written in the four-line stanza, to which he gave the name of ' Annus Mirabilis, the Tear of Wonders,' and which Bta,llam has praised as pro- bably the best poem which had as yet been produced in the language : though I think myself that the frequent in- stances of bad taste with which it abounds, and of which the friendly critic admits the existence, disentitle it to a praise which would put it above the minor poems of Shake- speare and Milton. Work of this kind, however, was not very profitable. The age of Charles II. was not a reading age ; and the sale of ' ' Paradise Lost ' is a proof how little booksellers could afibrd to pay for copyrights; but (partly, perhaps, because the- Puritans had denounced all theatres as hotbeds of iniquity and all abomination) it was eminently a playgoing age ; and the author of a successful play was entitled to very' considerable payments from the managers. Dryden, there- fore, very soon betook himself to dramatic composition, pouring forth tragedies and comedies with unexampled rapidity, and greatly adding to both his reputation and his income by their popularity ; though they did not escape severe criticism, which he provoked by the jealous temper which he at all times displayed towards all whom he con- sidered as his competitors for the public applause. He wrote in rhyme, in compliance with the fancy of the king, whose taste, during his exile on the Continent, had been. formed on the French models ; but, though that practice is at variance with the modern idea of the kind of verse most suitable to the drama, it is by no means the sole or even the chief reason why his plays have fallen into oblivion. Many of them contain bold, impetuous characters,, into whose mouths he has occasionally put fine,, spirited pasages; but his genius was essentially undramatic ; he had no skill in em-- bodying character, nor in delineating the passions : he had .great knowledge and keen perception, but neither feeling; 214 ENGLISH LITERATURE. .-[Oh. XIL nor sympathy ■with feeling. The Dnke of Buckingham, who had taken under his patronage a wretched poet named Elkanah Settle, whose plays Dryden ia consequence at- tacked with a malignity which did more dishonour to him- self than to Settle, in revenge satirised Dryden as -Bayes in the ' Rehearsal,' a farce of some abUity, which afterwards suggested to Sheridan his inimitable ' Critic ; ' and the ' Rehearsal ' is better known than any of the works which it held up to ridicule. -One of his comedies he dedicated to Charles's especial favourite, the Earl of Rochester, who, however did not always regard him with the good- will which he must have entertained for him when he accepted the dedication ; for, when in 1679 the poet offended the Duchess of Portsmouth by some lines in his ' Essay on Satire,' Rochester sent a gang of rufBans to waylay him, who beat him. so severely that for some time it was a question whether his life was not in danger. By this time he had relinquished the stage, and had begun to divide his attention between- satire, which of all poetry •seems to have been most in accordance with the real bent of his genius, and translations from the classics, for which ■the publishers were more inclined to pay ; and in 1681 he came out with the satire which is deservedly accounted the "finest production of his genius, 'Absalom and Achitophel.' He had succeeded Sir John Davenant as poet-laureate •several years before, and he probably thought that his occu- pation of this post gave the Government a claim on his services in the extreme difficulties ia which, in 1680 and , 1681, it was placed by the intrigues of Monmouth and Shaftesbury ; the Duke making almost royal progresses through different parts of the country, and Shaftesbury, his chief supporter and instigator, employing every means which the most unscrupulous ingenuity could suggest to raise a party to espouse his pretensions to the throne, which he knew to have no other foundation than imposture and perjury. To put the imposture in its true light, and to expose the characters of those who were Monmouth's chief abettors, seemed almost a duty of the poet- laureate ; and as the chiefs among them happened to be the very men ■whom Dryden had the .greatest reason to regard as hi3 1631—1700.] DEYDEN. 215 personal enemies, it was one -with whicli pleasure was not unmingled. The poet was a sufficiently shrewd courtier to deal gently with Monmouth himself, whom he knew to be his father's favourite son, and for whom, therefore, he pre- saged a return of his tenderness when his present irritation should have passed away : but he made up for his mercy towards him by his delineations of Shaftesbury, as Achito- phel, and Buckingham as Zimri, whom he has handed down to posterity stamped with a reputation and ridicule which wiU never die, adding subsequently a second part, in which he condescended to brand some of the contemporary poets such as Settle and Shadwell, as ' Og ' and ' Doeg ' exerting for their exposure a genius from which it is impossible to withhold an admiration, but displaying at the same time a bitterness of temper which, when we consider the insignifi- cance of the objects, it is impossible not to lament. ' Absalom and Achitophel ' was not his only attack on Shaftesbury; a second, the 'Medal,' which is said to have been suggested to him by the king himself, was intended to ridicule the zeal of the arch-intriguer's friends, who, when the grand jury of London had refused to find a true bill on the charge of high treason which the law-officers of the Crown had brought against him, struck a medal in his honour with the sun emerging from a cloud, the date of the rejection of the bill, and the motto ' Laetamur ' on the reverse ; Shaftesbury's own head and name being on the other side. In a thorough and scathing exposure of Shaftesbury's whole career, which was its object, the ' Medal ' exceeded the previous satire ; in the vigour and elegance of the poetry it equalled it, and was regarded, both by friends and foes, as a work which was of real service to the Crown in the strange contest which was now being maintained. But neither these nor any others of his works had done much to enrich the poet. In one of them he is said indeed to have received lOOZ. from the king ; but, besides his estate, the value of which did not exceed 601. a year, his sole permanent dependence was his salary as poet- laureate, and that was very irregularly paid. A letter from him to Lord Rochester has been preserved, in which, in a very pathetic though not unmanly tone, he entreats 216 ENGLISH LITERA.TUEE. [Ch. XII. that nobleman, as one of the chief ministers, to allow at least half of his salary for the year to be paid him at once ; and to bestow on him some more lucrative post, either in the Customs or Excise, or some other department. He does not set his hopes high ; ' he only thinks he merits not to starve ; and pleads for what is his due only to enable him to support 'his three sons, growing up to man's estate; ' whom 'he has bred up to learning, beyond his fortune ; but they are too hopeful to be neglected, though he wants.' We are allowed to infer from passages in some of his subsequent writings that, though his application for some additional office was unsuccessful, his salary was henceforth paid with greater regularity. Another of his satires, 'Mac Flecknoe,' which may be looked upon as the model for Pope's more celebrated ' Dunciad,' was a bitter, semi-burlesque attack on Settle, Shadwell, and the other contemporary writers of little naerit who had in different ways, even by their success, excited his jealousy and ill-will. But a poem which he published in 1682, with the somewhat unpoetical title of ' Religio Laici,' deserves to be read with greater attention, from the light which it throws on his subsequent adoption of the Roman Catholic religion, which, as his conversion took place in the first year of the reign of the Roman Catholic king James II., has almost invariably, and not unnaturally, been regarded as an unprincipled apostasy, prompted by no more respectable motive than the wish of obtaining the royal favour. But Scott, analysing the ' Religio Laici,' and a subsequent poem ' The Hind and Panther,' which he wrote on the difference between the Church of England, personified as the Panther, and the Romish Religion, jportrayed as the Milk-white Hind, shows that in his earlier years Dryden had been not a convinced and attached son of the Church of England, but a waverer, inclined by reason to scepticism, though discontented with himself for entertaining doubts on subjects of such im- portance ; and sighing for an ' Omniscient Church ' ' which should lay down the law on all such disputable and difficult matters with an authority which should compel his obedience. Such an authority he fancied that he had found in the ' Eeligio Laici, v. 285. 1631—1700.] DEYDEN. 217 pretensions of the Churcli of Rome ; and this phantom led him, as it has led others who have studied the question far more deeply, to decide on embracing a creed which (as even his friendly critic admits) was probably not the less recommended to him by the prospect of royal patron- age which it opened to him. In this last expectation, however, he was painfully dis- appointed. The notions of absolute power which James engrafted on his theological opinions led even those who had been foremost in reinsing to exclude a Roman Catholic from the throne, to be equally zealous in driving from it one whose acts proved that he looked on popery as authorising tyranny, and who, claiming to hold hfs au- thority of diviue right, looked on aU the liberties of the nation as dependent solely on his own absolute will ; and one of the consequences of the Revolution which ensued led to all who professed the fallen sovereign's religion being deprived of their ofl&ces. Dryden, in consequence, ceased to be poet-laureate, though the Earl of Dorset, the lord chamberlain, a great patron of learned men, and himself not without merit as a poet, generously continued to pay him out of his own pocket the salary of which his o£B.cial duty had compelled him to deprive him. His dismissal from the laureateship was the more morti- fying to him that it was bestowed on Shadwell, whom he had so constantly disparaged and vilified ; but in some respects it was not unfortunate, since it drove him to apply himself to kinds of poetry which he had not previously tried, and to which he owes no small portion of his present fame. His genius was in no degree dimmed, nor his industry abated by advancing years. And though he was now nearly sixty years of age, he poured forth work after work during the last ten years of his life with a rapidity and profusion which, when their excellence is also taken into account, may be considered almost marvellous. He had always kept up the classical scholarship with which he had been imbued by Dr. Bushy, and now he conceived the idea of rendering the great poets of antiquity better known to his countrymen by a series of poetical translations of Juvenal, Persius, parts of Ovid and of Homer, which he 218 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XII. pre&ced by prose introductions, in -which he discusses the various kinds of poetiy and the different styles of those ■whom he was translating with an acuteness of discernment and elegance of language which has induced Johnson to ascribe to him. the honour of being ' the father of English criticism ; ' and, encouraged by the success these minor attempts met with, he undertook the translation of the whole of Virgil, which he pubUshed in 1697, and which is, beyond dispute, the noblest work of the kind ever pro- duced in any language. It is pleasant to be able to add that it placed him in easy circumstances ; he received for it, a^ the lowest computation, more than 1,200Z., a sum which, though very inadequate to its merit, or to his labour, was nevertheless far larger than had been gained as yet by any literary undertaking in the world. And it was hardly finished when he began to think of doing the same office for Homer which he had done for his Roman imitator. He translated the first book, and found ^the blind old man,' as he wrote to Lord Halifax, ' a poet more according to his genius than Yirgil, and consequently one whom he hoped to do more justice to in his fiery way of writing.' But he postponed it for a time, and did not live to resume it. That for any work in which ' fire ' was re- quired he was qualified above all other men, he gave ample evidence in the noble ode on ' Alexander's Feast,' which he wrote in 1698, finishing it in a single night. Nearly forty years afterwards it was set to music worthy of it by the great Handel ; but it had not to wait till that time to have its excellence universally acknowledged. Dryden himself ventured to affirm that ' a nobler ode never had been pro- duced, and never would be.' And the great modern poet, to whose biography of him I have been frequently indebted in this sketch, comments thus upon the boast : ' This singu- larly strong expression cannot be placed to the score of vanity. It was an inward consciousness of merit which burst forth, probably almost involuntarily, and, I fear, must be admitted, as prophetic' But the task for which Dryden laid aside the ' Hiad ' was the clothing in a modem and an English dress some of Chaucer's tales, which the obsoleteness of their original 1631— 1700.J DEYHEN, 219 language had rendered long unintelligifcle-; and selectiona from Boccaccio's ' Decameron.' They were published in 1699 in a single volume, to which he gave the name of ' Fables,' and are distinguished by all his characteristic excellences: animation Of description, propriety of expression, varied harmony of rhythm, and (what was perhaps less to be expected in works avowedly taken from others) fertQity of invention, in so high a degree that they are unanimously reckoned his masterpieces. They were his last works. He was revolving the idea of translating Homer, which, in intention at least, he had only laid aside for a while, when an attack of erysipelas, neglected or unskilfully treated, produced a mortification in his foot, of which, on May 1, 1700, he died, 'taking of his friends,' as one of them has recorded, ' so tender and obliging a farewell as none but he himself could have expressed.' His death procured him a greater recognition of his merits than" he had received during his life. J3y the influence of Lord Halifax and other admirers of his genius, he was honoured with a public funeral in Westminster Abbey, where After life's fitful fever he sleeps well, and "where a tablet, erected in the next generation by the celebrated Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, bears the name of ' Dryden ' alone, as if no laboured epitaph could do equal justice to the most brilliant of the many -men of genius who make the ' Poets' Comer ' in that noble cathe- dralits most interesting spot. In Santa Croce's sacred precincts lie Ashes which make it holier. Yet the last years of the old poet's active life had not been without honour and comfort. It is a pleasing picture that has been preserved of him, sitting of an afternoon at Will's Coffee House, in the arm-chair in the chimney-corner, which all reserved for him, and round which all the scholars of the day, and all who 'Could -appreciate, or who wished to be thought able to appreciate learning and genius, collected, gathering up with respectful attention the bits of criticism, 220 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XII. the jests, the repartees, and occasionally the solid, spon- taneous reflections -which dropped from his lips. He had faults of temper ; he had for enemies most of the contempo- rary authors, and we fear, it must he admitted, he had deserved their enmity by his jealous earplugs at all whom any portion of the public ever regarded with any degree of favour ; but it must be allowed, as some palliation of his bitterness, that they deserved his scorn by the wretchedness of their productions ; and some praise must be given to the man who, in an age when servility was so general, had courage to dare the hostility of nobles as powerful and unscrupulous as Shaftesbury and Buckingham. It must be added that, in a licentious age, his life was eminently correct and free from reproach ; and even had his errors been far greater than they were, much might be forgiven to one to whom our language is so deeply indebted. For, though there have been disputes about his character, provoked probably, by his conversion to popery, his literary merits have been admitted with complete unanimity. John- son, in' a more than usually elaborate criticism, has insti- tuted a comparison between him and Pope ; giving him, though not without hesitation, the praise of superior genius and energy ; but allowing, on the other hand, that he was so inferior to Pope in. industry that, though he has produced finer passages, he has completed no entire poem of greater excellence, for Dryden was easily satisfied with what he had done ; Pope was never contented as long as he thought it possible to improve his work. If I wished to show Dryden's merit by any comparison, I would rather place his works by the side of those of Donne, Andrew Marvel, and others of his immediate predecessors, whose verses, though highly popularin their day, are so absolutely destitute of rhythm and harmony that it might be supposed that, in their idea, all that was needed to distinguish poetry from prose was the recurrence, at stated intervals, of some more or less correct rhyme ; and I would point to the vast improvement produced in a single lifetime both in melody of versification and in purity of expression as examples of what English literature owes to Dryden. But all comparisons are apt to lead to injustice to one party ; 1631—1700.] DEYDEN. 221 and Dryden lias sufficient claims to onr admiration witliout its being necessary to elevate him by tbe disparagement of any other poet in any quality. They are founded on his extensive knowledge, his sound judgm.ent, his mascuhne sense, his lively wit, his shrewd though too often sar- castic humour, his great fertility of fancy, set off by an. almost unvarying propriety of language, by great energy, or, as he would himself have called it, fire of descrip- tion and illustration, in which he excels so much that, even to what in most hands would be dry and tedious, passages of grave disquisition, of political or theological argum.ent, he can lend a vividness and animation which carries us along with him ; and by a mastery over both regular and irregular metre such that we owe to him not only the intro- duction of the regular ten-syllable line which in the next century Pope (who gloried in being his disciple) polished and refined till he led readers to think that, if it were faulty, the fault lay only in its being susceptible of such regular sweetness as to become monotonous ; but also the proof, in his unrivalled ode on ' St. Cecilia's Day,' how nearly, in its richness, variety, and adaptability to every change of feeling and expression, the language of England apprbaches that of Greece. Our first extract is from one of the fables which he re- modelled, or, as he called it, translated from Chaucer. And in the appendix to this section the original passage is also given, that the student may be able to compare the two, and to judge how greatly Dryden improved upon the work of the earlier poet. (Palamon and Arcite, book i.) Thus year by year they pass, and day by day, Till once, 'twas on the mom of cheerful May, The young Emilia, fairer to be seen Than the fair lily on the flowery green, More fresh than May herself in hlossoms new, For with the rosy colour strove her hue, Wak'd, as her custom was, before the day, To do th' observance diie to sprightly May : For sprightly May commands our youth to keep The vigils of her night, and breaks their sluggard sleep ; 222 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. Xn. Each gentle breast with kindly warmth she moves f Inspires new flames, revives extinguished loves. In this remembrance, Emily, ere day Arose, and dress'd herself in rich array ; Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair,, Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair ; A riband did the braided tresses bind, The rea't was loose, and wanton'd in the wind :" Aurora had but newly chas'd the night, And purpled o'er the sky vsdth blushing lighty When to the garden, walk she took her way,. To sport and trip along in cool of day, And offer maiden vows in honour of the May.. At every turn she made a little stand, And thrust among the thorns her lily hand To draw the rose, and every rose she drew She shook the stalk, and brush'd away the dew : Then party-colour'd flowers of white and red She wove, to make a garland for her head ; This done she sung and carolled out so' clear; That men and angels might rejoice to hear-; Ee'n wondering Philomel forgot to sing. And learned from her to welcome in the spring. In the next extract, from the same poem, he has lavished all the riches of his imagination on the description of the decorations of the gates and towers. If any fault could be found with the magnificence of the passage, it could only be that tlie poet has been too prodigal of ornament ; just as it has been objected that the work of Vulcan which Homer describes never could have been contained on a shield of a size to be borne by mortal man. But such ob- jections are hypercritical. In judging of such a description we do not measure the surface of the wall, but the extent of the poet's imagination. If it be the poet's gift to turn to shape the forms of things unknown, he must clearly also have a right to determine the possibility of combining them within the space which his imagination assigns to them. Eastward was built a gate of marble white ; The like adorn'd the western opposite. A nobler object than this fabric was, Home never saw, nor of so vast a space : 1631—1700.] DEYDEN. 223 For, rich with spoils of many a conquer'd land, All arts and artists Theseus could command : Who sold for hire, or wrought for tetter fame ; The master-painters and the carvers came. So rose within the compass of the year An age's work, a glorious theatre. Then o'er its eastern gate was rais'd above A temple, sacred to the Queen of Love ; An altar stood below ; on either hand A priest with roses crown'd, who held a myrtle wand. The dome of Mars was on the gate appos'd. And on the north a turret was inclos'd, "Within the wall of alabaster white, And crimson coral for the Queen of Night, Who taiea in sylvan sports her chaste delight. Within these oratories might you see Rich carvings, portraitures, and imagery : Where every figure to the life express'd The godhead's- power to whom it was address'd. In Venus' temple on the sides were seen The broken slumbers of enamour'd men, Prayers that even spoke, and pity seem'd to call. And issuing sighs that smok'd along the wall. Complaints, and hot desires, the lover's hell, And scalding tears that wore a channel where they fell : And all around were nuptial bonds, the ties Of love's assurance, and a train of lies. That, made in lust, conclude in perjuries. Beauty, and youth, and wealth, and luxury, And sprightly hope, and short-enduring joy ; And sorceries to raise th' infernal powers, And sigils fram'd in planetary hours : Expense, and after-thought, and idle care. And doubts of motley hue, and dark despair ; Suspicions, and fantastical surmise. And jealousy suffus'd, with jaundice in her eyes, Discolouring all she view'd, in tawny dress'd j Down-look'd, and with a cuckoo on her fist, Oppos'd to her, on t'other side advance The costly feast, the carol, and the dance, Minstrels and music, poetry and play. And balls by night, and tournaments by day. All these were painted on the wall, and more ; With acts and monuments of time before ; 224 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XIL And others added by prophetic doom, And lovers yet unborn, and loves to come : Por there th' Idalian mount, and Citheron, The court of Venus was in colours drawn : Before the palace gate in careless dress. And loose array, sat portress Idleness ; There, by the fount. Narcissus pin'd alone ; There Samson was : with wiser Solomon, And all the mighty names by love undone. Medea's charms were there, Circean feasts. With bowls that turned enamour'd youths to beasts. Here might be seen that beauty, wealth, and wit. And prowess to the power of love submit : The spreading snare for all mankind is laid; And lovers all betray, and are betray'd. The goddess' self some noble hand had wrought ; Smiling she seem'd, and full of pleasing thought : From Ocean as she first began to rise. And smooth'd the ruffled seas, and clear'd the skies; She trod the brine, all bare below the breast, And the green waves but ill conceal'd the rest ; A lute she held ; and on her head was seen A wreath of roses red, and myrtle gi-een ; Her turtles fann'd the buxom air above ; And by his mother, stood an infant Love, With wings unfledg'd ; his eyes were banded o'er, His hands a bow, his back a q[uiver bore. Supplied with arrows bright and keen, a deadly store. But in the dome of mighty Mai-s the red With different figures all the sides were spread ; This temple, less in form, with equal grace, Was imitative of the first in Thrace : For that cold region was the lov'd abode And sovereign mansion of the warrior god. The landscape was a forest wide and bare, Where neither beast nor humankind repair ; The fowl, that scent afar, the borders fly, And shun the bitter blast, and wheel about the sky; A cake of scurf lies baking on the ground, And prickly stubs instead of trees are found. Or woods with knots, and knares deform'd and old, Headless the most, and hideous to behold, A rattling tempest through the branches went. That stripp'd them bare, and one sole way they bent. 1631—1700.] DRYDEN. 225 Heaven froze abo'v e, severe the clouds congeal, And throuiih the crystal vault appeared the standing hail. Such was the face without ; a mountain stood Threatening from high, and overlook'd the wood; Beneath the low'ring brow, and on a bent, The temple stood of Mars armipolent. The frame of burnish'd steel, that cast a glare/' From far, and seem'd to thaw the freezing air. A sti-aight long entry to the temple led. Blind with high walls, and horror overhead ; Thence issued such a blast and hollow roar As threaten'd from the hinge to heave the door ; in through that door a northern light there shone, 'Twas all it had, for windows there were none. The gate was adamant, eternal frame 1 AVhich hew'd by Mai'S himself, from Indian quarries came, The labour of a god ; and all along Tough iron plates were clench'd to make it strong. A ton about was every pillar there ; A polish'd mirror shone not half so clear. There saw I how the secret felon wrought, And treason labouring in the traitor's thought. And midwife Time the ripen'd plot to murder brought. There the red anger dar'd the pallid fear ; Next stood hypocrisy, with holv leer. Soft smiling and demurely looking down, But hid the dagger underneath the gown ; Th' assassinating wife, the household fiend, And, far the blackest there, the traitor friend. On t' other side there stood destruction bare, Unpunish'd rapine, and a waste of war, Contest, with sharpen'd knives, in cloisters drawn, And all with blood bespread the holy lawn. Loud menaces were heard, and foul disgiace. And bawling infamy, in language base, Till sense was lost in sound, and silence lied the place; The slayer of himself yet saw I there. The gore congeal'd was clotted in his hair ; With eyes half clos'd and gaping mouth he lay, And grim as when he breath'd his sullen soul away. In midst of all the dome. Misfortune sate. And gloomy Discontent, and fell Debate, And Madness laughing in his ireful mood, And arm'd complaint on theft, and cries of blood, Q 226 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XII, There was the murder'd corpse in covert laid, And violent death in thousand shapes display'd, The city to the soldiers' rage resign'd : Successless wars, and poverty behind ; Ships burnt in sight, or forc'd on rocky shores, And the rash hunter strangled by the boars : The new-bom babe, by nurses overlaid ; And the cook caught within the raging fire he made. All ills of Mars's nature, flame and steel ; The gasping charioteer, beneath the wheel Of his own car ; the ruin'd house that falls And intercepts her lord betwixt the walls : The whole division that to Mars pertains. All trades of death that deal in steel for gains Were there ; the butcher, armourer, and smith, Who forges sharpen'd faulchions, or the scythe. The scarlet conquest on a tower was plac'd, With shouts and soldiers' acclamations grac'd ; A pointed sword hung threat'ning o'er his head, Sustain'd but by a slender twine of thread. There saw I Mars's ides, the capitol, The seer in vain foretelling Caesar's fall, The last triumvirs and the wars they move, And Antony, who lost the world for love. These, and a thousand more, the fane adorn ; Their fates were painted ere the men were born, All copied from the heavens, and ruling force Of the red star, in his revolving course. The form of Mars high on a chariot stood, AH sheath'd in arms, and gruffly look'd the god ; Two geomantic figures were display'd Above his head, a warrior and a maid ; One when direct, and one when retrograde. Dryden's energy and fire can hardly better be seen than in his account of a combat ; which is also selected for the opportunity which it afibrds of comparing his genius in that respect with that of the two great poets of the present century, Scott and Byron, both of whom have exerted their genius in descriptions of similar events, as will be seen presently. The heralds last retired, and loudly ory'd, ' The fortune of the field be fairly try'd.' 1631—1700.] DRYDEN. 227 At this, the cliallenger, with fierce defy, His trumpet sounds ; the challenged makes reply : With clangour rings the field, resounds the vaulted SKy. Their vizors clos'd, their lances in the rest, Or at the helmet pointed, or the crest, They vanish from the barrier, speed the race, And, spurring, see decrease the middle space. A cloud of smoke envelopes either host, And all at once the combatants are lost : Darkling they join adverse, and shock unseen. Coursers with coursers jostling, men with men : A* labouring in eclipse, awhile they stay. Till the next blast of wind restores the day. They look anew : the beauteous form of fight Is -changed and war appears a grisly sight : Two troops in fair array one moment show'd; The next, a field with fallen bodies strow'd : Kot half the number in their seats are found ; But men and steeds lie grovelling on the ground, The points of spears are stuck within the shield ; The steeds without their riders scour the field. The knights, unhors'd, on foot renew the fight. The glittering faulchions oast a gleaming light ; Hauberks and helms are hew'd with many a wound, Out spins the streaming blood, and dyes the ground ; The mighty maces with such haste descend, They break the bones, and make the solid armour bend. This thrusts amid the throng with furious force ; Down goes at once the horseman and the horse; The courser stumbles on the fallen steed. And floundering throws the rider o'er his head. One rolls along, a football to his foes. One with a broken truncheon deals his blows. This halting, this disabled with his wound. In triumph led, is to the pillar bound, Where by the king's award he must abide : There goes a captive led on t'other side. By fits they cease, and, leaning on the lance, Take breath awhile, and to new fight advance. Full oft the rivals met, and neither spar'd His utmost force, and each forgot to ward. The head of this was to the saddle bent, The other backward to the crupper sent ; q2 228 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XII. Both were by turns unhors'd ; the jealous blows Fall thick and heavy, when on foot they close. So, deep their faulchions bite, that every stroke Vierc'd to the qiuck ; and equal wounds they gave and took. Borne far asunder by the tides of men, like adamant and steel they met again. So when a tiger sucks the bullock's blood, A famish'd lion, issuing from the wood, iioars lordly fierce, and challenges the food. liach claims possession, neither will obey. But both their paws are fasten'd on the prey ; They bite, they tear, and while in vain they strive. The swains come arm'd between, and both to distance drive. Satire was with. Dryden a very favourite exertion^ of his genius. ' His greatest satire is undoubtedly ' Absalom and AcTiitopbel,' Acbitophel being meant for the ' Earl of Shaftesbury. In the first edition he poured forth all his indignation on this ' troubler of the State ' without any counterbalancing eulogy. In the second, for some reason which is not entirely clear, he sought to counteract or soften his censure by the addition of a panegyric on his exercise of his judicial authority, which Lord Campbell, in his ' Lives of the Chancellors,' declares to have been wholly undeserved. (Absaiom and Aehitophel.) Of these the false Aehitophel was first, A name to all succeeding ages curst; Tor close designs and wicked counsels fit, Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit, Restless, unfix'd in principles and place, In power unpleas'd, impatient of disgrace ; A fiery soul, which working out its way, Fretted the pigmy body to decay. And o'er inform'd the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity : Pleased with the danger when the waves went high, He sought the storms ; but, for a calm unfit, Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit. Great wits are, sure, to madness near ally'd, And thin partitions do their bounds divide ; Eke why should he, with wealth and honour blest, Refuse his age the needful hours of rest P 1631—17)0.] DEYDEK 229 Punisli a body which he could not plea^ie, Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease ? And all to leave what with his toil he won, To that unfeather'd two-legg'd thing, a son, CTat while his soul did huddled notions try. And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy. In friendship false, implacable in hate ; Resolv'd to ruin or to rule the state. To compass this, the triple bond he broke ; The pillars of the public safety shook, And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke. Then, seiz'd with fear, yet still affecting fame, Usurp'd a patriot's all-atoning name. So easy still it proves in factious times. With public zeal to cancel private crimes. How safe is treason, ard how sacred ill, Where none can sin against the people's will ; Where crowds can wink, and no offence be known, Since in another's guilt they find their own ? Yet fame deserv'd no enemy can grudge. The statesman we abhor, but prai.>=e the judge ; In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abethdin With more discerning eyes, or hands more clean, Unbrib'd, unsought, the wretched to redress : Swift of despatch, and easy of access. Oh ! had he been content to serve the crown, With virtues only proper to the gown ; Or, had the rankness of the soil been freed From cockle, that oppress'd the noble seed, David for him his tuneful harp had strung, And heaven had wanted one immortal song. Whether his praise of Shaftesbury were deserved or not, there can be no question that the admiration which the following lines express of the Duke of Monmouth (Absa- lom) was wholly unwari-anted. Auspicious prince, at whose nativity Some royal planet rul'd the southern sky. Thy longing country's darling and desire ; Their cloudy pillar, and their guardian fire ; Their second Moses, whose extended wand Divides the seas, and shews the promised land; Whose dawning day, in every distant age, Has exercis'd the sacred prophet's rage ; 230 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XII. The people's prayer, the glad diviner's theme, The young man's vision, and the old man's dream ? Thee, saviour, thee the nation's vows confess, And,' never satisfied with seeing, bless : Swift unbespoken pomps thy steps proclaim. And stammering babes are taught to lisp thy name. How long wilt thou the general joy detain. Starve and defraud the people of thy reign ; Content ingloriously to pass thy days. Like one of virtue's fools that feed on praise ; Till thy fresh glories, which now shine so bright, Grow stale and tarnish with our daily sight ? Believe me, royal youth, thy fruit must be. Or gathered ripe or rot upon the tree. Heaven has to all allotted, soon or late. Some lucky revolution of their fate ; "Whose motions, if we watch and guide with skiU, For human good depends on human vpill. Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent. And from the first impression takes the bent ; But, if unseized, she glides away like wind, And leaves repenting folly far behind. Now, now she meets you with a glorious prize. And spreads her locks before you as she flies. Zimri was the Duke of Buckingham, a man satirised hj Pope also, who, however, not being stimulated by the remembrance of personal injuries or affronts, as Drydeii was (for Buckingham's play of the ' Rehearsal ' had been written for the express purpose of ridiculing him), is less severe, and uses his example only to point a moral, sparing his vices, and lamenting rather than vituperating his follies. Some of their chiefs were princes of the land, In the first rank of these did Zimri stand ; A man so various that he seemed to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome : Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts, and nothing long. But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon, Then all for women, painting, riiyming, drinking. Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. 1631—1700.] DEYDEN. 231 Blest madman, who could every hour employ With something new to wish or to enjoy, KaULng, and praising, were his usual themes ; And both, to shew his judgment, in extremes : So over-violent, or over-civil. That every man with him was God or Devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art. Nothing went unrewarded but desert. Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late, He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laughed himself from court ; then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief ; For, spite of him, the weight of business fell On Absalom and wise Achitophel ; Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left. 232 ENGLISH LITBEATUEE. [Ch. XIII. CHAPTER XIII. POPE. A.D. 1688—1744. From Dryden we naturally pass on to Pope, not only in obedience to chronology, but because lie is generally looked on as the poet who continued and completed the work ■which Dryden had begun, the perfscting of the versifica- tion and harmony of the ten-syllable rhyming couplet. It was a light in which he wished to be regarded, as he avowedly took Dr3'den for his model ; and, as Ovid had seen Virgil,' though that was all that- he could say, so Pope had seen Dryden, having, even as a child, conceived such an admiration of him that he induced a friend of his father to take him to Will's coffee-house, where in his later years the old poet sat in state, as it were, receiving the homage of his friends, which included everyone who desired to be regarded as a wit or a scholar. It was a singular direction for the enthusiasm of so young a boy to take, for Dryden died when Pope was only twelve years old. But Pope's infirmity of constitution debarred him from the sports more natural to his age, and confined him to study. And his selection of Dryden as the special object of his admiration is a proof of a soundness of critical judgment even more rare than his early addic- tion to literature. He was bom May 22, 1688, just at the time when James II. was crowning his violation of the constitutional rights of his people by his insane prosecution of the bishops. Had he succeeded, it might have affected the fortunes of the child in after life, for his parents were rigid Roman Catholics, and his own adherence to the same form of religion was, as ' Virgiliiim vidi tantura, nee avara Tibullo Tempus amicitiae fata dedere mese. 1638—1744.] POPE. 23.1 matters turned out, a great bar to his advancement. His father is generally said to have been a linendraper, though Johnson seems to discredit the story, saying that ' the rank or station of his parents was never ascertained,' but that they were certainly ' of gentle blood.' But he also quotes a remark, which he had heard made, that Pope, in his maturer years, seemed more willing to say what his father had not been than what he had, and adds that ' it is allowed that he had got rich by trade.' Whatever he had been, about the time of the poet's birth he quitted London, and retired to Binfield, a pretty village in Windsor Forest, where he was careful to give his son as good an education as could be procured in the neighbourhood,»svhich, however, consisted in engaging a Popish priest to be his occasional tutor, from whose instruction he obtained a fair acquain- tance with Latin, but very little with Greek, and some knowledge also of French and Italian. But his favourite study was the poetry of his own country, especially the works of Waller and Dryden. And at a very early age he began to show his familiarity with both them and the Romans of the Augustan era, imitating Dryden in modern- ising some of Chaucer's poems, and making elaborate translations from Ovid before he was fifteen. They are works of remarkable merit for a boy ; and were followed the next year by a volume of Pastorals. His father, ac- cording to the account which in after life he gave of his boyhood, used to encourage and take pride in his precocity, often suggesting subjects for his poetical efforts ; but he also represented his own inclination for composition as so innate and irrepressible as to need no such stimulus. Ovid had recorded that in his childhood everything he attempted to write naturally fell into verse, and, in what seems like a translation of the Roman's confession,' or boast. Pope declares — While still a child, a, stranger yet to fame, I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. ' Ssepe Pater dixit studiiim quid inutile tentas? Mseonides nullas ipse reliquit opes. Sponte Buk numeros carmen veniebat ad aptos, Et quod tentabam scribere Ter.'ius erat. 234 ENG^LISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XIII. He did not pulilisli his ' Pastorals,' or indeed any of his works, till some years after their composition ; but they were shown in mannscript to many of the most celebrated and influential writers of the day. A statesman of some eminence in his generation, Sir W. Trnmball, who had been ambassador at Constantinople, on retiring from public life, settled near Binfield, and, taking a fancy to the precocious cleverness of young Pope, introduced him to Wycherley, the lively author of the ' Plain Dealer,' who distinguished him for a time with special favour, writing verses in his praise, which were instantly circulated among the fashionable world. He even showed Pope some poems of his own, and invited his comments on them, a display of friendship which led to its speedy dissolution ; for Wycherley was a careless writer ; while Pope was a born critic, who, young as he was, had already settled in his own mind that correctness was the most indispensable of qualities in any composition. He found fault and suggested corrections, and Wycherley, in high displeasure at the disrespect thus shown him by a mere boy, broke oS' the intimacy, though, according to Johnson, Pope always retained a regard for his old friend, and after a time prevailed on him to renew the friend- ship. Meantime Wycherley's praises had recommended him to the acquaintance of other Uteraiy men, which he extended by frequenting the cofiee-house which even after Dryden's death retained its celebrity as their favourite place of meeting. He became known to Swift and Addison, who both conceived a high esteem for his talents. And it is creditable to his judgment that the praise of men so dis- tinguished never led him to neglect that perseverance in study which could alone enable him to retain their good opinion. He was an indefatigable reader, changing his subjects and objects as he grew older, but never abating his industry. The account given by himself of his studies was, that from fourteen to twenty he read for amusement, desiring only to know ; from twenty to twenty-seven he read for instruction, endeavouring to learn to judge. But even before, according to this statement, he had begun to learn to judge, he had undertaken not only to form, but to pronounce judgment. For he had already 1688—1744.] POPE. 235 written ' The Essay on Criticism,' whicli Johnson has praised with a warmth which amounts to extravagance, and which, were it really deserved, would lead us to infer that criticism is an art of more pretension than real value, if excellence iu it be so independent of maturity of intellect as to be attainable by a youth of less than twenty years of age. It is said that Pope originally wrote it in prose (which Dryden had chosen as the vehicle for his own masterly criticisms), and that the clothing of his notions on the subject in verse was a subsequent idea, dictated, perhaps, by the example of Boileau, and still more by that of two noble and fashionable authors in our own country, Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, and Lord Roscommon, who had written poetical essays on satire, and on translated verse, and both of whom he warmly compliments in his own work. Tears after its publication Lady Mary Wortley declared it was ' all stolen,' a charge so far true that it probably contains few maxims which had not been incul- cated by earlier writers. But, whether original or not, it was received with very general favour. Addison extolled it in the ' Spectator ' ; Antony Hamilton translated it into Trench, and it laid the foundation of his reputation with the public, which was fully estabUshed three years after- wards by the ' Rape of the Lock.' The ' Rape of the Lock ' may be pronounced his master- piece. His own description of it on the title-page, as a heroi-comical poem, scarcely gives an adequate idea of the poet's pre-eminent richness in all the quahties which the lighter Muses can bestow on their votaries. Exube- rance of fancy, elegance of diction, musical sweetness of rhythm, grace of sentiment, cultivated and refined wit, are not more conspicuous in any poem in our own, nor, as far as I am aware, in any other language, ancient or modern. Nor is there any on the merits of which critics have been more unanimous. On its first appearance it was received with enthusiastic applause, and with the exception of his inveterate enemy, John Dennis, I do not know anyone who has attempted to disturb the general verdict. He was now, though only twenty-four, at the very 236 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XIII. height of literary fame. As a Roman Catholic, he was inclined to Toryism, in politics, and was cordially received, I might almost say courted, by the principal writers on that side, by Swift and . Arbnthnot, and even by their patron, Bolingbroke, while, as we have already seen, he was almost equally intimate with Addison, the chief writer among the Whigs. And he availed himself of his universal popularity to put forth proposals for a work of great mag- nitude, though not original, which he designed to publish by subscription, a favourite mode in those days, and from which he expected a large profit. It was the translation of the greatest of all poems, the ' Iliad ' of Homer into English verse. Translations from the classics were so fashionable in that day that there had been few poets during the preceding century who had not attempted that species of composition. Dryden, as we have seen, had not only translated the whole of Virgil, but had afterwards contemplated the ' Iliad ' also, and had published the first book, professing to look on Homer's genius as more akin to his own than that of Virgil, but doing far less justice to the great Greek. One might suppose that all that he meant was that the ' Iliad ' was more simple, less elaborate, less carefully polished than the ' .^neid,' and that, therefore, in translating it, he might, with less blame, indulge his owu careless indolence, and save himself the trouble of refining his language or correcting his versification. Pope's offer, therefore, fell in with the prevailing taste. Swift and others of his friends took up the idea with fervour, canvas- sing for subscriptions for him. Though the price was greater than had ever been obtained for any literary work before, six guineas a copy, it soon became apparent that the poet's expectations would be greatly exceeded by the real returns. In fact, as he boasted afterwards, with ex- cusable pride, the profits of the work rendered him inde- pendent for Hfe. And it cannot be denied that the success it met with was deserved. He devoted five years to the work, and, numerous as have been the translations of the same poem since his day, it remains unapproachable, not only in poetical excellence, but in fidelity to the author, the point in which it might have been the more expected to 1688— 1744.J POPE. 237 fail, since Pope notoriously knew little if any Greek. But it was successful beyond the author's warmest expectations. Even the scholars who disparaged it at its first appearance as a rendering of Homer, like Bentley, who told Pope him- self that he must not call it Homer, admitted, like 1dm also, that it was ' a pretty poem.' Its beauty, as such, was of course more highly appreciated by those who were less able to compare it with the original : the great majority of readers. The demand for it was so gi-eat that it was pirated in Holland : the first English book, I believe, that ever was so treated ; and that it should have been worth while to perpetrate such a piece of roguery, if a great loss to the publisher, was a great compliment to the author. The one drawback to his success was that it lost him 'me friendship of Addison. A great deal of warm advocacy has been spent on the question who was most in fault ; but it seems plaiD that Addison gave the provocation. The ijmius irritahile vatum has passed into a proverb, and no doubt both were men of jealous tempers ; while to Addison's vexation at finding that one so much younger than himself had superseded him in the general opinion as the literary dictator of the day, was added political difi'erence, which just at this time was unusually bitter. Stories are told of wranglings between them and mutual reproaches a year or two before ; but the quarrel was rendered irreconcijeable when, two days after the publication of the first volume of Pope's ' Iliad,' a rival translation came out by TickeU, a friend of Addison, in which Addison himself was believed to have had a considerable share, and which, at all events, he took every opportunity of extolling above Pope's. He so little succeeded in inducing the public at large to agree with him, that TickeU did not find it worth his whUe to proceed with his task, while Pope was encouraged by the success of his translation to follow it up with proposals for translating the ' Odyssey,' of which, however, he only did a part, many of the books being the work of Fenton and Broome, whom he took as colleagues in the undertaking, Broome being the scholar to whom he is believed to have been indebted for most of the notes in the ' Iliad.' As I am only speaking of Pope as a poet, I should not think it 238 ENGLISH LITEEATURE. [Ch. XIII. necessary to mention his edition of Shakespeare, whicli he undertook at the same time that the ' Odyssey ' was proceed- ing, were it not that it is connected in some degree with his celebrated satire, the ' Dunciad,' since the writer whom in the first edition he enthroned as King of the Dunces was Theobald, whose real crime, as Johnson says, was that he had 'revised Shakespeare more happily than himself.' Nor shall I stop to discuss the satire itself. It is, no doubt, as a work of art, among the most brilliant of his produc- tions ; bnt, nnless those attacked are men in whose charac- ters, for good or evil, posterity takes an interest, few satires command attention after the occasion which has provoked them has passed by. And the main object of the ' Dun- ciad ' is to prove that those whom it condemns as deserving oblivion never ought to have attracted notice. When, in the course of the poem. Pope took upon himself to decide on the merits not only of British versifiers, but of classical scholars, and ranked the great author of the ' Dissertation on the Epistles of Phalaris ' beneath the editor of those clumsy forgeries, he exposed his own presumption in taking on himself to pronounce an authoritative decision on matters in which he had not sufficient knowledge to enable him even to form an opinion. The ' Dunciad ' was published in 1729, but before he began it he had been planning, and no doubt in part composing, the work which is more known at the present day, with the exception, perhaps, of the ' Rape of the Lock,' than any of his other writings ; the ' Essay on Man ; ' and in 1732 he published the first book, anonymously, as he did the second and third, fearing, according to Johnson, the criticism of the crowd of writers whom he had provoked by the ' Dunciad,' and hoping, while the work was not known to be his, to entrap them into praises which they would be unable afterwards to recant. It was not till the fourth and last book came out that he avowed himself to be the author, and inscribed it to Bolingbroke, to whose suggestion he owed the idea of the undertaking, with many of the principles laid down in the poem. Bolingbroke had returned from exile a few years before, and had at once renewed his intimacy with the poet, whose fame had by this time reached such a 1688—1744.] POPE. 239 height that he was caressed, it would hardly be too much to say courted, by the leaders of all parties, not only by him and other Tories, such as the daring and eccentric Peterborough, of whose friendship he boasts with excusable pride, coupling them together in one of his earlier imitations of Horace : Then St. John mingles with my friendly bowl The feast of reason and the flow of soul ; And he, whose lightning piero'd the Ibnian lines, Now forms my quincunx and now ranks my vines, Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain : ' but by the minister also whom they regarded as their implacable enemy, and who generally cared but little for literature or art ; the great Sir Robert Walpole ; but who admitted him to the intimacy of his happiest hour Of social pleasure, ill exchanged for power ; and himself presented the ' Dunciad ' to the King and Queen. Indeed, the list of men whom in the Epilogue to the Satires Pope enumerates as those whom he long had lov'd, nor lov'd in vain, Eank'd with their friends, not numbered with their train,^ comprises nearly all the names of the highest reputation in the kingdom during the iirst half of the last century. Johnson mentions a report that Bolingbroke, an avowed sceptic, in private ridiculed Pope for having adopted his advice ; as having, in consequence, in the poem ' advanced principles of which he did not perceive the consequences, and as blindly propagated opinions contrary to his own.' This, if true, would be the severest condemnation conceiv- able : it is countenanced a little by the circumstance that one or two lines in the first edition did involve a denial, or at least, a disparagement of the wisdom of the Almighty, as the Creator of the universe, which in later editions were altered. And it may well be that Pope did not fully discern all the conclusions to which his arguments might lead, ' Sat. I. T. 127. ' Epilogue, ii. 90. 240 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XIII. since his mind was hardly of that accurate castwhioh is suited to carry on a profound philosophical investigation. He tells us himself, in his preface, that he might have discussed the subject in prose, but he chose verse ; partly because he found he could express his maxims ' more shortly ' in verse than in prose ; and also because when ' so written, they both strike the reader more strongly at first, and are more easily retained by him afterwards.' The object im- plied in this latter has been, to a great extent, answered. As an argumentative work indeed the poem is probably never referred to or consulted. But the illustrations, of exquisite beauty, which are lavished so prodigally on every part of the poem, are still read, re-read, and quoted as frequently as any verses in the language ; the perfection of sepai'ate parts is allowed to make up for any defects which the poem shows as a whole, and deservedly con- stitutes it one of the most enduring pillars of his great fame. All his later works are of a similar kind. The four ' Moral Essays ' are, as it were, a second part of the ' Essay on Man,' in which the maxims laid down are enforced by a more express reference to real, sometimes to living cha- racters, than in the more important work. The 'Imitations of Horace ' greatly resemble the Essays, Rochester had set the example of imitating one of Horace's Satires, and giving them new point by the application to modern instances ; and Bolingbroke suggested to Pope the idea of imitating his example. The same plan, at almost the same moment, had occurred to Johnson, as yet unknown, and seeking any subject for his pen by which he might hope to earn a liveli- hood ; and, singularly enough, ' London,' his imitation of Juvenal's third Satire, came out the very same morning on which Pope's imitations of Horace were published. They of course display no original genius, but are admirable as works of art ; while the prologue and epilogue have higher merit ; and contain some of the most powerful delineations of personal character, whether friendly or satirical, that ever came from his pen. Of his ' Ode on St. Cecilia's Day,' I shall speak when I come to compare it with Dryden's, in our examination of 1688—1744.] POPE. 241 lyric poetry in general. And his otlier -works, being of inferior importance, scarcely require special notice. And. for the same reason we may pass over his prose writings, though many of his squibs, such as the 'Life of Martinus Scriblerus,' and his treatise ' On the Art of Sinking in Poetry,' display a Hvely humour. His health had always been delicate, and in May 1744 he died, after a short illness, at the age of fifty-six, evincing (though he had never shown any special regard for religion in his life) a desire to die in union with the Romish Church, and sending for a priest to administer to him the last sacraments : a proceeding at which Boling- broke professed to be greatly scandalised, though, to all appearance, he was sincere in his sorrow for his loss, and in the eulogy which he passed upon him, that he had ' never known a man who had so te'nder a heart for his particular friends, or a more general friendship for man- kind.' His private character has been discussed with a warmth almost amounting to acrimony, almost within the recollection of the present generation ; one writer, while editing his works, doing his best to fix on him the imputa- tions of malignity and treachery ; while Byron, in a warm vindication of him, strove, on the other hand, to represent him as nearly faultless in temper and disposition. His constant panegyrics on Dryden, and confession of his superiority, may be allowed to prove that, though jealous of Kvins: rivals, he was not envious of well-deserved fame. But it is not quite so easy to believe his assertion that in his ' Moral Essays ' no character was taken from real life ; nor to acquit him of ingratitude in selecting, as the objects of his covert attacks, more than one person to whom he was under obligations which ought to have disarmed bis hos- tility. On his merit as a poet there is less difference of opinion. Johnson, in an examination of it so masterly as to leave succeeding critics little to do but to copy or abridge it, affirms the ' constituent and fundamental prin- ciple of his intellect to be good sense, a prompt and intuitive perception of consonance and propriety.' To this he adds, ' genius, a mind active, ambitious, and adventurous ; ' and, comparing him with Dryden, while he allows the elder poet a richer fancy, a greater degree of 'poetical vigour,' 242 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch XIII. or, in other words, a loftier natural genius, lie assigns to Pope the superiority in workmanship, and denies that Dryden's are the better poems. ' If,' he says, ' the flights of Dryden are higher. Pope continues longer on the wing ; if of Dryden's fire the blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular and constant. If Dryden often surpasses expectation, Pope never falls below it. If Dryden is read with frequent astonishment. Pope is read with perpetual delight.' And in another part of his criticism we find a sentence which explains why, in spite of an inferiority of natural powers which he discerns in Pope, he yet places the works of the two in an equal rank ; and which marks Pope out ia an especial degree as the best of models for the youthful student : ' Pope was not content to satisfy : he desired to excel ; and therefore he always endeavoured to do his best.' The following extract contains the greater part of the second canto of the ' Rape of the Look,' than which none of his works more completely justify the verdict of Johnson that, even if Dryden's natural gifts were of a higher order, he has not produced more perfect poems. It may be doubted whether Dryden was capable of giving such delicate touches as those with which Pope has embellished his portrait of the lady, or the sprightly playfulness with which the voyage of ' the painted vessel ' is described ; while the duties of the sylphs and sylphids are expounded by their chief with an impressive dignity very appropriate to the title he himself gave the poem, of heroi-comical. Not with more glories, in th' ethereal plain, The sun first rises o'er the purple main, Than issuing forth, the rival of his beams, Launch'd on the bosom of the silver Thames. Fair uymphs and well-drest youths around her shone, But ev'ry eye was fix'd on her alone. On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, "Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore. Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose. Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those : Favours to none, to all she smiles extends, Oft she rejects but never once offends. Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike, • And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. I6S8— 1744.] POPE. 243'- Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,. Might hide her faults, if belles have faults to hide : If to her share some female errors- fall. Look on her face, and- you'll forget them all. This nymph, to the destruction, of mankind, Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behindi In equal curls,, and well conspir'd to deck With shining' ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains. And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. "With hairy springes we the birds betray. Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, Fair tresses manZs imperial race ensnare, And beauty draws us with a single hair. Th' adventurous Baron the bright locks admir'd;. He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspir'd. Kesolv'd to win, he meditates the way, By force to ravish, or by fraud betray ; For when success a lover's toils attends. Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends. For this, ere Ph0r roll the planets through the boundless sky. Some, less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light, Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, •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 distil the kindly rain. Others, on earth, o'er human race preside. Watch all their ways, and all their actions guid-e : Of these the chief the cave of nations own, And guard -with arms divine the British Throne. Our humble province is to tend the fair. Not a less pleasing though less glorious care ; To save the powder from too rude a gale. Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale ; To di-aw fresh colours from the vernal flow'rs ; To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in show'rs, A brighter wash ; to curl their waving hairs. 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 deserved a watchful spirit's care, 1688— 17i4.] POPE. 245 Some dire disaster, or by force or slight ; But what, or where, the fates have wrapped in night. Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; Or stain her honour, or her new brocade. 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 ; The drops to thee, BriUante, we consign ; And Momentilla, let the watch be thine ; Do thou, Orispissa, tend her fav'rite Lock ;. Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock The observations on the ' Essay on Man' contained in the , biographical sketch are borne out by the extreme beauty. of the following passage : — (Essay on Man, I. 77.) Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of Fate, All but the page prescrib'd, their present state ; From brutes what men, from men what spirits know,. Or who could suffer being here below ? The lamb thy. riot dooms to bleed to-day-. Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, Aiid licks- the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. Oh, blindness to the future ! kindly giv'n, That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n: Who sees with, equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruins hurl'd; And now a bubble burst, and now a world, Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar;. Wait the great teacher Death ; and God adore. What future bliss, He gives not thee to know. But gives that Hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast : Man never is, but always to be blest.' ' We may compare with this the following passage from Pope's most sucoeasful disciple of the present century ; Campbell. What potent spirit guides the raptur'd eje Xo pierce the shades of dim fiitaiity ? 246 ENGLISH LITERATURE. ([-Oh. Xm. The soul (uneasy and confin'd) from home, Eeste and expatiates in a life to come. Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the -wind ; His soul proud Science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; Yet simple Nature to his hope has giv'n ■Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n; Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd. Some happier island in the wat'ry waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire ; He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. The following passage is that to wtich allusion was made on presenting Dryden's portrait of Zimri. (Moral Essays, Epistle iii. 299.) In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, The fioors of plaster, and the walls of dung, On once a fiock-bed, but repair'd with straw, "With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed, Where tawdry yellow strove vidth dirty red, Great "Villiers lies, — alas ! how changed from hinj, That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim ! Gallant and gay in Oliefden's proud alcove, The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury and love ; Or just as gay at Council, in a ring Of mimic statesmen, and their merry Hng. No wit to fiatter, left of all his store ! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends. And fame ; this lord of useless thousands ends. Can "Wisdom' lend, with all her heav'nly povfer, The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour ? Ah no ! she darkly sees the fate-of -man, Her dim horizon bounded to a span; Or, if she hold an image to the view, 'Tis nature painted too severely true. "With thee, sweet Hope, resides the h^aA-Wy light, That povo's remotest rapture on the sight. Pleasures of Ho;pe, i, 24, 1688—1744.] POPE. 247 The following exquisite portrait of a perfect woman is believed to have been meant for Mrs. Martha Blount. (Moral Essays, Epistle ii. 256.) Oh ! hlest with temper whose unclouded ray- Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day ; She who can love a sisters charms, or hear Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear ; She who ne'er answers tiU her husband cools, Or, if she rules him, never shews she rules ; Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, Yet has her humour most when she obeys ; Let fops or fortune fly which way they will; Disdains all loss of tickets, or codiUe ; Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all, And mistress of herself, though china fall. And yet, believe me, good as well as ill, Woman's at best a contradiction still. Heav'n, when it strives to polish all it can Its last best work, but forms a softer man ; Picks from each sex to make the fav'rite blest, Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest : Blends, in exception to all gen'ral rules, Your taste of follies, with our scorn of fools ; Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied, Courage with softness, modesty with pride Fix'd principles, with fancy ever new ; Shakes altogether, and produces — You. GOLDSMITH. Of Goldsmitli's life we have spoken under the head of the dramatists. The poems to which the following extracts belong are both, as we have said, believed to have been drawn mainly from, his own experiences. The character given of the French is as remarkable for its nice dis- crimination and sound judgment as for its poetry. The portrait of the vicar in the second extract is generally understood to be meant for the poet's own father. (The Traveller, v. 239.) To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 848 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XIII. Gay) sprigMy land of mirtll and social ease, Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir. With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring; Loire ! Where shading elms along the margin grew. And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew; And haply, though my harsh touch faltiring still, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill ; Yet would the village praise my wondrous power. And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze. And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, Has firisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. So blest a life these thoughtless realms display. Thus idly busy rolls their world away : Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear. For honour forms the social temper here. Honour, that praise which real merit gains. Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, It 'shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; Prom courts to camps, to cottages it strays. And all are taught an avarice of praise ; They please, are pleas'd ; they give to get esteem, Tin, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise ; Por praise too dearly lov'd, or warmly sought. Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace. And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer. To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; The mind stiU turns where shifting fashion draws. Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. (The Deserted VUlage, v. 137.) Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd. And stUl where many a garden flower grows wild, 1728—1774.] GOLDSMITH, 249 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place ; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power. By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; Par other aims his heart had learnt to prize. More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train. He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain ; The loug-remember'd beggar was his guest. Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away ; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won, Pleas'd with his guests, the good man leam'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan. His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all ; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries. To tempt its new-fiedg'd ofispring to the skies, He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, AUur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.' Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood. At his controul, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; ' Goldsmith is not perhaps very likely to have been a student of Chaucer, but there is a remarkable similarity between this line and one in the older poet's deBcription of the ' pore persoun.' But Criste's lore and his apostles twelve. He taught, and ferst he followed it himselve. Frologue to the Canterbury Tales, 528. 250 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XIII. Comfort came down the trembling wretcli to raise, And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and imaffected grace. His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevaU'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the piou8 man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; E'en children foUow'd with endearing wile And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest. Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest ; To them his hefirt, his love, his griefs were given. But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the atorm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine setfles on its head. 1770—1850.] WOEDSWOETH. 251 CHAPTER XIV. WOBDSWOBTH. A.D. 1770—1850. Goldsmith was evidently a pupil of tte school of Pope. But towards the end of the century there sprang up a hand of writers who made a parade of their contempt for every poet since Milton ; and showed, as far as their own practice went, that they did not hold even the author of ' Paradise Lost ' in very high esteem. The first years of the present century produced other poets of greater power than those already alluded to, who partly agreed with them, in their works departing as widely as they from the examples of Dryden and Pope ; but who partly differed from them, inasmuch as they professed and sincerely enter- tained the highest respect for the genius of the old bards, and even acknowledged the inferiority of their own works to theirs, and their own perversity in departing from such models. Video meliora proboque, Detefiora sequor, ■was the spirit in which Byron spoke of Pope's poems and his own ; while Scott devoted many of his most indus- • trious hours to a careful edition of and criticism on Dryden's works, and a minute and most elaborate biography of the poet himself I design to speak of all those to whom •I have here alluded, taking first those who first came before the public as authors, the poets of the Lake School as they are commonly called ; though no more absurd smisnomer was ever given, for instead of forming a school, an expression which clearly impHes a close resemblance •'between the men, or at least between their works, there ■never were three writers more entirely different from each other in the frame and structure of their- minds, or in the 252 ENaUSH LITEEATTJEE. [Ch. XIV. style of tteir composition, than Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, the friends who, sixty years ago, were classed together under this designation. We will take Wordsworth first, not so much because he was the eldest, though he was so hy a year or two ; nor as the first in genius and poetical power, for ia those qualities he was probably inferior to one,, if not to both of his friends; biit because, in another point of view, I look on him as the most important of the three at the present day, as having influenced in a far greater degree the style of the poets of the present generation, or, at all events, that of the most fashionable of them, Tennyson, his suc- cessor in the post of poet-laureate. His hfe, as is that of most men wholly given up to literature^ was so uneventful as to afibrd a biographer Uttle more to relate than the names of his works. He was the son of a Cumberland attorney, whose chief business was the agency to a part of Lord Lonsdale's estates. He was educated at one of the small grammar-schools of the county, where, apparently, very little pains were taken with the education of the pupils ia school-hours, and no care whatever was devoted to them at other times. They learnt but little Latin and Greek (and in those days nothing else was ever taught), and they roved about the country wherever they pleased when they were not learning : a training, if it can be so called, which was less injurious to him than it would be to most boys, and which probably contributed to give him that keen insight into and rehsh for the beauties of creation which are the peculiar and most attractive features of his poetry, and to which he mainly owes his reputation. When he was fourteen he lost his father : his mother had been dead some years ; and, being left to the guardianship of her brothers, his only near relatives,, one of whom was a fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge,, he was entered there at eighteen,, and remained there till he took his de- gree in 1791, spending his last long vacation in a walking tour through France, which he repeated the next year, making a long sojourn in the- country for the purpose of learning the language. This he accomphshed to a certain extent; but, unluckily, he became at the same time in- 1770—1850.] "WORDSWORTH. 253 fected with, fhe revolutionary mania tlien raging in that country, which was not quenched iu his mind even by the horrors of the September massacres. Before tlie end of 1792 he returned hom«, and the next year embarked in the career which he pursued unceasingly to the end of his days, publishing a very small volume of poems, part of which had been written in the first year of his Cambridge life.i In the judgment of most of his friends, they showed very little power, or even originality ; the most remark- able thing about them being perhaps the complete diifer- ence which they prove between his idea at that time what poetry should be, and the system which he afterwards proclaimed ; for the longer poem, ' Descriptive Sketches taken during a Pedestrian Tour among the Alps,' is a manifest imitation of Goldsmith's ' Traveller.' Yet some- thing in them struck a young aspirant after fame in the same field, who afterwards became his warm friend and most enthusiastic admii-er : Coleridge, who, to quote his own words, saw in the language, which he thought 'peculiar and strong,' and in the ' novelty and struggling crowd of images,' ' the emergence of an original poetic genius above the literary horizon.' He conceived an earnest desire for the writer's acquaintance ; and at last, when it seemed unlikely to be attained in any other way, he paid him a visit at a little cottage in Dorsetshire, where Wordsworth was living, with a sister, who kept house for him. They soon returned his visit ; he was living in an equally humble way in Somersetshire, and the friendship thus formed led to a poetical partnership. They resolved on taking a trip together ; and as both were nearly destitute of funds, they proposed to raise the neces- sary supplies by another volume of poems. By this time Wordsworth (though his original preparation for a poetical career had been mainly a study of the old English poets, especially Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton) had convinced himself that they and everyone else who had written verse in England were, to a certain extent, in a wrong track ; or, at all events, that an equal effect might be produced by taking subjects of a different class, ' Biographia Literaria, i. 75. 254 ENGLISH LITEEATtJEE. [Ch. XIV. describing matters of eyeryday life, and directing the attention to the loveliness and wonders of the ordinary world and common out-of-door nature. Coleridge appre- ciated his friend's ideas and aim, but conceived his own powers to lie in a different directipn, in' the ' portrayal of persons and characters supernatural,, or at least romantic ; ' ' and, both apparently feeling that a volume containing speci- mens of each style would have a better chance of a favorable reception from the public than one confined to subjects of one class only, in 1798 they published a volume of ' Lyrical Ballads,' which, however, was nearly all Words- worth's ; Coleridge, who was at all times indolent, and, even when working, most desultory in his iudustry, con- tributing little more than one piece, short for a poem if long for a ballad, the ' Ancient Mariner.' For our present purpose, therefore, we may speak of the volume as Words- worth's alone. It was at first but ill received ; so ill that when, a few months afterwards, the pubhsher retired from business, and sold his copyrights, that of the ' Lyrical Bal- lads ' was valued at ' nothing,' and returned to him. But when, a year or two afterwards, he republished them with the addition of a few more pieces from his own pen, though they were then accompanied by a preface which laid down some new principles of poetry which bore the appearance of a challenge to critics that some of them were not slow to take up, they rose in popularity. In truth the volume was a type of all his subsequent works, alike in its beauties and in its faults. It contained some poems marked by exquisite pathos, and bursts of natural feeling admirably expressed . with others, trivial, and puerile in the last degree. There is certainly no poet in our language, probably none in any, in estimating whose talent it is more necessary to bear constantly in mind the rule which I ventured to lay down at the beginning of this volume, that the standard by which we estimate the genius of the poet difiers from that by which we judge of the excellence of his work ; since, in measuring the former, we have regard chiefly to the height to which he at times rises, and avert our eyes, as far as possible, .from the depths to which he occasionally sinks. That ' Biographia Litcraria, ii. 2. 1770—1850.] -WOHDSWOBTH. 255' Wordsworth should often sink to depths to which none o£ his predecessors had descended was inseparable from his system, even as he himself explained it. In the preface above-mentioned, he declared his object to be to choose his ' incidents and situations from common life,' from. ' humble and rustic life,' and to adopt the language of men of that class of life, because, being less under the influence of vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated expressions ; ' adding that, so far from ' what is usually called poetic diction being found in his volumes, as much pains had been taken to avoid it as is usually taken to produce it ; ' he wished, in short, to show, as he sums up his views, ' that the language of prose may yet be well adapted to poetry.' It was inevitable that poems composed on these principles should often be tame, trivial, and unattractive : it is almost surprising that they were not at times coarse and vulgar ; but from such errors his instinc- tive purity kept him free : nor, severe as were the criticisms which the puerilities visible iu every one of his publications provoked, did anyone ever accuse him of ofiending, either in idea or in expression, against the strictest rules of well- bred propriety. Indeed, the judgments passed on his works even by those who condemned his system most severely, were neither animated by an tmfriendly spirit, nor ever failed to do justice to the real talent which was also dis- cernible in them. Jeffrey, the editor of the ' Edinburgh Review,' was perhaps of all his reviewers the most earnest and the most powerful of those who denounced his succes- sive volumes ; and he is so far from denying the praise of high abihty to the mar., that he assigns as the principal reason for the zeal he shows in the condemnation of his works, his vexation at such ' perverseness and bad taste ' being allowed to mar the effect which might have been -produced by the ' genius and laudable feeling ' which was equally conspicuous. And again, in a review of the ' Excur- sion ' written several years later, he deplores ' the dispro- portion which exists between the author's taste and his genius, and the devotion with which he has sacrificed so many precious gifts at the shrine of his idols.' Scott also, who was a personal friend of the poet, expressed in a letter 256 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XIV. a similar regret tBat lie should so often ' choose to crawl on aU. fours when God had given him a noble countenance to lift up to heaven.' But the evidences of candour and goodwill thus displayed had not the slightest influence in inducing him to amend the faults which such friendly critics pointed out. As a boy, he had been remarkable for wayward, wilful stubbornness in a singular degree, and he ' had preserved these qualities undiminished. If the critics disapproved of a single ballad, so much the worse for the critics. On the publication of one of his works, a lady whose husband had shown himself one of his most efScient, as well as most judicious friends, expressed her wishes for its success ; but he replied that it was sure not to succeed, ' for the generation was stiff- necked, and would never bow down before him,' and of deferring to its opinions for a single moment, or in a single point, he had no notion. Even the desire of profit, though, till he was past forty, he was in painfully narrow circum- stances, could not induce him to make the least attempt to humour the public. So limited was the sale of even his most popular volumes that, when he had been continually writing and publishing for more than twenty years, he found, on making the calculation, that in all that time he had received but little more than lOOZ. But he was con- tented not to sell ; and so far was superior to Horace's philosopher ' that he continued to applaud himself even when he had no money in his strongbox to testify that others coincided in the panegyric.^ ' Horace's maxim rather was to postpone such obstinacy till he was rich : — Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo Ipse domi, simul ac nummos contemplor in area. ' It was a graver fault than mingling poor poems with good ones, that he was himself a most imcandid judge of others, whether living or dead. A judicious and evidently friendly critic in the ' Quarterly Review' (Dee. 1 852), to whose article the present writer is much indebted, ad- mits that the harshest reviewer did him more justice than he was wont to deal out to his greatest contemporaries. His mind was not merely dead to their beauties and alive to their faults, but he sometimes in- dulged in an extravagance of censure that had no foundation whatever, .... Verses which stirred the most cultivated minds like the sound of irro— 1850.] WORDSWORTH. 257 At last, -when he was forty-one, fortune smiled on him, though in a most unpoetical way. Lord Lonsdale procured him the office of distributor of stamps for Westmoreland, which was worth above 500Z. a-year. So that he could now devote himself more freely than ever to the task which he had set himself of teaching the world that its judgment of all the poetry which it had hitherto been wont to admire was wrong, and that he alone, for some generations at least, had understood and shown how poetry ought to be conceived and written. The only difference was that he now put forth his lessons at greater length. Up to this time he had only written short poems, sonnets, and odes ; but in 1814 he published what, if it had been completed, would have been the longest poem ever written in any language : the ' Excursion,' in nine books, the whole being but ' a part of the second part of a long and laborious work,' which was to consist of three parts. Even had not inequality been the characteristic of all his works, this was likely to be unequal, since portions of it had been written twenty years before. And it was soon seen that, in this and other respects, it was thoroughly characteristic of him. In its weakest portions it was not much better than the worst of the ' Lyrical Ballads ; ' while the scale of the work ex- hibited another defect in his talents which had not been seen while he confined himself to short pieces. He was clearly destitute of the ability to plan an elaborate work, as is made plain by his own words in the preface in explana- tion of the apparent strangeness of publishing the middle of a poem before its beginning. He does so because ' this part does not depend upon the preceding to a degree which will materially injure its own peculiar interest.' Another and a heavier fault, was its frequent obscurity : he raises questions on disputed doctrines, both of philosophy and religion, which need not have been mooted, but which, if they were, required clear and distinct answers. But his solutions of them are more mystical and unintelligible than a trumpet, found no echo in his, because he was bound up in the thral- dom of a system, that is, in the eternal contemplation of his own theories, as exemplified in his own performances.' 258 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XIV. the difficulties themselves. And, if he was unconsciotis of the absurdity of putting long philosophical speeches de- signed to explain and enforce all his own peculiar doctrines and favourite principles into the mouth of a pedlar,' ho certainly was the only man who was so. The rhythm too (the poem is in blank verse) was often very harsh, not probably from indifference on the subject, but from a want of ear which is apparent in most of his works. But at the same time, in its better parts, the ' Excursion' showed a great increase, and also a variety, of power which he had hardly displayed in any of his previous works, with a greater knowledge of the heart and the feelings. Some of the pic- tures of rustic life are distinguished by great delicacy ; some are drawn with great force, and nearly all with subtle dis- crimination and truth. The next year he published the ' White Doe of Rylstone,' which is said in some respects to have been his own favourite among all his compositions. And perhaps the first canto has passages of descriptive beauty which may almost warrant the preference ; but the story, which relates how a girl suddenly bereaved of father and mother could find no relief from her sorrow till a white doe fawned upon her, with a kind of living intelligence, when the caresses of the dumb animal healed the wound whose anguish neither time nor reason nor religion had been able to allay, is repugnant to common sense ; while the closing incident, the doe's apotheosis, finds no echo in the reader's fancy, while it shocks his belief. In his pre- face to a later edition of the ' White Doe ' he protests against his work being compared with Scott's, because, while ' Sir Walter pursued the customary and very natural course of conducting an action presenting various turns of fortune to some outstanding point on which the miud might rest as a termination or catastrophe,' his own course had been ' Even Coleridge, -writing in the avowed character of a warm friend and champion, asks, ' Is there one word attributed to the pedlar in the " Exclusion " characteristic of a pedlar ? ' (Biog. Lit. ii. 150). Words- worth is said to have stated, in explanation of his choice of such a hero, that he has made him what he conceived that he himself should have been had he been placed in such a station of life. 1770—1850.] WOEDSWORTH. 259 wholly different. The heroine here knew that her duty was not to interfere with the current of events, either to forward or delay them ; but to abide The shock, and finally secure O'er pain and grief a triumph pure ; and, even with respect to the most objectionable part of his plan, the apotheosis of the doe, whUe admitting it to be ' far too spiritual a catastrophe for instant or widely spread sympathy, he yet maintains that it is not on that account the less fitted to make a deep and permanent impression on independent minds.' The metre too required either a more vigorous hand, or a more musical ear to manage. It was that eight-syllabled verse of which, according to Byron, Scott alone had mastered 'the fatal facihty,' till he himself in the ' Giaour,' parts of the ' Bride of Abydos ' and one or two other poems, had shown himself equally competent to handle it ; and it was bold in an inferior artist to commit himself to what looked like a challenge to such contempo- raries. Yet, though for many years he continued his dili- gence, he never wrote so well afterwards. ' Peter Bell ' and the ' Waggoner,' which he published five years later, were almost beyond the ingenuity of his friends to excuse, and the gems with which the volumes of miscellaneous poems, which he continued to publish for fourteen or fifteen years longer, occasionally sparkled, were of rarer occurrence and feebler lustre. He lived to the age of eighty. On Southey's death, he had succeeded him as poet-laureate, but he was seventy- three before he received that honour, which certainly could not have been so fitly conferred on any Kving rival ; and he was justified in looking on it rather as an acknowledg- ment of past services than as an incentive to fresh labours. In 1850 he died, a few days after his birth-day ; and was buried at Grasmere, by the side of two of his children who had preceded him to the grave. In the following, passage from the ' Excursion,' which is a. fevorable specimen of his style, he evidently designs to present a portrait of himself and of his own mind : — 3 2. 260 ENGLISH LITEEATTTEB. [Ck. XIV. While yet'a child, and long before Ms time, Had he perceived the presence and the power Of greatness ; and deep feelings had impressed So vividly great objects that they lay Upon his mind like substances, whose presence Perplexed the bodily sense. He had received A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years, With these impressions would he still compare All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, arid forms ; And, being stillTinsatisfied with aught Of dimmer character, he thence attained An active power to fasten images Upon his brain ; and on their pictured lines Intensely brooded, even till they acquired The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail. While yet a child, with a child's eagerness Incessantly tO' turn his ear and «ye On all things which the^moving seasons brought To feed such appetite — nor this alone Appeased his yearning : — in the after day Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn. And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags, He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments, ' Qr from the power of a peculiar eye, • Or by creative feeling overborne. Or by predominance of thought oppressed, Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 'He traced an ebbing and -a flowing mind, Expression ever varying'! In his heart, ' Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, Was wanting yet the pure delight of love .By sound diffused, or by the breathing air, Or by the silent-looks of happy things. Or flowing from the universal face Of earth and sky. But he had felt the power Of Nature, arid already was prepared, IBy his intense conceptions, to receive Deeply the lesson deep of love which he Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught To feel intensely, cannot but receive. Such was the boy — but for the growing Youth What soul was Ms, when, from- the naked top 1770—1850.] WORDSWORTH. 561 Of some bold headland, lie beheld the e\m ■ Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! He looked— Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay- Beneath him : — Far and wide the clouds were touched, And in their silent faces could he read Unutterable love. Sound needed none,- Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank The speetacle : sensation, soul, and form, . All melted into hi-m ; they swallowed up His animal being; in them did he live, And by them did he live ; they were his life.- In such access of mind, in such high hour Of visitation from the living Gsd, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request; - Eapt into still communion that transcends The imperfect oiSoes of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him ; it was blessedness and love. • A herdsman on' the lonely mountain tops. Such intercourse was his, and in this sort Was his existence oftentimes possessed. Oh then bow bright, how beautiful appeared-! The written promise ! Early had he learned - To reverence the volume that displays The mystery, the life that cannot die ; But in the mountains did he feel his feith. All things responsive to the writing, there Breathed immortality, revolving life, And greatness still revolving ; infinite : There littleness was not ; the least of thinga- Seemed infinite, and there his spirit shaped' Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he saw. What wonder if his being thus became Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires, Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was his heart Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, Oft as he called those ecstacies to mind. And whence they flowed ; and from them he acquired Wisdom, which works through patience; thence he-learnedi In oft-recurring hours of sober thought To look on Nature with a humble heart,- Self-questioned where it d-id not understand^ And with a superstitious eye of love. 262 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XIV. The passage whicli follows, ezplainingthe principles whicli led the heathens to the strange mythological worship which even Socrates and Cicero could not venture to disown, is of a far higher class of poetry. The lively Grecian, in a land of hills, Rivers, and fertile plains, and sounding shores, Under a cope of sky more variable. Could find commodious place forevery god, Promptly received, as prodigally brought .'From the surrounding countries, at the choice Of all adventurers. With unrivalled fikill, As nicest observation furnished hints For studious fancy, his quick hand bestowed On fluent operations a fixed shape; Metal or stone idolatrouslyjgryed^ And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous show Of art, this palpable array of sense, On every side encountered; in despite Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets By wandering Rhapsodists ; and in contempt Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged Amid the wrangling schools — a spirit hung, •Beautiful region ! o'er thy towns and farms, Statues and temples, and memorial tombs.; And emanations were perceived ; and acts Of immortality, in Nature's course. Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed And armed warrior ; and in every grove A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, When piety more awful had relaxed. ' Take, running river, take these locks of mine ' — Thus would the Votary say — ' this severed hair, My vow fulfilling do I here present, 'Thankful for my beloved child's return. Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod. Thy murmurs heard ; and drunk the crystal lymph With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip. And all day long moisten these flowery fields ! ' And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed XTpon the flowing stream, a thought arose Of life continuous, being unimpaired ; That hath .been, is, and where it was, and is 1770—1850.] WORDSWOBTH. 263 There sliall endure, — existence unexposed To the blind walk of mortal accident ; From diminution safe, and weakening age ; While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays ; And coimtless generations of mankind Depart, and leave no vestige where they trod. There is an exquisite tenderness in the following passage, ^nd the imaginative delicacy with which he expresses his delight in becoming a father may well make us regret, with his contemporary critics, that a perverse taste should so often have been allowed to mar such high gifts. It is a strong condemnation of his system that, while other poets lose rather than gain by the quotation of isolated passages from their works, such a plan leads to a far more favor- able judgment of him than could be justified by an examina- tion of any poem of his in its completeness : — This fair Bride — In the devotedness of youthful love, Preferring me to parents, and the choir Of gay companions, to the natal roof. And all known places and familiar sights (Eesigned with sadness gently weighing down Her trembling expectations, but no more Than did to her due honour, and to me Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime In what I had to build upon) — this Bride, Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led To a low cottage in a sunny bay. Where the salt sea innocuously breaks, And the sea breeze as innocently breathes. On Devon's leafy shores ; — a sheltered hold, In a soft clime encouraging the soil To a luxuriant bounty ! — As our steps Approach the embowered abode — our chosen seat- See rooted in the earth, her kindly bed, The unendangered myrtle, decked with flowers. Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! While in the flowering myrtle's neighbourhood, K^ot overlooked, but courting no regard. Those native plants, the holly and the yew. Gave modest intimation to the mind How willingly their aid they would unite With the green myrtle, to endear the hours 264 ENeLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XIV. Of winter, and protect that pleasant place. Wild were the walks upon those lonely Downs Track leading into track; how marked, how worn Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse. Winding away its never-ending line On their smooth surface, evidence was none ; But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, A range of unappropriated earth, Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large ; Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld The shining giver of the day diffuse His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land Gay as our spirits, free as our desires ; As our enjoyments, boundless. — From those heights We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan combs ; Where arbours of impenetrable shade. And mossy seats, detained us side by side, With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts ' That all the grove, and all the day was ours.' O happy time ! still happier was at hand ; For Nature called my Partner to resign Her share in the pure freedom of that life, Enjoyed by us in common. — To my hope, To my heart's wish, my tender Mate became The thankful captive of maternal bonds ; And those wild paths were left to me alone. There could I meditate on follies past; And, like a weary voyager escaped From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace A course of vain delights, and thoughtless guilt. And self-indulgence — without shame pursued. There, undisturbed, could think of and could thank Her whose submissive spirit was to me Eule and restraint — my guardian — shall I say That earthly Providence, whose guiding love Within a port of rest had lodged me safe ; Safe from temptation and from danger far. Of the ' Wliifce Doe of Rylstone ' we have already spoken. Its prettiest passage is that vrith which it opens : From Bolton's old monastic tower The bells ring loud with gladsome power; The sun shines bright, the fields are gay With people in their best array 1770—1850.] ■WOEDSWOETH. 265 Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf, Along the banks of crystal Wharf, Through the vale retired and lowly, Trooping to that summons holy. And, up among the moorlands see, "What sprinklings of bright company ! Of lasses and of shepherd grooms, That down the steep hills force their way, Like cattle through the budded brooms ; Path, or no path, what care they ? And thus in j oy ous mood they hie To Bolton's mouldering Priory. What would they there ? Full fifty years That sumptuous pile, with all its peers, Too harshly hath been doomed to taste The bitterness of wrong and waste : Its courts are ravaged ; but the tower Is standing with a voice of power, That ancient voice which wont to call To mass or some high festival ; And in the shattered fabric's heart Kemaineth one protected part ; A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest, Closely embowered and trimly drest ; And thither young and old repair, This sabbath day for praise and prayer. Past the churchyard fills ; — anon Look again, and they all are gone. The cluster round the porch, and the folk Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak I And scarcely have they disappeared Ere the prelusive hymn is heard : — With one consent the people rejoice, Filling the church with a lofty voice ! They sing a service which they feel ;. For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal ; Of a pure faith the vernal prime — In great Eliza's golden time. A moment ends the fervent din And all is hushed without and within For though the priest more tranquilly Recites the holy liturgy, The only voice which you can hear Is the river murmuring near 266 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XIV. When soft ! the dusky trees between, And down the path through the open green, "Where is no Imng thing to be seen ; And through yon gateway where is found, Beneath the arch with ivy bound, Free entrance to the churchyard ground — Comes gliding in, with lovely gleam. Comes gliding in, serene and slow. Soft and silent as a dream, A solitary Doe. "White she is as lily of June, And beauteous as the silver moon "When out of sight the clouds are driven And she is left alone in Heaven ; Or like a ship some gentle day In sunshine sailing far away, A glittering ship, that hath the plain Of ocean for her own domain. • • • "What harmonious pensive changes "Wait upon her as she ranges Round and through this pile of state Overthrown and desolate ! Now a step or two her way Leads through space of open day, Where the enamoured sunny light Brightens her that was so bright ; Now doth a delicate shadow fall, Falls upon her like a breath. From some lofty arch or wall, As she passes underneath : Now s6me gloomy nook partakes Of the glory that she makes, — High-ribb'd vault of stone, or cell, With perfect cunning framed as well Of stone, and ivy, and the spread Of the elder's bushy head ; Some jealous and forbidding cell, With perfect cunning framed as well. Of stone, and ivy, and the spread Of the elder's bushy head ; .Some jealous and forbidding cell. That doth the living stars repel, And where no flower hath leave to dwell. 1770—1850.] -WOEDSWORTH. 267 Sonnets are a class of composition of wticli lie was especially fond. A poem limited to fourteen lines seems to cramp the genius in unnecessary fetters. But the date of that which follows, marking the close of the year in which Napoleon struck down Prussia, shows how completely he had overcome his early predilection for revolutionary prin- ciples, while it exhibits also a fine manly feeling of patriotic courage and self-reliance. (Sonnet, November 29, 1806.) Another year ! another deadly blow ! Another mighty empire overthrown ! And we are left, or shall be left, alone ; The last that dare to struggle vrith the foe. 'Tis well ! from this day forward we shall know That in ourselves our safety must be sought; That by our own right hands it must he wrought ; That we must stand unpropped, or he laid low. O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer ! We shall exult, if they who rule the land Be men who hold its many blessings dear. Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile hand. Who are to judge of danger which they fear, And honour which they do not understand. 268 ENGLISH LITEBATUEE. [Ch. XV. CHAPTER XV. COLERIDGE. A.D. 1772-1834. If we regarded his works only, our mention of Coleridge would more properly be postponed till we come to the lyric poets ; bnt in Ids lifetime lie was so constantly associated with Wordsworth and Southey in the opinion of the public, that it seems better to speak of him here in connection with them. If Southey be, as we shall presently see, the one of the poetical brotherhood of the Lakes who unquestionably did the most, Coleridge was the one, in the opinion of all their friends, who might have done the most, had any circum- stances whatever been powerful enough to bind down his brilliant, profound, but most desultory genius to the steady application necessary for the successful prosecution of any pursuit, or the completion of, any laborious task. In age he came between the two ; being two years younger than Wordsworth, and as many older than Southey. He was the youngest of a large family, the son of the Vicar of Ottery, a small town in Devonshire, who combined with the living the mastership of the grammar-school which Henry VIII. had founded there. And there he would pro- bably have received his education, had not his father died suddenly in 1781, when he was nine years old, on which his friends procured him a nomination to Christ's Hospital. In an autobiographical series of letters he relates that he was a timid boy, taking no deHght in the ordinary sports of his schoolfellows, but a most incessant and indiscriminate reader. At eighteen he was removed to Jesus College, Cambridge, where he distinguished himself by gaining the gold medal for the Greek ode in his first year. But before he could take his degree he got disgusted with the Uni- versity, and enlisted as a dragoon, a line of life for which ,1772—1834.] -OOLERIDGE. 269 lie was especially ill-qualified, as he could learn neitlier to ride nor to groom his horse ; but his family soon bought his discharge and sent him back to Cambridge. He did not, however, take a degree. In fact, at that time he had learnt to entertain doubts on the teaching of the Church on certain points, and would not have signed the Thirty- nine Articles. And he was apparently hesitating what career to choose, when an acquaintance which, in the course of 1794, he made with South ey, then an under- graduate at Oxford, led to the formation of the wildest plan that was ever conceived by men of, not only ability, but common sense and right feeling. He, Southey, and one or two more men of the same age, formed what they called a pantisocratic society, on the principle of the aboli- tion of all individual property ; and, as they could not hope to be allowed to carry out these views, much less to obtain proselytes to them in England, they resolved to emigrate to the banks of the Susquehanna, where they expected better fortune. The very time of the intended emigration, March 1795, was fixed upon, and during the preceding autumn, the quartet (for the credit of common sense, I am. glad to say, the society numbered only four members) applied themselves diligently to learning ' the theory and practice of agriculture and carpentry,' to fit them for their new mode of life. But before the spring Southey's heart failed him ; his defection led to the renunciation of the project, of which the only permanent result was that Coleridge, as well as Southey, fell in love with the sisters of the wife of Mr. Lovell, who was one of the club ; and, in October 1795, Coleridge married, and resolved to devote himself to literary composition ; writing poems for plea- sure and a magazine in which politics and literature were combined for profit. It was called the 'Watchman.' The politics were of the .most revolutionary type, and he took a tour through the midland counties to obtain sub- scribers, in which object he was more successful than might have been expected, considering the extent to which he allowed his politics to interfere with his desire to puff his wares : as, when at Sheffield, on finding that the editor of a radical newspaper ' was in gaol for a libel on a bloody- minded magistrate,' he declined ' advertising or even dis- 270 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XV. posing of ' tiie ' WatcTiman ' in that town for fear of clashing with the interests of the amiable prisoner. On the other hand, he furthered his scheme in a somewhat novel manner by preaching in Unitarian chapels in a bine coat and white waistcoat, and giving the audience ' sermons preciously peppered with politics.' In Ia,ter life he renoumoed both the political and religious views of his youth, becoming a siacere churchman and an earnest Tory. But his scheme failed. After a few numbers his subscribers feU. off ; one anonymous letter, which he preserved, in a great measure ■explaining the reason. Sir, — I detest your principles : your prose I thioik very so-so ; but your poetry is so beautiful that I take in your ' Watchman ' solely on account of it. In justice therefore to me and some others of my stamp, I entreat you to give us more verse and less demo- cratic scurrility. — Your admirer, not esteemer. But he did not comply with his admirer's request, keep- ing most of his poems for separate pnbUoation, and publishing a volume of them in the course of the summer, which con- tained most of those which, in the collected edition of his works, are entitled ' Poems written in Touth.' One of these, called' Religious Musings,' which seems to have been a pecu- liar favourite of his own, provoked criticism from some of his friends aa being 'too metaphysical for common readers.' His reply, conceived quite in the same spirit as animated Words- worth, was that ' it was not written for common readers ; ' but he differed from his friend in the candour with which he admitted, and the docility with which he corrected faults. He had ventured upon the manufacture of new words : unshuddered, vnaghasted, meaning, I presume, not standing aghast, not terrified into shuddering, or perhaps not shuddered at. And such he admitted to be instances of vicious phraseology, and expunged them. But neither poetry nor poUtios paid ; and, as it was indispensable that he should earn money, he began to revolve two plans in his mind : one, that of abjuring literature, and becoming a Dissenting minister ; the other, that of perfecting himself in German, taking up his residence at Jena, where Schiller was living, translating all that great writer's works to support himself, while studying at the University in that 1772—1834.] COLEEIDGE. 271 town ; and, having finished that task, and acquired a suffi- cient knowledge of chemistry, anatomy, German theo- logy and metaphysics, he proposed to return to England and open a school on an entirely norel system, but one which should make his ' scholars better senators than perhaps any one member in either House of Parliament.' Both those schemes, however, were abandoned, as were several others. He began to suffer from ill-health, which, with the remedies to which he had recourse for relief, his chief medicine being opium, gradually produced an effect on his nerves, which, to a certain extent, incapacitated him. for settled, systematic work. It was probably the real cause of the scantiness of his contributions to the ' Lyrical Ballads ' of which I spoke in my sketch of Wordsworth : and it certainly prevented his ever executing any work worthy of his great powers. Yet, a year or two later, he undertook an employment which, above all other talents, requires method, readiness, and a power of instantly applying the mind to any subject. He had always taken a keen interest in politics, and in 1799 he entered into an engagement with the editor of a London paper, the ' Morning Post,' to supply it with a daily article. When the editorship of the ' Post ' passed into other hands, he made a similar engagement with the ' Courier.' And to both he contributed not only many prose articles far beyond the usual run of newspaper writing in that day, but many short poems ; raising the character, and, it is believed, increasing the sale of the papers. But the work was wholly unsuited, if not to his talents, to his habits. He could not write to order ; neither when he was wanted, nor what was wanted. One of the editors rated his abilities so highly that he declared that, as a writer of ' leading paragraphs, he would prefer him to Mackintosh, Burke, or any man he ever heard of.' ' But he said, at the same time, that he 'never wrote a thing he was requested to write.' ' When he got into his study, if the printer's devil was not at his elbow hurrying him for " copy " he lost himself.' Still this kind of em- ployment was his chief support for above ten years ; varied by an occasional trip to other countries for the sake of his ' Biog. Lit. ii. 396. 272 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XV. healtli, and by other occupations, suoh as that of a lecturer, principally on literary subjects. He wrote a tragedy also, ' Remorse ; ' which, in 1813, was performed with great success at the time, though, I believe, it was never repro- duced ; and in fact, it is strange that it should have Bucceded at all, for Coleridge's genius was far from being dramatic, and though it contains some fine passages, the plot is fall of the wildest improbabihties. He succeeded better when he rendered Schiller's ' Wallenstein ' into English, executing that translation with a skill which, as far as I know, is absolutely unequalled, and which presents the play to the English reader with all the vigour and effect of an original composition ; with more, indeed, according to Walter Scott, than the original possessed.' In 1816 he published the poem which by many has been ex- tolled as his most beautiful production, ' Ohristabel ; ' which had, indeed, been written many years before, and had been shown in portions to so many persons that the greatest expectations had been raised of it. It was known even to have had the honour of suggesting to Scott the metre for 'The Lay of the Last Minstrel.' But, when it was published as a whole, it certainly did not equal the expec- tations that had been formed of it, either in the music of its metre, or in the richness of its imaginative beauties. If Scott had taken the metre for a model, both he and Byron had far surpassed it in energy, in sweetness, and in -variety, while some of the lines and even passages sank to the level of Wordsworth's most trivial ballads. The ' Sibylhne Leaves,' which appeared the next year, contained some very pretty, tender ballads ; but nothing of anything like first-rate excellence ; nor, though he was not yet five- and-forty, did he ever afterwards produce anything of greater importance. He has been especially fortunate in one thing : in having his works edited by a son-in-law of rare abilities, too early cut off, and his memoir begun by him and completed by that son-in-law's wife, a woman in intellectual accomplishments worthy of her husband. And it is remarkable that she, writing of her father with a natural fondness and pride, fixes the year 1797 as that of his 'poetical ' Coleridge made Schiller's ' Wallenstein ' far finer than he found it. Lockharffs Life, chap.-xlii. 177^— 1834.J COLERIDGE. 273 zenith,' apparently being contented to rest his fame as a poet on his ' Ancient Mariaer,' a work which may, indeed, be wild and imaginative, but which seems to me greatly overrated when it is spoken of as not only the foundation of a great fkme, but the superstructure also. Walter Scott, whose unrivalled genius could allow him to be candid to all his contemporaries, while his equally admirable disposition rendered him incapable of jealousy, much more of envy, characterises him as one whom fancy and diction would have placed above all his contemporaries, had they been under the direction of a sound judgment and steady will. For want of these qualities (a want probably greatly caused by constant infirmity of health), he certainly did nothing indeed worthy of his talents, nothing equal to the productions of very inferior men. He died in 1834. The most perfect of his lyric poems is probably the little lyric of ' Genevieve,' which tells a tale of love with extreme tenderness and simplicity. (GeneviAve.) All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame. Are all but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevi(5v6 ! She leaned against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. T ^74 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XV. I played a soft and doleful air, I aang an old and moving story — An old rude song that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the knight that wore ' Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he wooed The lady of the. land. I told her how he pined ; and ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes and modest grace ; And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face. But when I told the cruel scorn Which crazed this bold and lovely knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods. Nor rested day nor night ; But sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once. In green and sunny glade. There came and looked him in the face, An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a fiend. This miserable knight ! And that, unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band. And saved, from outrage worse than death, The lady of the land ; 1772-1834.] COLERIDGE. 275 And li(Tw she -wept and clasped his knees, And how she tended him m vain — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain. And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest leaves, A dying- man he lay ; His dying words — hut when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity ! All impulses of soul and sense, Had thrilled my guileless G-enevi^ve — The music and the doleful tale. The rich and balmy eve ; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng ; And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued, and cherished long I She wept with pity and delight. She blushed with love and virgin shame ; And like the murmur of a dream I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved, she stept aside ; As conscious of my look she stept — Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms. She pressed me with a'meek embrace. And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That 1 might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. T 2 276 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch.XV I calmed her fears; and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride ; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride t ' Christabe],' though only a fragment, has a peculiar interest from having suggested to Scott the metre of the ' Lay of the Last Minstrel.' The following, which is the most celebrated passage, will show how close is the resem- blance in the rhythm of the two poems, though Scott added a variety to it which Coleridge does not seem to have conceived. The metre, however, had often been used before. It is, when regular, the metre of Milton's 'L' Allegro' and 'II Penseroso,' and also of the inimitable ' Hudibras.' But when he heard the lady's tale And when she told her father's name, Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, Murmuring o'er the name apain, Lord Roland de Vaux of Triermain. It is remarkable, too, that this name is that of the hero of Scott's exquisite little poem, the ' Bridal of Triermain.' Alas, they had been friends in youth, But whispering tongues can poison truth, And constancy lives in realms above, And life is thoi-ny, and youth is vain, "°^ And to be wroth with one in love Doth work like madness in the brain ; And thus it chanced, as I divine, « With Roland and Sir Leoline : Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother ; They parted, — ne'er to meet again ! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining ; They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs that have been rent asunder ; A dreary sea now flows between : — But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 1772—1834.: COLEEIDfiE. 277 Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been. Sir Leoline, a moment's space. Stood gazing on the damsel's face : And the youthful lord of Trierniain Came back upon his heart again. SOVTHBY. A.D. 1774-1843. The youngest of the triumvirate of the Lake poets was Southey, who was bom in 1774. He was the lowliest born of the three, being the son of a Bristol linendraper ; but, like Wordsworth, he was so fortunate as to have a maternal nncle who took an interest in his education, and who sent him to Westminster at fourteen, and to Balliol College, Oxford, at eighteen. But he gained little favour in the eyes of the authorities at school, as he had not had any proper or sufficient preparation beforehand, and still less at college, where, like his future friends, of whom I have already spoken, he took a wrong-headed delight in proclaiming his adherence to the most extreme doc- trines of the French revolutionists. And finding himself, both by his political views, and also by his deficiency in accurate scholarship, debarred from all prospect of university distinction, he also betook himself to literature as an occupation, making a most ambitious beginning, and at the age of twenty publishing an epic poem in twelve books, on the subject of Joan of Arc, the most remarkable circunoiatances in connection with which are : first, that he wrote it in six weeks ; and secondly, that it was favorably received, on account not so much of its poetical merits as of its republican sentiments, since, as he records in a preface to a subsequent republication of it, such opinions were at that time ' cherished by most of the critical journals,' and the eulogies of the reviewers raised for him a reputation which no condemnation by them of his later works could ever entirely demolish. Of his pantisocratic scheme we 278 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XV. have already spoken in our sketch, of Coleridge. His democratic mania did not, however, last long. His uncle, who had a chaplaiacy at Lisbon, persuaded him to accom- pany him to Portugal, hoping gradually to wean him from his mischievous opinions, and to induce him to enter his own profession. In a couple of years he was completely converted to Toryism, but preferred the bar to the Church, and on his return to England he entered himself at Gray's Inn as a student of law. But, though few men were ever blessed with a more industrious or resolute spirit, the study of statutes and cases was utterly distasteful to him. And ■when an old schoolfellow, who was possessed of a fair fortune, and who had a high idea of his talents and dispo- sition, offered to settle an annuity on him, which, though small, was yet suflScient to relieve him from the necessity of working, as it were, for daily bread, he frankly accepted the kindness. And (with but one brief exception, when he accepted the post of secretary to the Chancellor of the Exchequer for Ireland, coupled with that of tutor to the minister's son ; a combination of inconsistent employments for neither of which was he qualiiied, and which he threw up at the end of six months) he henceforth devoted himself wholly to literary composition, which, both in prose and verse, he poured forth with a rapid fertility which has never been equalled, save by his greater contemporary, "Walter Scott. His publications were so numerous that it would be almost impossible even to give a complete list of them : epics, histories, translations from foreign poets, editions of English poets, essays, odes, biographies, and reviews, followed one another in uninterrupted succession. And if there was hardly one which was admired without qualification, there was not one which was not admitted to prove the possession by the author of very eminent abilities, enriched by most extensive reading. He could hardly have expected more indulgent treatment, for he was so far from any attempt to propitiate the critics that he rather went out of his way to provoke their hostility. Because, as it might almost seem, tbey agreed in looking on an epic poem as the greatest effort of poetical genius, he announced in his preface to ' Madoc ' that that poem disdained that 1771—1843.] SOUTHEY. 279 ' degraded title.' He placed as the motto to the ' Curse of Kehama ': For I will for no man's pleasure Change a syllable or measure ; Pedants shall not tie my strains To our antique poets' veins ; Being born as free as these, I will sing as I shall please. But they forebore to avenge themselves on him, and mingled with their condemnation of the defects and faults of his different poems a free admission of and even warm admiration for the great mental endowments of which they likewise saw evidence. I shall almost confine the extracts which I propose to subjoin to the two of his long poems which are generally considered the best : the ' Curse of Kehama ' and ' Roderick, the last of the Goths ' : the one, a vdld poem in irregular metre, on a subject drawn from the superstitions of the Hindoo mythology ; the other, in blank verse, on the well-known story of the revenge taken by Count Julian of Spain for Roderick's licentious violation of his home, of the king's defeat on the plains of Xeres, and the establishment of the Moorish dominion in the Peninsula. No two subjects could well be more dissimilar in their character, or in the poet's treatment of them ; for ' Roderick ' was a systematic and regular narrative, founded on fact, ' Kehama,' a wild rhapsody, owing nearly everything to the imagination. But the very same beauties and faults were conspicuous, and equally conspicuous in both. Purity of sentiment and feehng, richness of imagination, great power of depicting the simple and innocent affections : these natural endowments being set off by the most ample learning, great copiousness and facility of diction, and, generally speaking, a great mastery of metrical sweetness : were the beauties. The faults were partly errors of taste. . The writer's imagination labours too incessantly after effect to allow the reader those intervals of repose which the mind requires in order to appreciate the excellences pre- sented to it. Every detail is worked up with an almost painful fulness, with an exaggerated minuteness, till the poems remind us of the efforts of a rhetorician aiming at an 280 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XV. artificial climax rather than of tbe spontaneous ease of a poet. They also arose partly from a deficiency in one-or two qualities which, if of secondary magnitude in the genius of the writer, are of the very first importance as enabling him to interest the attention of the reader. Of that passion which generally constitutes so large an ingredient in all works of fiction, and deservedly, indeed necessarily so, if they would be true pictures of human life : of love, and the power of love, he seems either to have no conception, or else, on some mistaken principle, he abstains throughout from conveying any adequate impression. His heroines are as passionless as they are amiable ; his heroes as indif- ferent to the softer feelings of love as to the baser emotions of fear. It is partly, perhaps, a consequence of this absti- nence from what is so favourite a topic of all other poets, that he is also very defective in his exhibitions of variety of character, while his language, though copious, is rarely forcible, his sentences frequently by far too long ; an error which has an inevitable tendency to obscure his meaning. In 1813 the minister of the day, Lord Liverpool, gave him the ofiice of poet-laureate, as twenty-one years after- wards another minister, Sir R. Peel, gave him a literary' pension, and would have made him a baronet had not the scantiness of his fortune disinclined him to accept an honour which in some respects would have been expensive ; and a few years earher a third admirer had procured his return to parhament for a borough in which he had influ- ence ; but the laws requiring the possession of a certain quantity of freehold land from every member of the House of Commons were still in force, and Southey, by his want of such an estate, was prevented from taking his seat. I have mentioned the entire change of his political views, which, however, was in no degree caused by the favour •shown him by the Tory ministers; inasmuch as it took place long before he was known to them ; but it was resented by some of the Radical party as if it had been the direct result of corruption, and they took a comical way of revenging themselves. They by some means obtained a copy of a play which he had written in his 1771—1843.] SOUTHEY. 28] youtli at a tiifte wlien his opinions were of tlie most Jaco- binical character, and to which he had given the name of ' Wat Tyler,' and reprinted it in the hope of embroiling him with his patrons in office ; but the malice, though full of annoyance to himself, was wholly ineffective. Nor did this revival of the recollection of his early follies excite the least distrust of the soundness and steadiness of his present patriotism. ' Roderick ' was the last of his long poems, though he pubhshed some volumes of what he called minor poems afterwards ; which, however, it is not necessary to notice more particularly, since, if, being in a simpler style, they are free from his most conspicuous faults, they are likewise, for the most part, devoid of his most striking excellences. But, though he still continued writing for full twenty years, he gradually almost confined himself to prose. Besides countless articles in reviews, chiefly in the ' Quarterly,' to which he was from its first establishment an unwearied contributor, he wrote a ' History of the Church,' for which the purity of liis prose style secured a favour to which it was hardly entitled by its depth or accuracy of view ; and a ' History of the Peninsular War,' which would have been better known if it had not had to encounter the competition of Colonel Napier, who, having been himself a distinguished soldier in Wellington's army, added to the inestimable advantage of a personal knowledge of many of the most striking incidents and most important achievements, a vigour of description and a mastery of appropriate lan- guage which no professional writer could surpass, and which very few have equalled. But among his prose writings one has defied rivalry, and he is probably better known by his 'Life of Nelson,' in two small volumes, skil- fully expanded from a review of a more ponderous work, than by any of the poems which he himself ventured to compare to ' Paradise Lost.' His end was a melancholy one. One of the greatest prose writers of the preceding century had Expired, a driveller and a show, and Soutbey's fate was not more happy than Swift's. His 282 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XV. wife, -who had been deranged for many years, died in 1837, and he had scarcely laid her in the grave when he himself fell into a state of mental imbecility. He was tended with affectionate care by his surviving relatives and friends. Miss Bowles, the daughter of the critic whose edition of Pope had provoked such indignant criticisms from Byron, sympathised with his affliction so deeply that she married him tq. acquire a right to nurse and comfort him. But no care or medical skill could avail him. Foreign travel was tried, but change of air produced no improvement in his health ; change of scene brought no excitement to his mind ; and in the spring of 1843 he died. If we take a comparative view of the character of the poetry of the three friends together, we may probably think that Wordsworth is too subjective : that he wants energy, life, and lifelikeness. No one has a deeper feeling for the beauties of nature ; but no one tells us less about man, or, in spite of one or two pretty pictures, such as that of Margaret in the 'Excursion,' has less power of describing man. There is too much contemplation, and too little action. There can, perhaps, hardly be a stronger proof of the want of poetical charm (proportioned to its length) in the ' Excursion ' than that a very discerning and candid critic of the present day, and one by no means inclined to take a low estimate of Wordsworth's talents, more than hints a wish that the ' Excursion ' had been in prose. Southey has far more action, more energy, with consider- able powers of description ; but his action, and indeed all his poetry, seems to lack originality ; to be derived rather from a study of excellent models than from native force ; and he fails in the nice distinctiveness of character which is indispensable to interest the reader. This defect is perhaps more visible in his European than in his Oriental tales, because we ourselves know more of European than of Oriental feelings. But it exists alike in all. And probably it must be the case in all poems where the scene is laid in a country to which the writer is a total stranger. One or two of Byron's most beautiful works are called Eastern tales, but in fact they do not go beyond the coast of Asia Minor, beyond the countries which he himself had ■ 1774—1843.] SOUTHEY. 283 seen, and of whose inhabitants he had caught the tone and feeling from personal acquaintance. Southey, on the contrary, had no personal knowledge of India ; hut gathered all his ideas on the subject from books. On all subjects, however, he writes like a man of great learning, great industry, great mastery over language, with a man- agement of blank verse superior, I think, to anyone but Milton, and with a very musical ilow in his poems of irregular metre. And so important are these qualities that his works, especially ' Roderick ' and ' Kehama' have always had readers and admirers, and I doubt not will a hundred rears hence be far better known than the generality of the poems of the present day, which are, generally speaking, open to the same strictures, without the learning and painstaking diligence which in him nearly counter- balances his deficiencies. Coleridge has written so little that the highest praise which any but his own immediate circle of family and friends can give him is that much of what he has done shows a degree and a variety of power which might have enabled him to take a much higher place anaong our poets had not aU his gifts been marred by an unsteadiness and irresolution, proceeding probably from ill-health, which prevented his ever devoting himself with a continuous and persevering exertion to any single work of magnitude or importance. The ' Curse of Kehama ' is certainly the poem which shows to the greatest advantage the richness of Southey's imagination ; and the description of a Suttee with which it opens, proves him to have possessed a great power of awakening sympathy ; the despair of the young Nealliuy, sacrificed to a barbarous superstition ere her honeymoon was over, is depicted with great vividness and truth. (The Curse of Kehama.) O sight of grief ! the wives of Arvalan, Young Azla, young Nealliny, are seen ! Their widow-robes of white, With gold and jewels bright, Each like an Eastern queen Woe ! woe ! around their palankeen, As on a bridal day, 284 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XV. With symphony, and dance, and song, Their kindred and their friends come on. The dance of sacrifice ! the funeral song ! And next the victim slaves in long array, Richly bedight to grace the fatal day, Move onward to their death; The clarions' stirring breath Lifts their thin robes in every ilowing fold, And swells the woven gold, That on the agitated air Flutters and glitters to the torch's glare. A man and maid of aspect wan and wild. Then, side by side, by bowmen guarded, came ; O wretched fatlier ! unhappy child ! Them were all eyes of all the throng exploring . . . Is this the daring man Who raised his fatal hand at Arvalan ? Is this the wretch condemn'd to feel Kehama's dreadful wrath ? Then were all hearts of all the throng deploring ; For not in that innumerable throng Was one who loved the dead ; for who could know What aggravated wrong Provoked the desperate blow ! Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight, In order'd files the torches flow along, One ever-lengthening line of gliding light : Far ... far behind. Rolls on the undisting\iishable clamour. Of horn, and trump, and tambour ; Incessant as the roar Of streams which down the wintry mountain pour, And louder than the dread commotion Of breakers on a rocky shore. When the winds rage over the waves, And Ocean to the Tempest raves. And now toward the bank they go. Where winding on their way below, Deep and strong the waters flow. Here doth the funeral pile appear With myrrh and ambergris bestrew'd, And built of precious sandal wood 1774—1843.] SOUTHEY. 285 They cease their music and their outcry here, Gently they rest the bier ; They wet the face of Arvalan, No sign of life the sprinkled drops excite ; They feel his breast, ... no motion there They feel his lips, ... no breath ; For not with feeble, nor with erring hand, The brave avenger dealt the blow of death. Then with a doubling peel and deeper blast, The tambours and the trumpets sound on high, And with a last and loudest cry. They call on Arvalan. Woe ! woe ! for Azla takes her seat Upon the funeral pile ! Calmly she took her seat. Calmly the whole terrific pomp survey'd As on her lap the while The lifeless head of Arvalan was laid. Woe ! woe ! Nealliny, The young Nealiny ! They strip her ornaments away, Bracelet and anklet, ring, and chain, and zone Around her neck they leave The marriage knot alone, . . . That marriage band, which when Yon waning moon was young, Around her virgin neck With bridal joy was hung. Then with white flowers, the coronal of death. Her jetty locks they crown. sight of misery 1 You cannot hear her cries, . . . their sound In that wild dissonance is drown'd ; . . . But in her face you see The supplication and the agony . . . See in her swelling throat the desperate strength That with vain effort struggles yet for life ; Her arms contracted now in fruitless strife, Now wildly at full length Towards the crowd in vain for pity spread, . . . They force her on, they bind her to the dead. 286 ENGLISH LITERATUEB. [Ch. XV Then all around retire ; Circling the pile, the ministering Bramins stand, Each lifting in his hand a torch on fire. Alone the father of the dead advanced And lit the funeral pyre. At once on everj side The circling torches drop, At once on every side The fragrant oil is pour'd. At once on every side The rapid flames rush up Then hand in hand, the victim hand Roll in the dance around the funeral pyre ; Their garments' flying folds Float inward to the fire ; In drunken whirl they wheel around ; One drops, . . . another plunges in ; . . And still with overwhelming din The tambours and the trumpets sound ; And clap of hand, and shouts, and cries From all the multitude arise ; While round and round, in giddy wheel Intoxicate they roll and reel, Till, one by one, whixl'd in they fall, And the devouring flames have swallow'd all. Then all was still ; the drums and clarions ceased ; The multitude were hushed in silent awe ; Only the roaring of the flames vi^as heard. In two subsequent passages lie exerts Ms talents in painting the beauties of nature, the magnificence of old forest trees, and the elaborate beauty of an Eastern garden. But, turning from the view her mournful eyes, Oh, whither should we wander, Kailyal cries, Or wherefoie seek in vain a place of rest ? Have we not here the earth beneath our tread Heaven overhead, A brook that winds through this sequester'd glade, And yonder woods, to yield us fruit and shade ? The little all our wants require is nigh ; Hope we have none ; . . . why travel on in fear ? We cannot fly from Fate, and Fate will find us here. 1774—1843.] SOUTHEY. 287 'Twa8 a fair scene wherein they stood, A green and sunny glade amid the wood, And in the midst an aged banian grew. It was a goodly sight to see That venerable tree. For o'er the lawn, iiTegularly spread, Fifty straight columns propt its lofty head ; And many a long depending shoot, Seeking to strike its root, Sti'aight like a plummet, grew towards t'le ground. Some on the lower boughs which crossed their way, Fixing their bearded libres, round and round, "With many a ring and wild contortion wound, Some to the passing wind at times, with sway - Of gentle motion swung ; Others of younger growth, unmoved, were hung Like stone-drops from the cavern's fretted height ! Beneath was smooth and fair to sight, Nor weeds nor briars deform'd the natural floor, And through the leafy cope which bower'd it o'er Came gleams of ohequer'd light. So like a temple did it seem, that there A pious heart's first impulse would be prayer. And now his feet attain that royal fane Where Baly held of old his awful reign ; What once had been the Gardens spread arouhd Fair Gardens, once which wore perpetual green, Where all sweet flowers through all the year were found, And all fair fruits were through all seasons seen ; A place of Paradise, where each device Of emulous Art with Nature strove to vie ; And Nature, on her part, Call'd forth new powers wherewith to vanquish Art. The Swerga-God himself, with envious eye, Survey'd those peerless gardens in their prime ; Nor ever did the Lord of Light, Who circles Earth and Heaven upon his way. Behold from eldest time a goodlier sight Than were the groves which Baly, in his might, Made for his chosen place of solace and delight. It was a Garden still beyond all price, Even yet it was a place of Paradise ; 288 ENGLISH LITERATURE. Ch. XV. For wliere the migMy Ocean could not spare, There had he with his own creation, Sought to repair his work of devastation. And here were coral howers, And grots of madrepores, And Isanks of sponge, as soft and fair to eye As e'er was mossy hed Whereon the wood-nj'mphs lie With languid limhs in summer's sultry hours. Here too were living flowers Which, like a bud compacted, Their purple cups contracted. And now in open blossom spread, Stretch'd like green anthers many a seeking head. And arborets of jointed stone were there, And plants of fibres fine as silkworm's thread ; Yea, beautiful aa mermaid's golden hair Upon the waves dispread. Others, that like the broad banana growing, Kaised their long wrinkled leaves of purple hue. Like streamers wide outflowing. And whatsoe'er the depths of Ocean hide From human eyes, Ladurlad there espied, Trees of the deep, and shrubs and fruits and flowers. As fair as ours. Wherewith the sea-nymphs love their locks to braid, When to their father's hall, at festival Eepairing they, in emulous array. Their charms display, To grace the banquet, and the solemn day. The golden fountains had not ceased to flow ; And where they mingled with the briny sea. There was a sight of wonder and delight. To see the fish, like birds in air. Above Ladurlad flying. Round those strange waters they repair. Their scarlet fins outspread and plying. They float with gentle hovering there ; And now upon those little wings. As if to dare forbidden things, With wilful purpose bent. Swift as an arrow from a bow. They shoot across, and to and fro. In rapid glance, like lightning go Through that unwonted element. 1774—1843.] SOUTHKY. 289 ' Roderick, the Last of the Goths,' is written in blank verse. In the first of the following passages we have a powerful, though perhaps prolix, description of the agitation of Roderick's mind when preparing for the conflict that, he was painfully conscious, was brought on him by his own vices, of which, indeed, he recognised it as the deserved chastisement. In the second, the battle itself is described with a great deal of poetic fire and energy, though the labour with which it is worked up is too manifest, and it lacks the vigour, arising from compression, which his great contemporaries, Scott and Byron, could infuse into similar scenes. For his lost crown And sceptre never had he felt a thought Of pain ; repentance had no pangs to spare For trifles such as these, . . . the loss of these "Was a cheap penalty ; . . . that he had fallen Down to the lowest depth of wretchedness, His hope and consolation. But to lose His human station in the, scale of things, . . . To see brute nature scorn him, and renounce Its homage to the human form divine ; . . . Had then Almighty vengeance thus revealed Hia punishment, and was he fallen indeed Below fallen man, below redemption's reach, . . . Made lower than the beasts, and like the beasts To perish ! . . . Such temptations troubled him By day, and in the visions of the night ; Aud even in sleep he struggled with the thought, And waking with the effort of his prayers The dream assailed him still. A wilder form Sometimes his poignant penitence assumed, Starting with force revived from intervals Of calmer passion or exhausted rest ; "When floating back upon the tide of thought Kemembrance to a self-excusing strain Beguiled him, and recall'd in long array The sorrows and the secret impulses Which to the abyss of wretchedness and guilt Led their unwary victim. The evil hour Eetum'd upon him, when reluctantly Yielding to worldly counsel his assent, 290 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XV. In wedlock to an ill-asaorted mate He gave hia cold unwilling hand : then came The disappointment of the barren bed, The hope deceived, the soul dissatisfied, Home without love, and privacy from which Delight was banish'd first, and' peace too soon Departed. Was it strange that when he met A heart attuned, ... a spirit like his own. Of lofty pitch, yet in affection mild, And tender as a youthful mother's joy, . . Oh was it strange if at such sympathy The feelings which within his breast repell'd And chill'd had shrunk, should open forth like flowers After cold winds of night, when gentle gales Restore the genial sun ? If all were known. Would it indeed be not to be forgiven ? . . . (Thus would he lay the unction to his soul,) If all were truly known, as Heaven knows all, Heaven that is merciful as well as just, . . . A passion slow and mutual in its growth, Pure as fraternal love, long self-concealed And when confess'd in silence, long controll'd ; Treacherous occasion, human frailty, fear Of endless separation, worse than death, . . . The purpose and the hope with which the Fiend Tempted, deceived, and madden'd him, . . . but then . As at a new temptation would he start, Shuddering beneath the intolerable shame, And clench in agony hia matted hair ; While in his soul the perilous thought arose. How easy 'twere to plunge where yonder waves Invited him to rest. Oh for a voice Of comfort, ... for a ray of hope from Heaven I A hand that from these billows of despair May reach and snatch him ere he sink engulph'd ! With that he fell upon the old man's neck ; Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins. And soon rejoin'd the host. ' On, comrades, on ! Victory and Vengeance ! ' he exclaim'd, and took The lead on that good charger, he alone Horsed for the onset. They with one consent Gave all their voices to the inspiring cry, ' Victory and Vengeance ! ' and the hills and rocks 1774—1^43.] SOUTHEY. 29 1 Caught the prophetic shout and rolled it round. Count Pedro's people heard amid the heat Of battle, and return'd the glad acclaim. The astonish'd Musselmen, on all sides charged, Hear that tremendous cry ; yet manfully They stood, and everywhere with gallant front Opposed in fair array the shock of war. Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms. And knowing that no safety could be found ' Save from their own right hands. No former day Of all his long career had seen their chief Approved so well ; nor had Witiza's sons Ever before this hour achieved in fight Such feats of resolute valour. Sisibert Beheld Pelayo in the field afoot, And twice essay'd beneath his horse's feet To thrust him down. Twice did the prince evade The shock, and twice upon his shield received The fratricidal sword. ' Tempt me no more, Son of Witiza,' cried the indignant chief, ' Lest' I forget what mother gave thee birth ! Go meet thy death from any hand but mine I ' He said, and turn'd aside. ' Fitliest from me ! ' Exclaim'd a dreadful voice, as through the throng Orelio forced his way, ' fitliest from me Receive' the rightful death too long withheld ! 'Tis Roderick strikes the blow!^ And as he spake, Upon the traitor's shoulder fierce he drove The weapon, well-bestow'd. He in the seat Totter'd and fell. The Avenger hasten'd on In search of Ebba ; and in the heat of fight Rejoicing and forgetful of all else, Set up his cry as he was wont in youth, ' Roderick the Goth !' ... his war-cry known so well. Pelayo eagerly took up the word, And' shouted out his kinsman's name beloved, ' Roderick the Goth ! Roderick and Victory ! Roderick and Vengeance ! ' Odoar gave it forth ; Urban repeated it, and through his ranks Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field Of his great victory, when Witiza fell, "With louder acclamations had that name Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven. The unreflecting throng, who yesterday, u 2 292 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Oh. XV. If it liad paaa'd their lips, -would with a curse Have clogg'd it, echoed it as if it came From some celestial voice in the air, reveal'd To be the certain pledge of all their hopes, ' Roderick the Goth ! Roderick and Victory ! Roderick and Vengeance ! ' O'er the field it spread, All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry ; Mountains, and rocks, and vales re-echoed round ; And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on, Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and smote, And overthrew, and scatter'd, and destroy'd. And trampled down ; and still at every blow Exidtingly he sent the war-cry forth, ' Roderick the Goth ! Roderick and Victory ! Roderick and Vengeance ! ' Thus he made his way, Smiting and slaying ■through the astonish'd ranka Till he beheld, where on a fiery barb, , Ebba, performing well a soldier's part. Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows. Witi mutual rage they met. The renegade Displays a, scymitar, the splendid gift Of Walid from Damascus sent ; its hilt Emboss'd with gems, its blade of perfect steel. Which, likea mirror sparkling to the sun. With dazzling splendour flash'd. The Goth objects His shield, and on its rim receives the e!dge Driven from its aim aside, and of its force Diminish'd. Many a frustrate stroke was dealt ■On either part, and many a foin and thrust Aini'd and rebated ; many a deadly blow Straight or reverse, delivered and repell'd. Roderick at length with better speed hath reach'd The apostate's turban, and through all its folds The true Cantabrian weapon making way Attain'd bis forehead. ' Wretch ! ' the avenger cried, ' It comes from Roderick's hand ! Roderick the Goth, Who spared, who trusted thee, and was betray'd ! Go tell thy father now how thou has sped With. all thy treasons ! ' Saying thus he seized The miserable, who, blinded.nowwithi blood, Reel'd in the saddle ; and with sidelong step Backing Orelio, drew him to the ground. He shrieking,, as beneath the horse's fe^ 1774—1843.1 SOUTHEY. 293 He fell, forgot his late-tearnt creed, and called On Mary's name. The dreadful Goth pass'd on, Still plunging through the thickest war, and still Scattering, where'er he turned, the affrighted ranks. Oh who could tell what deeds were wrought that day; Or who endure to hear the tale of rage, Hatred, and madness, and despair, and fear, Horror, and wounds, and agony, and death. The cries, the blasphemies, the shrieks, and groans, And prayers, which mingled with the din of arms In one wild uproar of terrific sounds ; While over all predominant was heard, Reiterate from the conquerors o'er the field, ' Roderick the Goth ! Roderick and Victory ! Roderick and Vengeance ! ' 294 ENGLISH LITEEATURK [.Ch. XVI. •CHAPTEE XVI. WALTER SCOTT. A.D. 1771-1832. It has been mentioned, that Coleridge's ' Christabel ' had suggested to Walter Scott the metre for the ' Lay of the Last Minstrel.' So that it is almost in a natural order that we now come to consider the works and character of that great writer who, since the days of Milton, must be accounted the chief pride and glory of British literature. He is the only author in any country who by general con- sent is admitted to stand in the very front rank as a composer of both poetry and prose ; his prose, that is to say, his novels, being indeed in many points akin to his , poetry. Walter Scott was bom in Edinburgh on August 15, 1771, being one of the younger sons of a writer to the Signet of the same name. He was, as he has recorded in a short autobiographical sketch of liis early days, of gentle birth, his father belonging to the Scotts of Harden, a branch of the great Border family of Buccleuch,' and his mother being descended from the'Swintons, a knightly house of great distinction in the feudal ages. In one respect his childhood was unfortunate, since, before he was two years old, he was attacked by a fever which left his right leg shrunk and greatly enfeebled ; but the judicious pains which were taken to remove the infirmity, though they did not succeed in that object, taking the direction of giving him abundant fresh air, and as much exercise as he was capable of, rendered him a remarkably strong and healthy boy. His infirmity, however, necessarily disabled him from taking part in the, games of his schoolfellows, and drove him to find his chief amusement in reading. He was not indMerent to the beauties of the Latin poets, and 1771—1832.] SCOTT. 295 before lie was fifteen gained considerable credit with tlie Rector of the High School of Edinburgh, where he was educated, for some volunteer translations of Horace and Virgil, which were considered to show great poetical fiicility ; but his faTOurite studies were not so much the classical authors which win the commendation of school- masters, as old ballads, records of the early history of his native land, and of the sufferings of the Royalists in the Stuart cause ; his minute acquaintance with which had different influences on the different J)eople with whom he was brought into contact. Some of the staid old visitors of his father thought a boy who disturbed the house by shouting out stanzas of ' Hardyknute,' and other legendary tales of that class, little better than a nuisance ; but his schoolfellows, as boys are apt to do, appreciated highly a talent which to them had the additional charm of novelty. And, as he had the skill to impart his knowledge to others, a knot of them would gather round the fire on winter evenings to listen to the tales which he had culled from his favourite books, and which he poured forth with a memory and power of embellishment that gave general delight, and won him warmer admiration than if he had been the best golf or football player in the school. The practice of this pastime in his schoolboy days was the foreshadowing of the renown he was destined to achieve, and of the universal delight he . was hereafter to give to the whole nation. He did not, however, remain long at school. His father destined him for his own profession ; and, before he was fifteen, he was removed from school to learn the law in his father's office, where he managed to combine with the due performance of the tasks allotted to him there, a tolerably free ind algence in studies more congenial to his taste, and even to open for himself a wider and richer field by learning French and Italian. At the age of twenty-one he was called to the bar, and, being aided by his professional con- nections, speedily began to get a little business, and a fair reputation as a rising young advocate ; still, however, keeping up and extending his school character, as one deeply versed in all the traditions of past ages, and nn- 296 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XVI. rivalled in Hs faculty of relating tales founded on them. Even then it might have been safe to predict that he would hereafter aspire to the fame of the novelist. But in 1794 the accidental hearing of an unpublished version of a German ballad, Burger's ' Leonora,' re-awakened' his poetical talent. He remembered the praise he had won while a boy by his translations of Virgil and Horace, and undertook to famish another version of ' Leonora,' which he executed with a fidelity and vigour that earned him warm praise from all who were allowed to see it, a verdict which was fully confirmed when, a couple of years after- wards, he published his translation with others of one or two more poems by the same author. The fondness for writing, like other appetites, is increased by indulgence ; he executed other translations from the German, which were pubKshed in Monk Lewis's ' Tales of Wonder ; ' and, being emboldened by the praise he met with, he presently ventured on some original ballads in something of the same style, varying his hterary occupations with what he calls an ' office most inconsistent with romance,' that of organising a body of volunteer cavalry to provide against a hostile invasion, which was known to be a favourite project of the rulers of France at that period, of which force he himself became quartermaster, discharging his new duties with characteristic zeal, and with an unfail- ing heartiness of merriment which rendered his comrades as enthusiastic in the service as himself; and also by falling in love with a Miss Carpenter, who shortly after- wards became his wife. The lady had a competent fortune, and at the end of 1799 her husband was placed in a situa- tion to indulge his literary tastes with less scruple, by being appointed to the office of Sheriff of Selkirkshire, with a salary of 300Z. a year. He began almost at once to slacken in his attention to his profession, except as far as the duties of his new office were concerned; though 'the first work of importance which he took in hand was not an original composition, but the collecting and editing the ballads of the Scottish border, a task of great difficulty and labour, since many of them were only preserved in single broadsheets scattered here and there among the illiterate 1771—1832.] SCOTT. 297 population of the farmers and shepterds of the district, and for some he had nothing to trust to but the memories of those who had recited or sung them in their youth. But the labour was to him, indeed, a labour of love ; and, as he undertook it -with, enthusiasm, he executed it with complete success, building up a high reputation among the lovers of literature in England as well as in Scotland, which made everyone look with eagerness for some com- position of his own. They were not long before they were gratified in a far higher degree than could have been antici- pated by his warmest admirers. He had added to the last volume of the ' Border Minstrelsy ' a few original ballads in professed imitation of the style and in the old-fashioned stanza, and was planning some more elaborate work, but was perplexed by the difficulty of finding a suitable subject, when Lady Dalkeith, then lately married, was attracted by an old goblin tradition which one of her new neighbours on the Border had related to her, and suggested it to her clansman, as the poet was proud to consider himself, as a theme for another ballad. ' To hear was to obey ; ' but he was anxious to try some other metre than the old quatrain, and was doubting what to substitute for it, when the recitation by a friend of a fragment of Coleridge's ' Ohristabel,' not yet published, struck his ear as presenting the very metre which of all others was the most suitable for a poem on so fanciful a subject. A happier idea never occurred to any poet. He improved upon his model, imparting to the rhythm a variety and also an energy which is to be found in the works of no previous employer of the metre, and in the beginning of 1805 he published the ' Lay of the Last Minstrel,' which at once placed him immeasurably above all existing poets, and on a level with all who had written since Milton. Its popularity certainly exceeded that of any poem that had ever been published ; new editions could hardly be printed with sufficient rapidity. . Even the critics by profession, who at that time seemed to think criticism inconsistent with praise, could scarcely find any- thing to blame in it, beyond the introduction of a few homely Scotch names, while everyone else was loud and unanimous in admiration. Even the great minister, amid 298 ENGLISH LITEEATTJEB. [Ch. XVL tlie overwlielming cares whicli were helping to bow Jiim down to an early grave, stole an hour from Nelson's •despatclies, for the ' last of all the bards who sang of border chivalry,' and owned that he had derived from the poem a greater idea than he had hitherto had of the power of poetry. Some of the descriptions, he said, had impressed him with a sense of reality which he should previously have thought within the reach perhaps of painting, but utterly unattainable by the descriptive powers of any writer.* And the ' Lay ' did, indeed, deserve all the praise it re- ceived. No poem in the language showed a greater feeling of the beauties of nature, or combined with it a richer power in describing human feelings, or a more accurate acquaintauce with the character of the age, though bygone, in which the scene was laid. -The Minstrel himself, in whose mouth the ' Lay ' is put, is confessedly among the most beautifal creations of any poet. And I might speak of the vigour of his warlike pictures, of the exquisite delicacy of his female portraiture, as equal in merit, were not these qualities shown still more conspicuously in some of the works which followed. For it was impossible that success such as he had met with could fail to beget an appetite for another triumph. And the ' Lay ' was hardly published before he began to arrange the plot of a second poem ; though first giving himself a respite which no man but one of such vast knowledge of our early literature, and unwearied industry, would have thought a relief, by editing Dryden's works, and writing an elaborate memoir of ' Glorious John.' ' Poetry,' as he wrote to one of his most valued friends, ' is a scourging crop, and should not be hastily repeated. Editing is a green crop of turnips, extremely useful for those who cannot afford a summer fallow.' ^ And it took so long to get this green crop out of the ground that it was not till three years after the pub- lication of the 'Lay' that 'Marmion,' a tale of Flodden ' Lockhart'e Life of Scott, c. 34. Pitt probably had in his mind. ' Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures, Quam quEB sunt oculis subjecta fidelibua.' ° Lockhart, ibid. 1771—1832.] SCOTT. 299 "Field, was published. The ' Lay ' had not more outrun all the anticipations o£ its excellence than ' Marmion ' now exceeded the still warmer expectations to which the beauty of its predecessor had given birth. When the Edinburgh reviewer, who is understood to have been the editor him- self, the Tedoubted Jeffrey, declared that ' no epic bard whom he could remember carried the reader forward with a more rapid, sustained, and lofty movement than Scott, in his description of the ' fatal field. Where sKiver'd was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield, readers in general agreed with him, and were for a moment hardly inclined to quarrel with a verdict which seemed to place the poet of their own age and country on a level even with Homer. And in truth it was not only in the marvellous energy of his battle-pieces that Scott trod, though at a respectful distance, in the steps of the great father of poets. If Helen and Andromache dehght the classical . scholar by the contrast they present to Hector and Achilles; our own poet has drawn Margaret, and Constance, and Ellen with a delicacy of touch and a keen appreciation of pure and womanly feeling which, as a female portrait painter, bespeak him inferior to Homer alone. Yet great as ' Marmion ' is, in enduring popularity it has hardly equalled the ' Lady of the Lake,' which after an interval of two years succeeded it. The ' Lady of the Lake ' differed from both ' Marmion ' and the ' Lay ' in having a more carefully elaborated plan, a more highly polished diction, with a versification more uniformly melodious, if not more richly varied or more vigorous, which apparently showed it to be the author's favourite : in other respects it partook of the excellences of both its predecessors. Pitt might again have marvelled that language should ever be able to impress the mind with such a feeling of lifelike reality as was produced by Roderick's clansmen starting from the heather to overwhelm the hardy stranger who aiflFronted their chief in his own district. If a single combat can ever be compared to a general battle, then the duel between the chieftain and Eitzjames may be placed alongside even 300 - ENGLISH LITERATUEE. • [Ch. XVI. Flodden. Nor must we omit to notice the discrimination with which, in ' Marmion ' and the ' Lady of the Lake,' the poet has painted the diflferent characters of the two kings, fally preserving the dignity of both, but drawing a careful distinction between the courtly stateliness: with which the father leads out the Lady Heron to the danee-, and the con- descending affability with which the son ■ was bending low To his white jennet's saddle-bow, Doiiing his cap to city dame, Who smiled and blushed for pride and shame ; so that Byron declared he was especially ' the poet of princes,' and the Regent himself, a very accomplished and competent judgCj assented, with the addition that Scott's kings ' were no less royal than poetical.' ' Another peculiar charm of the ' Lady of the Lake ' was to be found in the descriptions of rural or rather mountain and sylvan scenery which are profusely scattered over it, showing his right, in another point of view, also to the title of the most pic- turesque of modem poets. These three are usually reckoned his masterpieces,, though they were followed by others which would have established the reputation of any unknown writer. The scene of his next, ' Rokeby^' was laid in England, at the time of the Rebellion ; and he himself hoped not only that it would succeed with,_but that it would also in some degree surprise, the public, because ' the interest of the work turned upon character,' while, in his own view, or at least in his own intention, 'the force in the "Lay" had been thrown on s^yZe ; in "Marmion" on description ; in the " Lady of the Lake " on incident.' He especially names Bertram, the ' villain ' of the piece, as ' a Oaravaggio sketch, quite in keeping' with nature, whatever critics may say to the contrary.' ^ But in all probability he was thinking more, even if he did not acknowledge it to himself, of Matilda, whom he admits to be drawn from life, and of whom Lockhart believes the original to have been a lady with whom in his youth he had fallen '• tockhart's Life.,,e. 25. " Jbid. a. 26. 1771— IS32.] SCOTT. 301 ardently in love, conjecturing further that the rivalry for Matilda's hand, described in the poem, presented ' some- thing more than a shadow ' of the circumstances and dis- appointment of Scott's own love-suit. I mentioned hefore his undertaking a ' Life of Dryden ' and an edition of his works as a sort of holiday. At the same time that he was writing the ' Lady of the Lake ' and ' Rokeby ' he was also engaged in a similar way on Swift. And he now carried his fancy for relieving his mind by occupying it with different employments at the same time further than before, by adding to Swift and ' Rokeby' a second poem, the ' Bridal of Triermain,' in the publication of which he also indulged himself in mystifying the pubHc in something of the same way that he tried afterwards on a larger scale. In less than two months after the publica- tion of ' Rokeby,' the 'Bridal ' came out anonymously. It certainly seemed almost impossible that the author of ' Rokeby ' should have written it in the time.' And the most experienced and judicious critics treated it as an imitation of his style ; the critic in the ' Quarterly Review,' himself an intimate fi-iend of Scott, but one who had not been let into the secret, even pronouncing that, ' if inferior in vigour to some of his productions, it equalled or surpassed them in elegance and beauty.' To equal the vigour of ' Marmion ' was perhaps almost impossible ; but certainly Scott, in the tournament for Gyneth's hand has surpassed everyone but himself. Even the admirers of Dryden, who alone of our poets since the Restoration had been distin- guished for his energy, and who has drawn a similar scene, must allow that the toumay in ' Palamon and Arcite ' can bear no comparison with this ; while the tenderness and delicacy of the scene in which Arthur, like ^neas, takes leave of Guendolen, another Dido of gentler temper, was wholly beyond the conception of Dryden, or the genius of his age. Once more, and once more only, did he woo the Muse. And before that time lie had laid the foundation of a fiime surpassing even that which his poems had won for him, by the publication of ' Waverley.' I say fame, because, though the great novel, like the ' Bridal,' was published anony- 302 ENGLISH LITEBATTJEE. [Ch. XVI. mously, the conviction tliat no one litit Scott could be the author was so strong and so universal that from the very first it was spoken of as his. As his friend Horritt, of Eokeby, told him, ' he wore his disguise something after the manner of Bottom the weaver ; and. in spite of himself the truth would soon peep out.' And in a very short time the belief ripened into as much certainty as could attach to an opinion which the author abstained from ratifying by an open avowal. In his last poem he went back to his native land for the scene, to the greatest of her sons for his hero. The ' Lord- of the Isles ' is the title ; the subject is Bruce and Bannockburn ; and Bruce's exploits do not more exceed those of ordinary men than the celebration of them here surpasses iu beauty and vigour the pictures drawn by any other modem poets of other heroes. The ' Lord of the Isles ' is as brilliant in colouring as the 'Lay,' as vivid in description as the ' Lady of the Lake ; '' it even introduces us to scenes which the author had previously left untried, in the adventurous voyage of the great chief among the islets gay That guard famed Staffa round ; and if we were to search through all his works in prose and poetry for a proof of the inexhaustible richness and variety of his imagination, it would not be possible to find a more convincing example of it than is afforded by the complete difference between his descriptions of two battles which must have had so many features in common as Hodden and Bannockburn, fought, as they were, by the same nations, in the same district, with the sauae weapons. But the ' Lord of the Isles ' was his last poem. More than one circumstance led to its being so. The unparalleled popularity of ' Waverley,' and of the second novel, ' Guy Mannering,' which came out a few weeks after the poem, and which made him believe that he had lighted on a new vein of his genius, less worked out, was, no doubt, the principal fact which unconsciously influenced him ; but he himself attributed his abandonment of poetry to the percep- tion that the pubhc taste was inclined to prefer a new rival, Byron, who had lately been pouring forth, with a 1771—1832.] SCOTT. 303 profusion and rapidity equal to his own, poem after poem of sparkling brilliancy, vividness of passion, and energy of action, these qualities being set ■ off by the novelty of the scenery, which was laid in distant and then but little known lands ; while, to the fashionable English world, like other fashionable worlds, always inclined to whatever was newest, the attractiveness of the works was further heightened by a mood of melancholy and misanthropy which ran through them, and by a general impression that, whatever might be the names of the heroes, the characters were aU drawn, and that designedly, from the poet himself. The combination of these different attractions was, for a time, irresistible. Not even in their first flush of popu- larity had as many copies of the ' Lay ' or ' Marmion ' been sold in a month as were sold of,the ' Corsair ' or the ' Bride of Abydos ' in a single day. And Scott, who had always entertained a far humbler idea of his own poetical genius and of the striking value of his works than anyone else, without a sigh relinquished the field to his youthful rival, and, for the rest of his life, confined himself to his novels. I should not do justice to the singularly amiable, honest character of the man if I omitted to point out the absolute freedom from jealousy or envy which his whole conduct towards Byron evinces. Literary men, and especially poets; have too often incurred the reproach of bearing ' no rival near their throne.' We have seen the fierce ill-will which Dryden and Pope bore to almost all the poetical brother- hood of their own day. And if Scott had regarded Byron ■with such a feeling, the younger poet would have had no reason to complain, since, in his youth, he had gone out of his way to provoke it, by a wanton attack on all of Scott's poems that were before the world when he published his satire. But Scott was too generous to resent a folly which he knew had been repented of, and so far too magnanimous to feel jealousy of contemporary merit, even when, for the moment, it seemed to prevent his own works from receiving their due meed of praise, that no one extolled Byron's poems more warmly, nor, when the noble poet was attacked on other grounds, did anyone stand forward more earnestly or more judiciously in his defence. 304 ENGLISH LITEEATUEli;. [Ch. XVI. If, before proceeding to speak of his novels, we pause to estimate the rank to which Scott is entitled as a poet, w^e may probably come to the conclusion that his poems are deficient in no one quality requisite either to excite momen- tary admiration or to create permanent interest in the mind of the reader. They are distinguished by both richness and boldness of imagination, by truth of character, by~ picturesqueness of description, and, generally speaking, by great propriety of language, and exquisite power and variety of versification ; though, on these latter points, he is confessedly at times careless ; nor does his ear seem to have that exquisite correctness, that keen perception of an inharmonious line which distinguished Byron. But his more especial characteristics seem to be, in the first place, a grand antique simplicity, and in the second, an uninter- rupted activity. There is no want of appropriate and characteristic refiection when the occasion requires such ; but, on the other hand, there are no musings of contempla- tive inddlence, brought in suitably and unsuitably, in such a guise that even admirers would as willingly see them in prose, and that detractors find a difficulty in distinguish- ing them from, prose, except by the form in which they are printed. Scott's subjects are the antique themes, chosen in the times when the burden of minstrelsy Was knighthood's dauntless deed, and beauty's matchless eye. Hia conception of the poet's duty is, as he has implied in another passage, to preserve in faithful song alike the true love of the maiden, the glory of the warrior, the feudal grandeur of the royal chief, and an equally chivalrous appreciation of what is due to them pervades the whole of his works. Fashion, or what Byron pronounced to be merely a surfeit of his beauties and a weariness of hearing one name singled out for especial and continual praise, may have caused him for a time to be superseded in the popular favour, but the people are rarely linjust or blind for any length of time. In the present day I tbink he and Byron share with very tolerable equality the admi- ration of readers of poetry ; both being surpassed for the 1771-1832.] SCOTT. 305 moment in the number of their present admirers by living writers of immeasurably inferior powers. Nor is this to be wondered at. In a state of society such as now exists, it always wiU happen that the friends and panegyrists of living bards wiU. succeed for the moment in exalting them above their predecessors. But though superficial qualities may win temporary eulogy, nothing but solid merit can permanently engross the attention of posterity ; and there is but little risk in predicting that in succeeding generations, when the impartial verdict of time shall have superseded the influences of partiality and fashion, much that is now placed on a level with them will in its turn be supplanted by newer favourites, and the poems of Scott and Byron will be accounted classics of the language. It remains to speak of his novels. It has been said already that they were distinguished by many of the quali- ties which had won such general favour for his poetry. And in truth a great novelist must necessarily be endowed with many of the qualities of the poet. Like him he must have a fertile imagination, an appreciation of character, an instinctive and unswerving sense of propriety, a mastery of language, and a power of lively and diversified descrip- tion. All these Scott of course brought to his new compo- sitions, and thus shed over them a grace of which, without his example, prose might hardly have been supposed capable ; adding, also, a liveliness of wit and humour for which the poems had furnished little or no occasion. It would carry us beyond our limits to attempt to give a separate description of the different tales which, for the next twelve or fourteen years, he poured forth with a luxuriant and seemingly inexhaustible rapidity which was not the least surprising circumstance connected with them. With the exception of two, in wliich he turns aside to foreign countries to bring before h.is readers the wily Louis XI., with the bold or rash Charles of Burgundy, the scenes are all laid in the British Isles, some being de- signed to give an idea of the characters of one or other of our ancient princes : of Richard I., of John, of Elizabeth, of Mary of Scotland, of James I,, of Charles II., or of their X 306 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XVI. luckless descendant, the young Pretender ; others heing devoted to a representation of the domestic life and man- ners of his own countrymen, or of their neighbours on the northern frontier of England, And it is hard, indeed, to say which class, or which separate tale, is the most excel- lent. If, in portraying the fiery Richard or the irresistible Queen of Scots, he shows himself, as brilliantly as in his poems, the especial painter of princes, ' Guy Manneriug,' ' The Antiquary,' and the ' Heart of Mid Lothian ' prove him no less able to enter into the feelings of the humbler classes. Perhaps the sorrow of others has never appealed to our sym- pathies more tenderly than in the agony of the old fisherman and his wife, suddenly bereft of the son who was not only their pride, but, as they fondly believed, the admiration of all their friends ; or in the mute despair with which the old Cameronian holds between his hands the evidence of his daughter's shame and danger. The half-witted dependent of' the old Baron ; the ever ready wit of Ravenswood's faithful old servant, who fears neither ridicule in this world nor judgment in the next, if he can only save the credit of the family, and in whose eyes ' a good offcome ' is often better than the thing itself,' are drawn with equal truth to nature ; while, though differing in the motives which led them to the field, DaJgetty is not unworthy to be placed alongside the immortal lover of Dulcinea. The point in which the novels most closely resemble the poems is the exquisite • dehoagy of the female portraits which are exhibited in both. If poetry has rarely surpassed the pictures of Margaret, and Ellen, and Edith, prose has certainly never approached the delineation of the noble-minded Alice Lee, of the more lively Die Vernon, of the lovely but Ul-starred Amy Rob- sart ; and such masterly portraiture of the sex which, generally speaking, presents- less distinctive features than are brought out by the more varied careers of their rougher partners, is probably the surest proof of genius of the very highest class. It is sad to have to close this sketch with the statement that circumstances connected with, and indeed immediately ' Scotch, or Caleb Balderston, for ' an excuse.' 1771—1832.] SCOTT. 307 arising out of the unprecedented merit and popularity of these novels, led to misfortunes which clouded, and pro- bably shortened,, the latter days of their great author. He had conceived a friendship for his chief publisher and printers, of whom Constable was one, and two brothers named John and James Ballantyne the others, so that he had got into the habit of giving them assistance in' their pecuniary transactions, and, at last, had become a partner in BaUantyne's house, and involved, to a considerable extent, in the affairs of that of Constable also. With the management of any part of the commercial transactions of either he had never interfered, leaving it entirely in the hands of those ostensibly responsible, of whom Constable was utterly reckless, and James Ballantyne incurably care- less and indolent. The consequence might have been fore- seen. ■ The winter of 1825—6 was fatal to many firms whose business was conducted with prudence and energy ; houses such as those of these Scotch publishers and printers had no chance of escaping, and in January 1826 Scott foundi himself a partner of bankrupts and himself a bankrupt. It was a calamity which might have bowed any man to the earth, for it was no common misfortune that thus fell upon him. The whole earnings of a long and honorable hfe were swept away at one blow. He had conceived a hope that he too, by acts veiy different from those practised by his border ancestors, . might fouiid a distinct branch of the great Scott family, and with this view he had gradually purchased a tolerable estate, and had built on it a house in something of the old baronial style, to which he had given the name of Abbotsford, and where he hoped his descend- ants might long preserve his memory. That hope, so honorable to conceive, so long and so proudly cherished, seemed struck from under him, for the habilities in which Ballantyne had involved him were more than enough to absorb aU his resources. But never did misfortune, often as it brings cut high qualities which might otherwise never have been observed or never exerted, display any man's strength of mind or inflexible honesty of purpose in a more striking or honorable light. It didno slight honour also to the sincerity of friendship and the warmth of admiration x2 308 ENGLISH -LITEEATURE. [Ch. XVI. "vrhick geaeroBS minds feel for genius exerted, as his had been, for the honour of his oonntry and the benefit of mankind. It was not till the inevitable exposure of his partner's affairs necessitated the disclosure that he formally avowed himself the author of ' Waverley,' and of the brilliant series of works which had hitherto been published m.erely as the productions of that author. But he was universally believed, if it might not be said known to be the writer, and many of those to whom, as Lord Dudley said,^ he had 'given months of delight, hastened to show their sense of the obligation. From all quarters offers of the most liberal assistance flowed in, one anonymous ad- mirer, whose incognito was never penetrated, even making the munificent offer of placing 30'fiOOl. at his disposal. A musician named Pole, who had given lessons on the harp to Miss Scott, tendered him 600L or 600L,~ 'probably his all' as Scott remarked ; but he declined all such aid ; he resolved that ' he would involve no friend, rich or poor.' It was a gratification and a great one, to see, as he records in his journal, such proofs that ' there is much good in the world' after all.' -But he was resolved to owe his extrication from debt to himself alone. He had once become rich by his pen ; he was resolved by his pen alone to free himself from every claim which could be brought against him. When the crash came, it found him at work on one of his mast exquisite novels, ' Woodstock ; ' and he had also un- dertaken, some "time before, to write a life of the great Napoleon 'for a miscellany which - Constable had been pro- jecting. The idea of the miscellany Tvas of course dropped, though only for a time. But the moment that ' Woodstock ' was publisftied, Scott commenced the Life, and toiled at it with such uaceasing perseverance' that he completed it in a single yeai". It can hardly be said to be worthy of his ■fame ; but it produced him a vast sum 6i money ; a sum which, as his affectionate biographer, his son-in-law Lock- ' On hearing 'of his involvement in Ballantyne's bankruptcy, Earl Dudley said to Mr. Morritt of Eokeby, ' Scott ruined ! the author of Waverley ruined ! Let every man to ■whom he has given months of delight give 'him a sixpence, '-and he will rise to-morrow .richer than Eothschildv 1771—1832.] SCOTT. 309 hart, says, startles him even to mention : 18,O0OZ. : hj far the largest ever paid for any literary work of any kind. It ■was very near having one other consequence scarcely less renia,rkahle ; as General Gonrgand, an aide-de-camp of the Emperor, who fancied the book represented him at some disadvantage, threatened to cross over to England and prove his innocence by challenging the author ; and Scott, resolved not to let ' his country be dishonoured through his side ' provided himself with a second against the arrival of his martial adversary. But the General's wrath found safer vent in a pamphlet, and Scott was left at leisure to continue his exertions to clear off his liabilities. The ' Fair Maid of Perth ' succeeded ' Woodstock ; ' ' Anne of Geierstein,' a tale of great power, followed the ' Fair Maid ; ' in two years Scott actually paid off 40,000L by his labours ; and so highly did Ballantyne's creditors: appreciate his unequalled efforts to satisfy their demands, efforts the more honorable that a court had decided that they had no claim whatever to any part of his earnings subsequent to the bankruptcy, that they presented him with ' all the furniture, plate, library, paintings, and,' as they expressed it, ' curiosities of every description,' which were contained at Abbotsfor.d, and 'in grateful acknowledgment of the unparalleled and most successful exertions which he had made and continued to make for them.' But these exertions overtasked his strength, and in April 1831 brought on a severe stroke of paralysis, of which indeed he had some warnings in an attack of illness nearly two years before. He tried a milder air, and, by the advice of his physicians, in the autumn exchanged the bleakness . of his native • climate for the sunny shores of the Medi- terranean, the Government placing a frigate at his disposal to convey him to his destination. Yet, even when his strength was thus broken, he would not lay aside work : he had still two novels in hand, to which he put the finishing strokes before he sailed ; but they bear the trace of his ill- ness, and are not worthy of his reputation. The winter in Italy afforded a relaxation to- his mind, but it could not remove the bodily infirmities; and, longing once more to see ■ his home, he quitted Naples early in the spring. As he; 310 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XVI. travelled back overland tliroiigli Germany, •with perhaps greater rapidity than consisted with his weakness, he had a more serious attack than before, so that it was not without difl&cnlty that he reached London, and many weets passed before he could be removed northwards. At last, however, in the middle of July, he reached Abbotsford, and there, after two more months of debility, it may be hoped, rather than of suffering, he died on the 21st of September. If literature had made no man as wealthy as he for a time had been, still more certainly may it be said that no literary man had descended to the grave with such honour. ' Almost every newspaper that announced the event in Scotland, and many in England, had the signs of mourning usual on the demise of the king.'' A general sorrow affected all classes,^ who felt that they had lost one who was an honour, not only to his country, but to his kind : a man at once of unsurpassed genius and of stainless honour. Our first extract gives Scott's own idea of the functions of a poet, as the preserver from oblivion of every feeling, and cif every kind of renown. (Lay of the Last Minstrel, canto v. stanzas 1, 2.) ■Call it not vain : they do not err Who say that, when the Poet dies, Mut» Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his ohsequies ; Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, For the departed bard make moan ; That mountains weep in crystal rill ; That flowers in tears of balm distil ; Through his loved groves that breezes sigh. And oaks, in deeper gi-oan, reply; That rivers teach their rushing wave, To murmur dirges round his grave. ' Loekhart's Life of Scott, chap. Ixxxiii. * Allan Cunningham mentions that, walking home late one night (ia June 1832), he found several working-men standing together at the corner of Jermyn Street, and one of them asked him — as if there were but one deathbed in London — 'Do you know, air, if this is the street in which he is lying?' 1771— 1832.] SCOTT. 311 Not that, in sooth, o'er mortal urn, Those things inanimate can mourn ; But that the stream, the wood, the gale, Is vocal with the plaintive wail Of those, who, else forgotten long. Lived in the poet's faithful song, And with the poet's parting breath, "Whose memory feels a second death. The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot, That love, true love, should be forgot. From rose and hawthorn shaies the tear. Upon the gentle minstrel's bier : The phantom knight, his glory fled, Mourns o'er the field he heaped with dead ; Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain. And shrieks along the battle-plain : The chief, whose antique crownlet long StiU sparkled in the feudal song, Now, from the mountain's misty throne. Sees, in the thanedom once his own, His ashes undistinguished lie. His place, his power, his memory die : His groans the lonely caverns fill, His tears of rage impel the rill ; AU mourn the minstrel's harp unstrung, Their name unknown, their praise imsung. Another extract from the same poem has been often quoted as embodying the spirit of true patriotism, with more vividness than any other poet since Shakespeare has ex- pressed that most noble and most beneficial of all feelings ; that parent of all dutiful service to the land ; that source of aU that is honorable and disinterested in the person who guides himself by its impnlses. (Canto vi. stanzas 1, 2.) Breathes there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, ' This is my own, my native land ! ' Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned. From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 312 ENGLISH LITERATtrjBE. [Ch. XVI. High though, his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And douhly dying, shall go down, To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. O Caledonia ! stern and wild. Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood. Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires, what mortal hand Can e%r untie the filial hand, That knits me to thy rugged strand ! Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft. Sole Mends, thy woods and streams were left : And thus I lore them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way ; Still feel the breeze down Ettricke break, Although it chill my withered cheek ; Still lay my head by Teviot stone Though there, forgotten and alone, The Bard may draw his parting groan. Onr next extract from his most elaborate poem affords an exquisite specimen of our poet's pre-eminent excellence as a painter of the beauties of scenery. (Lady of the Lake, canto-i. stanzas 11-15.) The western waves of ebbing day Rolled o'er the glen their level way ; Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in flood of living fire; But not a setting beam could glow, "Within the dark ravines below, Where twined the path, in shadow hid, Round many a rocky pyramid. Shooting abruptly from the dell. Its thunder-splintered pinnacle. 1771—1832.] SCOTT. 313 Round many an insulated mass, The native bulwarks of the pass, Huge as the tower which builders vain Presumptous piled on Shinar's plain. The rocky summits, split and rent, Formed turret, dome, or battlement, Or seemed fantastically set "With cupola or minaret,, Wild crests as pagod ever decked. Or mosque of eastern architect. Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Nor lacked they many a banner fair ; For, from their shivered brows displayed. Far o'er the unfathomable glade. All twinkling with the dew-drop sheen. The briar-rose fell in streamers green, And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes. Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. Boon nature scattered, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. Here eglantine embalmed the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there ; The primrose pale, and violet flower Found in each cliff a narrow bower ; Foxglove and nightshade, side by side. Emblems of punishment and pride. Grouped their daik hues with every stain, The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath. Grey birch and aspen wept beneath ; Aloft, the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock ; And higher yet, the pine-tree hung His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung, Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high His boughs athwart the narrowed sky. Highest of all, where white peaks glanced Where glistening streamers waved and danced, The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer heaven's delicious blue ; So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery of a fairy dream. 314 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XVI. And now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, Unless he climb, with footing nice, A far-projecting precipice. The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid j And thus an airy point he won, Where, gleaming with the setting sum, One bumish'd sheet of living gold, Lock Katrine lay beneath him rolled j In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay. And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light ; And mountains that like giants stand. To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Ben- venue Down to the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world ; A 'wildering forest feather'd o'er His ruined sides and summit hoar. While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. From the steep promontory gazed The stranger, 'raptured and amazed. And, ' What a scene is here," he cried, ' For princely pomp, or churchman's pride 1 On this bold brow, a lordly tower, In that soft vale, a lady's bower; On yonder meadow, far away The turrets of a cloister gray. How blithely might the bugle horn Chide, on the lake, the lingering mom ! How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute Chime, when the groves are still and mute I And, when the midnight moon should lave Her forehead in the silver wave. How solemn on the ear would come The holy matin's distant hum, While the deep peal's commanding tone Should wake, in yonder islet lone, A sainted hermit from his cell. To drop a bead vrith every knell — 1771—1832.] SCOTT. 315 And bugle, lute, and bell, and all. Should each bewildered stranger call To friendly feast and lighted hall. Presently lie winds Ms bugle again, and tlie Lady of the Lake, Ellen Douglas, thinidng the note came from another and an expected visitor, comes to meet him across the lake. Her portrait is touched with rare and Homeric delicacy. (Stanzas 17-19.) With head upraised, and look intent, Aai eye and ear attentive bent, And locks flung back, and lips apart. Like monument of Grecian art, In listening mood she seemed to stand The guardian Naiad of the strand. And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, Of finer form or lovelier face ! What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown, The sportive toil, which, short and light. Had dyed her glowing hue so bright. Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of Bnow: What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace, — A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew ; E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head. Elastic from her airy tread ! What though upon her speech there hung: The accents of the mountain tongue. Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The list'ner held his breath to hear. A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid ; Her satin snood, her silken plaid. Her golden brooch such birth betray'd. And seldom was a snood amid Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid. Whose glossy black to shame might bring The plumage of the raven's wing ; 316 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XVI. And seldom o'er a breast so fair, Mantled a plaid with modest care ; And never broocli the folds combinod Above a heart more good and kind. Her kindness and her worth to spy, You need but gaze on Ellen's eye ; Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, Gives back the shaggy banks more true Than every free-born glance confessed The guileless movements of her breast; Whether joy danced in her dark eye, ■ Or woe or pity claimed a sigh. Or filial love was glowing there, Or meek devotion poured a prayer. Or tale of injuiy called forth The indignant spirit of the north. One only passion, unrevealed, With maiden pride the maid concealed, Yet not less purely felt the flame; — Oh, need I tell that passion's name ? The knight who is the hero of the tale, returning again to the glen, learns that he is waylaid, and that his guide has betrayed him. He slaya the traitor, and, proceeding alone on his path, in the twilight falls in with a mountaineer, beside a watch fire, whom he conceives to be a follower of Roderick Dhu, a chieftain in rebellion against the king, against whom for other reasons he himself has vowed an enmity only to be appeased by personal conflict. The following extract begins with the last lines of his avowal of his hostile purpose ; which is replied to by the mountaineer, who is Roderick himself, summoning all his clansmen, who are lurking around. The energy of the stanzas which relate the uprising and disappearance of the clansmen, is equalled by few passages of any poet. (Canto V. stanzas 8-10.) ' Enough, I am by promise tied To match me with this man of pride ; Twice have I sought Clan- Alpine's glen In peace ; but when I come again, I come with banner, brand, and bow, As leader seeks his mortal foe. 1771—1832.]* SCOTT. 317 For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower, Ne'er panted for the appointed hour. As I, until before me stand This rebel chieftain and his band.' ' Have, then, thy wish ! ' — he whistled shrill, And he was answered from the hill j Wild as the scream of the curlew. Prom crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath, ai'ose Bormets, and spears, and bended bows, On right, on left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe ; From shingles grey their lances start, The bracken bush sends forth the dart. The rushes and the willow-wand Are bristling into axe and brand, Afld. every tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior armed for strife That whistle garrison'd the glen At once with full five hundred men, As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterranean host had given. "Watching their leader's beck and will. All silent there they stood and still. Like the loose crags, whose threatening mass Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, As if an infant's touch could urge Their headlong passage down the verge. With step and weapon forward flung. Upon the mountain side they hung. The mountaineer cast glance of pride Along Benledi's living side, Then fixed his high and sable brow Full on Fitz- James — ' How say'st thou now .'' These are Clan-Alpine's warriors ti'H.e ; And, Saxon, I am Roderick Dhu !' Fitz-James was brave : though to his heart The life-»blood thi;illed vyith sudden start, He mann'd himself with dauntless air, Returned the chief his haughty stare, His back-against a rock he bore, And firmly pkc«d. his foot before : 318 ENGLISH LITEEATURE. ' [Ch. XVI. ' Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I ! ' Sir Roderick marked, and in his eyes, Kespect was mingled with surprise And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel. Short space he stood, then waved his hand ; Down sank the disappearing band ; Each warrior vanished where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood ; Sank brand, and spear, and bended bow In osiers pale and copses low ; It seemed as if their mother earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth. The wind's last breath had tossed in air Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair — The next but swept a lone hiU-side, Where heath and fern were waving wide ; The sun's last glance was glinted back, From spear and glaive, from targe and Jack— The next, all unreflected, shone On bracken green and cold grey stone. The knight is King James himself in disguise. And the following stanzas relate his discovery of himself to Ellen when she has gone to the Court to implore -pardon for her father and Roderick. They are as full of grace and high- breeding as those last quoted are redolent of courage and magnanimity. (Canto vi. stanza 26.) Within 'twas brilliant all and light, A thronging scene of figures bright; It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight, As when the setting sun has given Ten thousand hues to summer even. And from their tissue fancy frames Aerial knights and fairy dames. Still by Fitz- James her footing stayed ; A few faint steps she forward made, Then slow her drooping head she raised, And fearful round the presence gazed ; For him she sought, who owned this state, The dreaded prince whose will was fate ! She gazed on many a princely port. Might well have ruled a royal court ; 1771—1832.] SCOTT. 319 On many a splendid garb she gazed — Thea turned bewildered and amazed, For all stood bare ; and, in the room, Fitz-James alone wore cap and plijme. To him each lady's look was lent, On him each courtier's eye was bent ; Midst furs, and silks, and jewels' sheen, He stood in simple Lincoln green The centre of the glittering ring — And Snowdoun's knight is Scotland's king ! If ' Marmion ' be not Scott's finest poem, wtich however is, I think, a question, there is no doubt that it contains the finest passages of any of his poems. The two following extracts present even a more striking specimen of his versatility than those quoted from the 'Lady of the Lake.' The grace of the description of Lady Heron, the tender reverence with which the beautiful and virtuous but neglected Queen is portrayed in her lonely and sorrowful retirement, exhibit a wonderful contrast with the splendid energy with which the battle of Flodden is related : a description which (as the Edinburgh reviewer, Jeffrey, truly said) had never been equalled since Homer told how Achilles drove back the cowering Trojans to the Scsean gates. (Marmion, canto v. stanzas 10, 11.) O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway : To Scotland's court she came, To be a hostage for her lord. Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored, And with the King to make accord, Had sent his lovely dame. Nor to that lady free alone Did the gay king allegiance own ; For the fair Queen of France Sent him a turquoise ring, and glove. And charged him, as her knight and love, For her to break a lance ; And strike three strokes with Scottish brand, And march three miles on Southron land And bid the banners of his band In English breezes dance. 320 ENGLISH LITEBATUEE. [Oh. XVI. And thus for France's Queen, he drest His manly limbs in mailed vest ; And thus admitted English fair His inmost counsels still to share ; And thus, for both, he madly planned The ruin of himself and land! And yet, the sooth to tell, Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen, "Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and sheen, From Margaret's eyes that fell, — His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lithgow's bower, All lonely sat, and wept the weajy hour. The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile, And weeps the weary day. The war against her native soil. Her monarch's risk in battle broil : And in gay Holy Rood, the while, Dame Heron rises with a smile, Upon the harp to play. Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er The strings her fingers flew: And as she touched and tuned them all, Even her bosom's rise and fall Was plainer given to view ; For all, for heat, was laid aside, Her wimple, and her hood untied. And first she pitched her voice to sing. Then glanced her dark eye on the King, And then around the silent ring ; And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say, Her pretty oath, by Yea, and Nay, She could not, would not, durst not play ! At length, upon the harp, with glee, Mingled with arch simplicity, A soft, yet lively air she rung. While thus the wily lady sung. (Canto vi. stanzas 25-27.) ' Unworthy office here to stay ! No hope of gilded spurs to-day. But, see ! look up^on Flodden bent, The Scottish foe has fired his tent' 1771—1832.] SCOTT. 321 And sudden, as he apoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and vast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, As down the hill they broke ; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Announced their march ; their tread alone. At times one warning trumpet blovra, At times a stifled hum, Told England, from his mountain throne King James did rushing come. Scarce could they hear, or see their foes_, Until at weapon-point they close. Th ey close, in clouds of smoke and dust, With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust ; And such a yell was there, Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth, And fiends in upper air. Oh, life and death were in the shout, Recoil and rally, charge and rout. And triumph and despair. Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry. At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast ; And first the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears ; And in the smoke the pennons flew. As in the storm the white sea-mew, Then marked they, dashing broad and far The broken billows of the war. And plumed crests of chieftains brave, Floating like foam upon the wave ; But nought distinct they see : Wide raged the battle on the plain ; Spears shook, and faulchions flashed amain ; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again. Wild and disorderly, Amid the scene of tumult, high T 322 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XVJ They saw Lord Marmion'a falcon fly : And stainless Tunstall's banner white, And Edmund Howard's lion bright, Still bear them bravely in the fight ; Although against them come, Of gallant Gordons many a one, And many a stubborn Highlandman, And many a rugged Border clan. With Huntley and with Home. Far on the left,, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; Though there the western mountaineer Rushed with bare bosom on the spear And flung the feeble targe aside, And with both hands the broadsword plied. 'Twas vain. But Fortune, on the right, With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. Then fell that Spotless banner white. The Howard's lion fell ; Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew. With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle yell. 1788—1824.] BYRON. 323 CHAPTER XVII. BTEON. A.D. 1788-1824 "We have seen that, according to Scott's own statement, one of his reasons for relinquishing poetical composition was the perception that a new luminary had arisen whose light the public preferred to his own. In age Byron was the younger by seventeen years, but he was only six years later in making his appearance as an original poet of the highest class, as only that interval elapsed between the publication of the ' Lay ' and the first two cantos of ' Childe Harold.' He was bom on January 22, 1788, just 100 years after Pope, being the heir of one of the Conqueror's Norman barons, whose descendants had been promoted to an English peerage by Charles I., who had no more devoted or gallant adherent than the first Lord Byron. On his mother's side he was still more nobly descended, his mother having been a Miss Gordon of Gight in Scot- land, who traced her pedigree back to the royal line of the Stuarts and Bnices. But this man, whose birth and cir- cumstances placed him so high above all the other writers of whom I have spoken or shall have to speak, was, as if by some strange freak of the goddess who, to vary his own expression, never yet of human fortune, Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis, in many most important respects the most uuforturntn and unhappy of all. Tet the very same cause to which, in all probability, his diseased temper (that temper which made him quarrel with all the world, and with himself also) may be traced, existed in agreater degree in Walter Scott. Scott, as I have mentioned, was crippled in one leg ; but his misfor- tune never affected his manly spirit and genial temper for y2 « 324 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XV II. a single hour. Byron, from, his birth, had a slightly deformed foot. The malformation was so slight that not only did it not interfere with his activity, for he excelled in exercises that eminently required both firm footing and quickness, but that after his death his friends could not recollect which foot had been affected. But triflicg as it was, he believed from his childhood that it was his one characteristic on which everyone's attention was fixed, and that it made him an object of general scorn, which he was bound to be prompt and watchful in retaliating. Much of the diflference of feeling with which the two poets regarded their defect was, no doubt, caused by the difference in their parents' conduct. Scott's, with judicious kindness, took every means that science or affection could suggest to remedy the evil. Byron's mother, a woman of violent passions, never omitted any opportunity of taunting him with his deformity. Captain Byron, the poet's father, was a profligate man. who deserted his wife as soon as he had squandered the whole of her fortune, and died in France when his son was three years old ; and, for some years afterwards, Mrs. Byron lived at Aberdeen in exceedingly narrow circumstances ; bat, in 1794, the death of the only lineal descendant of the existing Lord Byron, her husband's uncle, left her son heir to the peerage; and, in 179-5, the peer himself died, and the fature poet succeeded to the title, and to the family estate of Newstead Abbey in Nottiaghamshire. He could now afford a better education than was to be obtained in Scotland ; and, as soon as he was fit for an English public school, he was sent to Harrow, where the chief impression which he made on the masters seems to have been that he had a remarkable talent for oratory, or at least for the delivery of speeches and decla- mations, and on his schoolfellows that he was a ready fighter and a good cricketer. But he was not yet suspected of any inclination ' to subside into poesy,' as he calls it, though in fact he had written verses enough to make a small volume, which, with a few additions, he published soon after his removal to Trinity College, Cambridge. He called them ' Hours of Idleness,' and they neither bear the marks of much labour, nor of any very remarkable talent j 1788—1824.] BYRON. 325 certainly, they give no promise of the genius which was hereafter to be developed ; though, on the other hand, they are equally far from deserving the nnnsually spiteful attack which Mr. Brougham made on them in the ' Edin- burgh Review.' Byron, from his childhood, was proud, but he was also vain (a rare combination), and he was likewise throughout his life so sensitive to blame that, even when his fame was fully established, he avowed to a friend that the disparaging comments of the lowest or most incapable judges caused him more pain than the com- mendation of the best and wisest gave him pleasure. But the criticism of the 'Edinburgh ' (which, if candour be an ingredient in criticism, is really undeserving of the name) missed its m.ark by the very violence with which it was aimed. It angered him ; it exasperated him ; and prompted him at once to resolve on retaliation, and ha retaliated in a satire, ' EngKsh Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' in which, however, he ran amuck like a Malay, dealing his blows alike on those who had and those who had not offended him. The Edinburgh reviewers had given him abundant provocation, but the poets had given him none ; and among these were men of undoubted genius, some of whose works in his soberer yeai"s he warmly admired and honestly extolled. But on this occasion be assailed all, Scott and Crabbe equally with Jeffrey ; not scnipling to enter into subjects with which no third person had any right to con- cern himself at all, as, for in stan ce, into the price a publisher had given for a poem ; but, at the same time, seasoning his attacks with a very keen wit, and displaying a command of language and a power of versification from which many, even of his victims, augured great things in future. Comparatively speaking, they had not long to wait. The satire was published at the beginning of 1809, when he was just one-and-twenty. As soon as he had concluded some arrangements necessary to be completed on his coming of age, he went abroad, travelling for a couple of years, first in Spain and Portugal, and afterwards in Greece ; and he brought back with him a poem on the countries which he had visited, of which he himself had ibrmed no high opinion, preferring to it indeed another satire, which he had also 326 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XVII. ■written in the interval, but which, was little more than a paraphrase of Horace's ' Art of Poetry.' Luckily, however, some friends to whom he showed his descriptive poem had a sounder judgment ; they persuaded him to lock up the ' Hints from Horace ' in his bureau, and to publish his ' Childe Harold ' with Murray. It came out at the begin- ning of 1812. Its reception by the public can hardly be better described than it was by himself, when he said, ' he awoke one morning, and found himself famous.' Even the ' Lay of the Last Minstrel ' had scarcely made a greater impression ; and for some years his literary career was a series of triumphs absolutely unequalled in the history of literature. The next year produced the ' Giaour ' and the ' Bride of Abydos ; ' the spriug of 1814 saw the publication of the ' Corsair ; ' that was followed by ' Lava ; ' the ' Siege of Corinth,' ' Parisina,' the ' Prisoner of Ohillon,' with several poems of smaller dimensions, followed in rapid succession. 1816 produced a third, 1818 a fourth and concluding canto of ' Childe Harold ; ' and the daily in- creasing body of readers could scarcely admire and praise them with sufficient warmth. If fame and popularity could have cheered a morbid spirit, no one ever had more of them for a time. But he refused to be comforted ; and his popularity was but short-lived. Even while the admiration of his poetry continued as unanimous and cordial as ever, the world of fashion suddenly turned against the poet. At the beginning of 1816 he married a young lady of very great expectations, a Miss Milbanke, the only daughter of a Northumberland baronet. She was not deficient in other gifts besides those of fortune, neither in personal attrac- tions nor in accomplishments ; but those who knew him best did not anticipate that the marriage would produce much happiness to either party, and dismal forebodings have rarely been more completely realised. It was not a love match on either side ; for the lady had refused him at least once, and his last proposal, when she accepted him, was made on the very morning that he had received a refusal in another quarter. He had been ardently in love once, when he was little more than a boy, with a distant cousin of his own, a Miss Oha worth, between whose branch 1788—1824.] BYRON. 327 of the family and his own there had been a deadly quarrel at one time, owing to the last lord having IdUed a Mr. Chaworth in a duel ; and Byron flattered himself that a marriage with her wonld be reckoned especially desirable by their common relatives, as healing a family feud ; but she had married a still nearer kinsman, and namesake of her own ; and it does not seem, that, since she had been lost to him, anyone else had ever excited any warmer feelings in his heart than a passing fancy. It would be to no pur- pose, even were it possible, which it certainly is not, to explain the causes that made the union that did take place miserable. The only fact that is beyond question is that they had scarcely been married more than a twelvemonth^ and their only child, a daughter, was little more than six weeks old, when Lady Byron left him for ever. She never explained what oifence or injury had moved her to take such a step ; and he declared, with every mark of siucerity, that he was wholly ignorant what provocation she imagined herself to have received. But it was not only, as was .inevitable, most unfortunate for his future comfort, but very fatal to his character. He went abroad : first to Switzerland, where the mountain scenery, for which his early bringing up among the Scotch Highlands had given him an indelible preference, suggested to him a new canto of ' Childe Harold,' and one or two other poems ; and from the Alps he moved on to Italy, where he passed several years in a most ostentatious hcentiousness ; redeemed in part by an extreme and generally judicious beneficence towards all who stood in need of assistance ; and embellished by a continued outpouring of magnificent poetry of all kinds : a fourth canto of ' Childe Harold,' of which the scene is laid in Italy, surpassing all its pre- decessors ; dramas, not intended nor suited for theatrical representation, but for the most part brilliant with all his characteristic beauties ; burlesques, proving, what his social companions had long known, that wit and humour had been as largely bestowed on him as tae loftier gifts of imagination ; and one poem of great length, indeed unfinished when he died, which reflects but too often and too faithfully the excesses of his life, but which, as an 328 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XVII. exhibition of almost every quality that can be required in a great work, has no equal in the English language. One of the most judicious critics of the day, himself enjoying no small popularity as ' a brother of the quill,' and one by no meaais inclined to overlook the grievous faults vyhich have caused ' Don Juan ' to be almost proscribed, nevertheless admits it to be ' by far the most admirable specimen of the mixture of ease, strength, gaiety, and seriousness extant in the whole body of English poetry.' That much of the licence which he permitted himself in the work was prompted by a recklessness and spirit of vehement defiance of a world by which he felt he had been undeservedly con- demned, is unquestionable ; it is equally certain that he was not without some right to complain. It was not known why he and his wife had quarrelled, nor on which side the fault lay ; but the fashionable world in London, whose verdict was followed by that of the rest of the nation, without hearing either party, for indeed neither had spoken, had decided not only that he was alone to blame, but that the offence by which he had compelled the lady to abandon him was of some pecuharly unpardonable cha- racter. To quote a statement of his own made many years afterwards, ' the outcry against him was beyond all precedent, all parallel, even in those cases where political notions have sharpened slander and doubled enmity : he was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour.' Even after he quitted England, in other countries he was unremittingly pursued by the same intensity of calum.ny ; and compared himself, when sitting by the Adriatic, to ' the stag at bay, who betakes him to the waters ' as the only refuge from the hunters who seek his lifeblood. Such provocation may be a palUation for much error, but is no excuse for such perversity as is visible in too much of ' Don Juan.' Happily the last years of his life present him to us in a different aspect. The Greeks were just beginning to acquire courage to throw off the Turkish yoke, which had so long weighed down the country so dear to the recollections of every scholar. And in the spring of 1823, Byron, having already discussed the probability of success with a Captain Blaquiere, the agent of a committee 1788— 1824.J . BYKON. 329 "whicli had been formed in London with the object of aiding the Greeks, conceived the idea of crossing over to Greece in person, and carried it out with characteristic promp- titude. Early in July he sailed from Genoa ; and landed at Cephalonia, where he stayed till the beginning of the next year, when he crossed over to Missolonghi. It was a new line of life for hini ; but he seems to have impressed all with whom he came in contact with the highest idea not only of his kindness of heart and general benevolence, but of his shrewd practical sagacity, judicious energy, and likewise of his tact in dealing with people of unpractical hopes, unbusinesslike habits, and unmanageable temper. His opinion of the Greek nation had not been improved by nearer ac- quaintance. On the contrary, he learned to doubt even their courage, and to feel convinced of their utter want of all the higher moral qualities ; but he persevered in his desire to aid them, partly from his love of Liberty, which, however, his interpretation rendered too synonymous with liberalism, and partly no doubt from an innate obstinacy. But the Greeks did not doubt him for a moment. On the contrary, his arrival at Missolonghi was greeted with one universal acclamation, prompted, it may be fancied, chiefly by their expectations of what might be got out of him. He soon found that he was expected to act not only as com- mander-in-chief, but as paymaster also ; but he was not daunted. To a disposition like his, which could hardly dis- guise from himself that his way of life in Italy was not a thing to be proud of, the change to a scene of honorable action, or at least of what a very little and very pardonable self-delusion might easily represent as such, must have been a welcome transition ; and he was preparing to take the field when, early in April 1824, he was attacked by a fever. Though young in years he was old in constitution ;'he had latterly accustomed himself to drink ardent spirits in groat quantities, and he had no strength to stand a severe illness. After a few days of severe suffering, he died on the 19th April ; under circumstances which to charitable hearts may justify the hope that, if a longer life had been allowed to him, the remainder of his days would have been spent in a manner more worthy of his genius, and more corresponding 330 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XVII. to the many good and noble qualities wHcli lie unquestion- ably possessed. Our first extract shall be from the first canto of his ' Childe Harold,' a splendid description of the war in Spain, and of the Spanish character, •which might well lead the critics to predict, as they did predict, a brilliant career for one who at tlie age of 22 could already display such power. (Childe Harold, canto i. stanzas 53-57.) And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the brave, To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign ? No step between submission and a grave ? The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? And doth the Power that man adores ordain Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain p And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of steel. Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, And, all unsex'd, the anlaee hath espoused, Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? And she, whom once the semblance of a scar Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread. Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale. Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, Her fairy form, with more than female grace, Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face. Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear ; Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; Her fellows flee — she checks their base career ; The foe retires — she heads the sallying host ; 1788—1824.] BYEON. 331 Who can appease like her a lovev'a ghost ? Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? What maid retrieve when man's flushed hope is lost ? Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ? Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, But form'd for all the witching arts of love : Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove. Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate. The following stanza may serve to show how far his unhappy scepticism was removed from the daring impiety of others with whom his enemies maliciously sought to confound him. (Canto ii. stanza 8.) Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be A land of souls beyond that sable shore, To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; How sweet it were in concert to adore With those who made our mortal labours light ! To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight. The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right. The second stanza of the following extract is not more distinguished for beauty of expression than for the extreme felicity with which the image is conceived. (Canto iii. stanzas 32, 33.) They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourn : The tree will wither long before it fall ; The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn j The rooftree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness ; the ruined wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone ; The bars survive the captive they enthral ; The day drags through though storms keep out the sun ; And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : 332 ENGLISH LITEEATUEB. [Ch. XVII. Even aa a broken mirror, which the glass In every fragment multiplies ; and maies A thousand images of one that was, The same, and still the more, the more it breaks ; And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. The description of tlie battle of Waterloo is too long to quote, and too perfect to mutilate. It may give a better idea of the workings of Byron's mind to present his reflec- tions on Napoleon himself, which show a singularly just estimate of the great conqueror, whom those of the party to which he had attached himself in general regarded with such unmingled admiration. (Canto iii. stanzas 36-38.) There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, Whose spirit antithetically mixt One moment of the mightiest, and again On little objects with like firmness fiit, Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, Thy throne had still been thfne, or never been ; For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st Even now to reassume the imperial mien, And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene ! Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now That thoa art nothing, save the jest of Pame, Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert A god unto thyself; nor less the same To the astounded kingdoms all inert, Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert. Oh, more or less than man— in high or low, Battling with nations, flying from the fleld ; Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield : An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild, 1788—1824.] BYRON. 333 But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. The following stanzas are equally distinguished for the richness of their poetry and a sort of indistinct, hesitating reverence which pervaded his mind, though unhappily not with sufficient clearness permanently or entirely to influ- ence and purify it. (Canto iii. stanzas 88-93.) Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, . Ouv destinies o'erleap their mortal state. And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar. That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — All heaven and earth are still : From the high host Of stars, to the luU'd lake and mountain-coast, All is concenter'd in a life intense. Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost. But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence. Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone ; A truth, which through our being then doth melt And purifies from self : it is a tone, The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm. Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. Binding all things with beauty ; — 'twould disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. Not vainly did the early Persian make His altar the high places and the peak Of earth -n'ergazing mountains, and thus take A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 334 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XVII. The Spirit in ■whose honour shrines are weak, Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r ! The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. From pealr to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! The morn is up again, the dewy morn. With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with pl-ayful scorn. And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — And glowing into day ; we may resume The march of our existence : and thus I, Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room And food for meditation, nor pass by Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. The third canto is, as it were, dedicated to his only daughter, and these stanzas are valuable as showing the sincerity of his affectionate feelings, and his yearnings after home and a purer Hfe than he was leading, against his better consciousness. (Canto iii. Btanzas 115-117.) My daughter ! with thy name this song begun — My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall end — I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend : Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold. My voice shall with thy future visions blend And reach into thy heart, — when mine is cold, — A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 1788—1824.] BYEON. 335 To aid thy mind's development, — to watch Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch Knowledge of ohjects, — wonders yet to thee ! To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — This it should seem was not reserved for me ; Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, I know not what is there, yet something like to this. Yet, though dull Hate as duty should he taught, I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name Should he shut from thee, as a spell still fraught With desolation, — and a hroken claim : Though the grave close hetween us, — 'twere the same, I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain My Mood from out thy heing were an aim. And an attainment, — all would he in vain, — Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain. The following extracts, describing Rome and its varied fortunes, are among the most beautiful in the poem : as passages of descriptive beauty, they are probably unequalled in any modern language, while, as the second and third extracts show, no scenery or contemplation of outward things could long withdraw his mind from himself and his own condition. (Canto iv. stanzas 78, 79). Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of hroken thrones and temples, Ye ! Whose agonies are evils of a day — A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. The Niohe of nations ! there she stands. Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; An empty urn vrithin her withered hands, Whose holy dust was sea.tter'd long ago ; The Scipios' tomh contains no ashes now ; The very sepulchres he tenantless 336 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Cb. XVII. Of their heroic dwellers ; dost thou flow, Old Tiber 1 through a marble wilderness ? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her disti'ess. (Canto IT. stanza 12L) Oh Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart. But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, Even -with its own desiring phantasy, And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquench'd soul — parch'd — wearied — wrung — and riven. (Canto iv. stanza 130.) Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled — Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, Thrf test of truth, love — sole philosopher. For all betide are sophists, from thy thrift, Which never loses though it does defer — Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift. (Canto iv. stanzas 154^ 155.) But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone — with nothing liKe to thee — Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. Since Zion's desolation, when that He Forsook his former city, what could be, Of earthly structures in his honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undeflled. Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot. Has grown colossal, and can only find A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so define(J, See thy God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be bla^ipd by his brow. 1788—1824,] BYRON. 337 The news of the death of the Princess Charlotte in her confinement reached him -while he was penning the last stanzas of the poem ; and national sorrow has never found a more powerfal or truly sympathetic interpreter. (Canto iv. stanzas 167-170.) Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, A long low distant murmur of dread sound, Such as arises when a nation bleeds "With some deep and immedicable wound ; Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground, The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head ? In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled. The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy Which filled the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, Oh thou that wert so happy, so ador'd! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord. And desolate consort — ^vainly wert thou wed ! The husband of a year ! the father of the dead 1 Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, The love of millions ! How we did enti-ust Futurity to her ! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd Our children should obey her child, and bless'd Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes : — 'twas but a meteor beam'd. z 338 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XVII. With respect to the stanzas which follow, Professor WUson writes : ' It was a thought worthy of the great spirit of Byron, after exhibiting to us his pilgrim amidst, all the most striking scenes of earthly grandeur and earthly decay ; after teaching us, like him, to sicken over the mutabiUty and vanity and emptiness of human greatness, to conduct him and us at last to the borders of " the Great Deep." It is thus that we may perceive an image of the awful and unchangeable abyss of eternity into whose bosom so much has sunk, and all shall one day sink ; of that eternity wherein the scorn and the contempt of man, and the melancholy of great and the fretting of little minds shall be at rest for ever.' (Canto iv. stanzas 179-183.) 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, nor 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, unoofEn'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 howUng, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay. And dashest 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. 1788—1824.] BYEON. 339 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 ohey The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thouj Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — Time writes no wrinkle on thine 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 Dark -heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — The image of Eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy shrine The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. The ' Giaour ' is WTitt;en almost wholly in the octo- syllabic metre, wLicL. Byron considered that Scott had made so completely his own. As he tells us in the preface, it is founded on an event which actually happened. The second canto of ' Childe Harold' had been devoted to Greece; but in this poem he reveals far more of the fascination whicli the country had for him, and which grew with him to the end of his life. The following passage, in which he compares the land once so powerful and glorious, and still so attractive, to a body iu which, though the life has quitted it, the beauty still lingers, is one which has often been extolled both for its truth and for the exquisite skill with which the image is wrought out. (The Giaour, line 68.) He who hath bent him o'er the dead. Ere the first day of death is fled ; The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress ; (Before Becay's efiiioing fingers Have swept the lines were beauty lingers,. And mark'd the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there,. z2- 340 ENGLISH LITEEATTJEE. [Cs. XVII. The 'feed yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. And but for that chill, changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heaxt, As if to himit could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; Yes, but for these and these alone. Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, Ho still might doubt the tyrant's power ; So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, The first, last look by death'reveal'd ! "Such- is the aspect of this shore ; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more"! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair. We start, for soul is wanting there. 'Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath; "But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to. the tomb, Expression's last receding r-ay, A gilded halo hovering round decay. The farewell beam of feeling pass'd away! Spaxk of that flame, perchance of heavenly birtli, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth ! (The Giaour, line 388.') As rising on its purple wing The insect queen of eastern spring, '' It may seem that Byron in some degree toot the following descrip- tion of the butterfly and its flight from the ' Bunciad' : — Of all the enamel'd. race •whose silvery wing Waves to the tepid zephyrs of the spring. Or swims along the fluid atmosphere, Once brightest shined this child of heat -and air ; I saw, and started from its vernal bower The rising game, and chased from flower to flower ; It fled ; I followed ; now in hope, now pain ; It stopt, I Btopt ; it moVd, I mov'd £igain ; At last it fixt ; twas on what plant it pleased, And when itiixt, the .beauteous bird I. seized. 1788-1824.] BYEON. 341 O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer Invites the young pursuer near, And leads him on from flower to flower. A weary chase and wasted hour, Then leaves him, as it soars on high, "With panting heart and tearful eye : So Beauty lures the full-grown child "With hue as bright, and wing as wild ;^ A chase of idle hopes and fears^ Begun in folly, closed in tears, If won, to equal ills betrayed, "Woe waits the insect and the maid ; A life of pain, the loss of peace, From infant's play, and man's caprice : The lovely toy so fiercely sought Has lost its charm by being caught, For every touch that woo'd its stay Has brush'd the brightest hues away, , Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, , 'Tis left to fly or fall alone. "With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, . Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? Can this with faded pinion soar From rose to tulip as before ?, Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, Find joy within her broken bower? No : gayer insects fluttering by Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die) . And lovelier things have mercy shown To every failing but their own, And every woe a tear can claim Except an erring sister's shame. The 'Bride of Abydos' is chiefly in tlie same metre as the- ' Giaour ; ' but the following passage in the ten-syllable verse of Dryden and Pope shows that metre to be capable of an energy which even Dryden could scarcely infuse into- Eose or carnation was beneath my care, I meddle, goddess, only iu my sphere ; I tell the naked fact without disguise. And, to excuse it, need but show the prize. Whose spoils this paper offers to your eye, Fair ev'n in death, the peerless butterfly. — iv. 421. 342 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XVII. it. It would be hard to find OBe in the language in which the feelings of passionate and at the same time pure love are expressed with greater spirit and force, combined with all possible tenderness and delicacy ; while the rich profu- sion with which he throws off image after image is peculiar to Byron among modern poets. (The Bride of Abydos, canto ii. stanza 20.) Ay ! let me like the ocean-Patriarch roam, Or only know on land the Tartar's home 1 My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, Are more than cities and Serais to me : Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, Across the desert, or before th* gale. Bound where then wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow ! But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou ! Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark^ The dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call ; Soft — as the melody of youthful days. That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; Dear — as his native song to Exile's ears. Shall sound each toiie thy long-loved voice endears. For thee in those bright isles is built a bower Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. A thousand swords — with Selim's heart and hand. Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ! Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. The Haram's languid years of listless ease Are well resigu'd for cares — for joys like these : Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, IJnnumber'd perils, — ^but one only love ! "Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still 1 Be but thy soul, like Sehm's, firmly shown j To thee he Selim's tender as thine ovra j 1788—1824.] BYRON. 343 To soothe each sorrow, share in each delig^ht, Blend eyery thought, do all— hut disunite ! The same mastery over the ten-syllable metre, which Byron displayed in parts of the ' Bride,' is shown more sustainedly in the ' Corsair.' In his hands it is completely free from the monotony of which it has been accused in Pope's hands ; and from which Pope's precocious disciples, Groldsmith and Campbell, had not reUered it. In the following passages the variety of rhythm is very con- spicnons, showing Byron almost as great in the mechanical department of his art as in the still more indispensable qualities of vivacity and power. (The Corsair, canto i.) O'er the glad waters of the deep Hue sea. Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, Survey our empire, and behold our home ! These are our realms, no limits to their sway — Our iiag the sceptre all who meet obey. Ours the wild Hfe in tumult still to range Prom toil to rest, and joy in every change. Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious slave ! Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! Whom slumber soothes not, pleasure cannot please — Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, And danc'd in triumph o'er the waters wide, The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? That for itself can woo the approaching fight, And tm-n what some deem danger to delight; That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal. And where the feebler faint — can only feel — Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, Its hope awaken, and its spirit soar ? No dread of death — if with us die our foes — Save that it seems even duller than repose : Come when it will, we snatch the life of life — When lost— what recks it — by disease or strife ? Let him who crawls enamour'd of decay. Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head Ours the fresh turf, and not the feveiish bed. 344 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XVn, While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control, His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave : Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, When ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. For us, even banquets fond regret supply In the red cup that crowns our memory ; And the brief epitaph in danger's day. When those who win at length divide the prey, And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, How had the brave who fell exulted now 1 (Canto ii. line 144.) Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light. Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb. But like a warrior bounding from his barb, Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler gloom, Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite. Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow Of flames on high, and torches from below ; The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell, Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves Behold but bloody shore and flery waves ; Nought heeded they the Pasha's angry cry, They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! He saw their terror — check'd the first despair That urged him but to stand and perish there, Since far too early and too well obey'd, The flame was kindled ere the signal made ; He saw their terror — from his baldric drew His bugle — ^brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 'Tis answer'd, — ' Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? And deem design had left me single here ? Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway, Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; Completes his fury, what their fear begun. And makes the many basely quail to one. 1788—1824.] BYEON. 345 If we compare Scott with Byron (and wlien two con- temporaries stand so clearly at tlie head of all the poets of the century the comparison seems almost forced upon us), I thini: we may say that Scott exhibits a far greater variety of character, that Byron displays greater power in drawing a single portrait. In the expression of deep emotion and vehement passion, Byron is far heyond his rival. As a painter of energetic action and chivalrous feehngs, rousing to deeds of heroism, he is almost as far below him. Scott's women, too, are drawn with fax more delicacy and dis- crimination than Byron's ; for, though Byron has a keen feehng for their attractions, and even for their higher qualities ; and though, as has been said by a not unfriendly critic, his poems all seem to inculcate the principle that love is a virtue, yet the love which he paints is an Oriental love, deficient in the chivalrous and dignifying attributes which are peculiar to the Christian civiHsation of western Europe, where alone woman is looked upon as a being endowed with qualities as high and ennobling as, though differing from, those of her lord, and where the affection with which she is regarded is indeed inseparable from respect. On the other hand, in prodigal richness of imagi- nation, in condensed force of expression, Byron must be pronounced unequalled even by Scott, or by any other of those whom we boast as the mightiest masters of the Ian- guage. His ear for rhythm was infinitely more accurate. Few indeed are the unmusical lines in Byron ; not a few passages, and those of great length, are unmatched for melody; while Scott, though at times more powerful than Byron in the variety which he has thrown into the octo- syllabic metre, is often apparently careless and certainly is often harsh and rugged. If we measure both by a severely critical standard, by the degree in which they severally dis- play the quaUties which are admitted to be of the highest necessity in a great poem, we must probably afiBrm Byron to be the greater poet. If we judge them by the degree in which they appeal to and move our feehngs, and move those most which are best and purest, the palm must be assigned to Scott. And we may probably decide that, while Byron had the more powerful genius, Scott has pro- 346 ENGLISH LITKEATUEE. [Ch. XVII. duced the more delightful works. I haye left out of con- sideration many matters which are often imported into an estimate of this kind, such as the moral purity of each ; because in fact there is no taiut of licentiousness in the poems of Byron from which alone extracts have been given ; and though there are passages, especially in ' Childe Harold,' which reveal the unhappy scepticism which agitated the mind and clouded the happiness of the poet himself, they are wholly free from the imputation of being designed to make converts. They even show a wish to be able to be- lieve more fully, and demand pity rather than condemnation. On the whole it must be admitted that even the finest passages of Byron breathe a lower tone than Scott's, and fail in an equal degree to refine or elevate the feelings. SHELLEY. A.D. 1792-1822. Of the life of him with whom we close our examination we will forbear to speak. Percy Bysshe Shelley was so unfor- tunate as not only to be indifierent or hostile to religion, but to glory in his impiety in a way that can only be looked upon with so indulgent a feeling as compassion by those who remember that he did not live to reach his thirtieth birth- day ; but his poetical genius was freely confessed by those who viewed his profession of atheism with the deepest dis- gust. Ho was unquestionably gifted with a genius inferior only to that of Byron among those who at the time of his death were still wooing the Muse ; and the following passage from his elegy on his friend Keats, a youthful poet of no inconsiderable promise, who had recently died of a decline, may be sufficient to show the richness of his fancy and tenderness of his pathos, and his perfect mastery of the mechanical parts of his art, copiousness of language and melody of rhythm. 1792—1822.] SHELLEY. 347 (Adonais. — Elegy on the Death of John Keats.) I weep for Adonais — he is dead ! Oh, weep for Adonais ! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head ! Aud thou, sad hour, selected from all years To moum our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, And teach them thine own sorrow ; say : with me Died Adonais till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity ! Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay. When thy son lay, pierced by the shaft which iiies In darkness ! where was lorn Urania When Adonais died ! With veiled eyes, 'Mid list'ning echoes, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath. Rekindled all the fading melodies. With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death. Oh, weep for Adonais — he is dead ! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep ! Yet wherefore ? Quench within their burning bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep, Like his, a mute and imcomplaining sleep ; For he is gone where all things wise and fair Descend : — oh, dream not that the amorous Deep Will yet restore him to the vital air ; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. Most musical of mourners, weep again ! Lament anew, Urania ! — He died, Who was the Sire of an immortal strain. Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite Of lust and blood ; he went, unterrified. Into the gulf of death ; but his clear Sprite Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among the sons of light. Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! Not all to that bright station dared to climb : And happier they their happiness who knew, Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time 348 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XVII. In wMch suns perisled ; others more sublime, Struck by the envious wrath of man or God, Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime ; And some yet live, treading the thorny road, Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. But now thy youngest, dearest one, has perished. The nursling of thy widowhood^who grew. Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished, And fed with true love tears instead of dew ; Most musical of mourners, weep anew I Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, The bloom whose petals nipt before they blew Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste ; The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast. To that high Capitol, where kingly Death Keeps his pale Court in beauty and decay, He came ; and bought, with price of purest breath, A grave among the eternal. — Come away 1 Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay ; Awake him not ! surely he takes his fill Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. He will awake no more, oh, never more ! Within the twUight chamber spreads apace The shadow of white Death, and at the door Invisible Corruption waits to trace His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place ; The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe Soothe her pale rage, nor darps she to deface So fair a prey, till darkness and the law Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. Oh, weep for Adonais. — The quick Dreams, The passion-winged ministers of thought. Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught The love which was its music, wander not. Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain But droop there, whence they sprung ; and mourn their lot Hound the cold heart, where after their sweet pain. They ne'er will gather strength, nor find a home again. 1792—1822.] SHELLEY. 349 And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head. And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries, ' Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead ; See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies A tear some dreani has loosened from his brain.' Lost angel of a ruined Paradise 1 She knew not 'twas her own, as with no stain She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. One from a lucid urn of starry dew Washed his light limbs, as if embalming them ; Another clipt her proftise locks, and threw. The wreath upon him, like an anadem. Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem ; Another in her wilful grief would break Her bow and wingfed reeds, as if to stem A greater loss with one which was more weak ; And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. All he had loved, and moulded into thought, From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound, Lamented Adonais. Morning sought Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day ; Afar the melancholy thunder moaned, Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, And the wild winds flew around, sobbing in their dismay. Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains. And feeds her grief with his remembered lay. And will no more reply to winds or fountains. Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray, Or herdsman's horn, or beH at closing day; Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear Than those for whose disdain they pined away Into a shadow of all sounds : — a drear Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, Or they dead leaves ; since her delight is flown. For whom should she have waked the solemn yearl 350 ENGLISH LITERATTJEE. [Ch. XVHi To PhceLus was not Hyacintli so dear, Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both Thou Adonais ; wan they stand and sere Amid the faint companions of their youth, With dew all turned to tears ; odour, to sighing ruth. Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale, Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain, Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain Her mighty youth, with morning doth complain. Soaring and screaming round her empty nest, As Albion wails for thee ; the curse of Cain Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast, And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest. Ah, woe is me ! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year ; The airs and streams renew their joyous tone ; The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear; Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season's bier ; The amorous birds now pair in every brake, And build their mossy homes in field and brere ; And the green lizard and the golden snake. Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake. Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — He hath awakened from the dream of life — 'Tis we, who, lost in stoi-my visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife. And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings. We decay Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living day. He has outsoared the shadow of our night ; Envy and calumny, and hate and pain. And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again ; From the contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain ; Nor, vvhen the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn 1792—1822.] SHE3XEY. 351 He lives, he wakes, — 'tis Death is dead, not he; Mourn not for Adonais. Thou, young Dawn, Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ; Ye caverns, and ye forests, cease to moan ! Cease, ye faint ilowers and fountains, and thou, Air, "Which like a morning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the ahandoned Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair I He is made one with Nature : there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of Night's sweet bird ; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone. Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own ; Which wields the world with never-wearied love. Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely : he doth bear His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there All new successions to the forms they wear, Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees, and beasts, and men into the Heaven's light. - Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart ? Thy hopes are gone before : from all things here They have departed; thou should'st now depart ! A light is past from the revolving year, And man and woman ; and what still is dear Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers near: 'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, No more let Life divide what Death can join together. That light whose smile kindles the Universe, That Beauty in which all things work and move, That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love 352 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [ Ch. XVII. Whicli through the web of being blindly wove By man and beast, and earth and air and sea, Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me, Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. The breath whose might I have invoked in song Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is driven Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given ; The massy earth and sphered skies are riven ! I am borne darkly, fearfully afar ! Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star. Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. 1561-1626.] BACON. 353 CBLiPTER XVIII. BACON. A.D. 1661-1626. The great superiority of the modern to the old philosophy- is due to two of our countrymen, far above all others, Bacon and Newton. Of the latter it will not come within our plan to speak ; but the former, besides his philosophical works, which, in order to secure a wider circulation among the students of many countries, he usually wrote in Latin, published a volume of essays which justify the gracing our list of composers of such writings with his name. It would be well for his fame had he been only a philosopher and an author ; for the history of no man presents a more str&ing and more melancholy contrast between his principles and his practice than Bacon affords in his inculcation of all that is manly, virtuous, upright, and magnanimous, while ex- emplifying in his own conduct all that is base, treacherous, ungrateful, and sordid. He was a man born in what the Trench used to call La Noblesse de la Kobe ; that is, of a family which had been previously distinguished by attaining the highest honours of the law ; his father Sir Nicholas Bacon having been the Lord Keeper of the Great Seal for more than twenty years. It was shortly after he first received it that his son Francis was born in January 1661. His infancy gave little promise of his attaining the comparatively long life which was granted to him, since his health was peculiarly delicate ; a circumstance that perhaps contributed to give him an early inclination to study, which in robuster natures finds so many more powerful allurements to combat and often to over- power it. From the very first moment the subjects which most attracted his attention showed the bias of his mind towards philosophical investigation ; and a story is told of AA 354 ENGLISH LIT EEATUEE. [Ch. XVIIL his being missed by bis playmates, and being found in a vanlt in tbe neigbbourhood, endeavouring to ascertain tbe cause of an ecbo. Toutbs in tbat day were sent to tbe University at an age at wbicb tbey now go to scbool ; and Bacon was not tbirfceen wben be was entered at Trinity College, Cambridge ; of wbicb bis fatber, and bis uncle, EHzabetb's celebrated minister Lord Burleigb, bad formerly been members. After taking bis degree, be travelled for a year or two on tbe Continent, but returned to England on tbe death of his fatber, which happened when he was little more than nineteen, and entered Gray's Inn as a student of law. WhUe in France bis attention bad been chiefly given to statistics and diplomacy ; and he would greatly have preferred some official appointment which would have allowed him to devote himself to literature and politics ; and such a post be endeavoured to obtain from his all-powerful uncle. But Burleigh, with all his craft and wariness, which the skill with which be so long guided tbe vessel of the State among the most troubled waters seems to elevate into wisdom and statesmanship, was essentially a mean-spirited man : he had acuteness enough to discern extraordinary abilities in bis nephew, and baseness enough to envy and to desire to stifle them, lest tbey should interfere with tbe pro- motion of his own son B/obert, whom he destined to succeed him, who, to say the truth, had talents sufficient to war- rant the fatber in forming high anticipations of bis success in life, and who, combined as those talents were with a courage and firmness of which Bacon was destitute, was certainly better fitted than his more contemplative cousin to be the minister of a new sovereign and a new dynasty. No record has been preserved of bis early career as a barrister ; but be evidently met with considerable success : he was made a bencher of Gray's Inn at twenty-five ; four years later be received a silk gown ; and before be was thirty -two be had acquired a sufficient fortune to enable him to afford to enter Parliament as a county member, being elected as representative of Middlesex in the election of 1693. In this new position be speedily established a high reputation for eloquence, but unluckily he showed at the same time tbe servility of bis spirit, making the most abject 1S61— 1626.] BACON. 355 apologies to th.e Pi-ime Minister and tlie Lord Keeper, whose favour, as tlie head of the law, he judged almost of equal importance, beoauBe on one occasion, when the Crown asked for a subsidy of unusual amount, he had ventured to question the prudence of the demand, founding his objections on arguments deduced from the strictest principles of the constitution. It would seem that he obtained his pardon from the Court, for when, the next year, the office of Attorney- General became vacant, and the Earl of Esses, to whom, on seeing the favour with which. Elizabeth regarded him, he had attached himself, endeavoured to procure it for him,, pressing his request on Burleigh with all his wonted energy, he was refused, on the ground, not of his friend's freedom of speech,, but of his youth and ' rawness ' : though he was in fact a few months older than Robert Cecil, who almost at the same time attained the far more re- sponsible office of Secretary of State. Unable to make him Attorney, the gallant young Earl, indefatigable in the cause of his friends, sought to procure him the post next in honour of Solicitor- General. Being baffled in that too by the constant jealousy of the Cecils, he presented him with an estate worth 2,000Z., a sum of no small importance in that age, to compensate him for his disappointment ; and when, in 1596, he sailed to Spain to conduct the attack on Cadiz, he charged the influential friends he left behind to watch over Bacon's interests as over his own. Essex's was a brief career ; and the next, the closing passages of it, if dis- passionately weighed, cover Bacon's memory with deeper disgrace, as showing a worse heart than even the corruptioa which brought on him public and more notorious dishonour. Essex had been bound to him by no ties of relationship or previous friendship when, from admiration of his great capacity, he put himself forward to advance his interests. When his influence with Court and, Minister failed, he had enriched him at his own expense ; yet,,. when, by his rash violence, the Earl had rendered himself liable to a pro- secution for treason. Bacon not only did not scruple to appear as counsel for the prosecution, but exerted the whole of his argumentative skill and rhetorical abihty to blacken his case, and to deprive any excuses which his advocates aa2 356 .ENGLISH BITEEATUEE. [Ch. XVIII. miglit rmake for him not only of all legal bat of all moral Validity. And, wten he had perished on the scaffold, he exerted a further and most foul ingenuity in defaming his character ; drawing up, for the gratification of the Queen, ' a declaration of the practices and treasons, attempted and committed by Robert, Earl of Essex.' More shameless in- gratitude is recorded against no man ; even Bacon him- self was ashamed of, or at least repented of.it, when he found that all the Court favour which his baseness had won for him- could not shield him from universal reprobation ; and after the Queen's death, when a new sovereign was on the jihrone, he sought to excuse his conduct by a tract in the form of ' A Letter to the Earl of Devon.' His arguments, though his ingenuity was sharpened by self-interest, were worthless enough ; but time did more for him than his logic : the exciting events of the succeeding years threw those which were older, though by a very few years, into comparative oblivion ; few care long to preserve the recollection of offences which have been- committed only against the dead ; and Bacon 'presently attained the offices which he had coveted, without, so far as is known, any reproaches being levelled against his earlier prostitution of his legal know- ledge and his oratorical powers. In 1607 he became Solicitor-General ; in 1612 he was promoted to the place of Attorney. But before this, and even before his treachery t/O Essex, he had begun to lay the foundation of a fame far greater and more enduring than is within the. reach of any mere lawyer by works of literature. In 1597 he published the .volume of essays which I have already mentioned, and which were not only his ' earliest visitation but his last ; ' since he was throughout his life revising, re-editing, and making additions to them ; the last edition, which he published only a few months before his death, supplying abundant evidence of his appreciation of the value of an elegant style, in the superior polish which hegave his latest compositions. They have retained their popularity to the present day. Yet no writings can less resemble those which the existing generation calls essays. The aim of a modern writer is to exhaust his subject, to discuss it with a completeness which shall leave nothing more to be said of 1561—1626.] BAGO]^. 357' it. Bacon formed his idea of what an essay should be from the strict meaniag of the word : an attempt ' at a subject ; ' a slight sketch of it ; a set of hints suggesting farther reflections to the reader : so that his essays are little ■ more than brief but most pregnant texts, to be' pondered on and enlarged upon by others. And a great logician and rhetorician of the last generation, Archbishop Whately, who in his last years edited them with great care, thought that he was acting stpictly in accordance with the intentions of the author when he illustrated them with annotations greatly exceeding the originals in bulk. The year 1605 saw the commencement of a still greater work. In that same year which witnessed the defeat of the machinations of the Jesuits for the overthrow of the Reformed religion in these kingdoms, ^ Bacon laid the foundation of a new secular philosophy which was destined for the future to exert an influence over the minds and conditions of men second only to tha.t which in still higher matters had been already established over them, by Luther and his followers^ He published the treatise on the ' Profioience and Advance- ment of Learning, divine and human,' which in a sub- sequent edition he expanded into a larger work, rewriting it in Latin, and giving it the Latin name, De Augmentis Soientiarum : wishing it to be regarded not as a complete work, but as only the first part of a treatise in six parts, which should smooth the way to the attainment of all knowledge. The second part he called Novum Orgmmim, the new instrument, in which he fuUy developed the inductive system ; the third, Bylva Sylvarum, was devoted to the facts and phenomena of natural science, including observations made by himself, many of which,. however, are incorrect, and bear out the criticism of Whately that he is not entitled to rank high as a natural philosopher. The fourth, Bcala Intellectus, was so called from its pointing out the succession of steps by which the understanding may reach its end in the investigations it undertakes. The other parts he did not live to complete. But what he did com- plete has estabhshed his fame on an eminence which has been attained by but one man besides. The task which he proposed to himself may be said to have been a harder one B'53 ENGLISH XITEEATUEE. [Ch. XVIII. than it -would have been to leadanen's minds to tlie study of philosophy if they had never heard of such a thing. He undertook to reclaim them from a wrong path to a right one ; from a course sanctified by the great men who had travelled on it with patience and industry, who had em- belHshed it with every resource of genius, who had reoom- mended it by all that imagination and eloquence could furnish to allure and to convince, but which had been barren of fruit, which had not led to a single discovery that could benefit mankind in practical life, to a new road utterly destitute of all ancient patronage, and which he could only recommend by proclaiming -that it should lead its followers to a goal which Plato and Seneca considered «,lien to the pursuits and beneath the notice of a wise man. Our space forbids our entering into a detailed examination of his phi- losophical labours ; and we may content ourselves here with quoting a brief panegyric on the Novmn Organum, in which Professor Playfair, a most competent judge, has summed up his naerits, and our obligations to his labours : ' The power and compass of a mind which could form such a plan before- hand, and trace not merely the outline but many of the minute ramifications of sciences which did not yet exist, must be an object of admiration to all succeeding ages, .... Nor was it a slight benefit to turn the attention of philosophical enquirers from speculations and disputes upon questions remote from use to investigations having reference to works calculated to affect and benefit the life of man.' And it must enhance our admiration of the intellect which could undertake and accomplish this, to recollect that he who displayed it was no solitary student able to devote his whole time to such labours, but a busy lawyer and politician, occupied with clients, and suitors, and official duties ; and only devoting to philosophy the few and interrupted moments which he could spare from the toil, far more ignoble, but equally dear to his spirit, of fawning upon courtiers and caressing princes. It is painful to add that the conduct by which he sought the favour of the fevourite (for in the Court of the worthless James no one could rise wthoutthe protection of the favourite) was distinguished hj something worse than mere servility : by the most open 1561—1626.] BACON. 359 injustice, corruption, and cruelty. To secure Ms further promotion he did not scruple, as Attorney-General, to put to the torture an aged clergyman, in the vain hope of wringing from his agony expressions -which might support as ridiculous a charge of treason as ever was preferred. As Lord Chancellor he was convicted of having habitually taken bribes to influence his decision in the cases which came before him, and was branded by the unanimous sentence of his brother peers as unworthy ever again to hold ofl&ce in the State, or to assist in their deliberations. For, on his appointment as Chancellor, he had been ennobled as Baron Verulam, and shortly afterwards had received an additional step in the peerage as Viscount St. Albans.' In the long list of those who have adorned the Bench in the diiferent Courts of "Westminster Hall, but one other judge has been stigmatised with similar infamy ; not the less degrading because the partiality of the King, under the influence of Buckingham, who was not likely to see disgrace in any mode of acquiring wealth, almost instantly remitted all the penalties which had been imposed upon him. However, he never resumed his seat in Parliament, but spent his last years in the prosecution of those labours for which even his contemporaries were inclined to pardon his errors, and for which posterity has almost ignored them. ' There are few things much more strange than the mistake which preTails as to his title. He is almost invariably spoken of as Lord Bacon. Lord Macaulay, in the elaborate article on him which is pub- lished among his Essays, has made a curious mistake in a sentence in- tended to apologise for or explain the error. ' Posterity has felt that the greatest of English philosophers could derive no accession of dignity from any title which James could bestow, and, in defiance of the royal letters patent, has obstinately refused to degrade Francis Bacon into Viscount St. Albans.' But, without stopping to discuss the propriety of representing a British peerage, honestly earned, as a degradation, the mistake usually made is not that of calling him Francis Bacon, a name by which he was at one time universally known, but Lord, Bacon, a title by which he was never in his lifetijne known for a single moment ; while, if a great philosopher was really degraded by a peerage, it is hard to see how the degradation can have been less if the title conferred had been Lord Bacon, which it was not, than Viscount St. Albans, which it was. The very article in question (to which the writer has been in- debted for portions of this, sketch) is entitled ' Lord Bacon.' 360 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. [Ch. XVIII. Oue of Ms works, indeed, composed at tliis time, his history of Henry VII., is of no great authority ; but he commenced a digest of the Laws of England, a work of the greatest importance, and one which the philosophical reflections of such a commentator would have stamped with a peculiar value ; and he continued adding to, improving, and polishing his Essays and his Novum Organwm. His death was even directly caused by his devotion to his favourite pursuit. In the words of Lord Macaulay, ' the great apostle of ex- perimental philosophy was destined to be its martyr.' He had conceived the idea that snow would act as a pre-: servative of animal substances ; and to test the truth of his conjecture, in the spriag of 1626 he stuffed a fowl with snow with his own hands. While thus engaged, he was struck with a sudden chill, which brought on a fever, of which, after a week's illness, he died, on Easter-day. He was not unprepared for death : his errors, grievous as they were, had proceeded rather from weakness and timidity than from any deliberate cruelty or dishonesty, and he had throughout his life both expressed and felt a deep reverence for religion. One of his sayings was that, 'A little phi- losophy makes men apt to forget God, as attributing too much to second causes ; but depth of philosophy brings man back to God agaiu.' And his Essays, throughout the whole series, show a constant desire to inculcate the practice of virtue, even of those virtues of which his own infirmities made him most forgetful. Of those infirmities, and of their tendency to obscure his fame, he was painfully conscious in his last moments, though not without a hope that something might be forgiven to the great services which he was equally conscious that he had done to the whole world. 'For my naine and memory,' he says in his last will, ' I leave it to men's charitable speeches, and to foreign nations, and to the next age.' And succeeding ages, which think but httle of the corrupt judge, and rem.ember only the great philosopher, in ranking him by the side of the blameless Newton, have justified his confidence. The following essay is not only a fair specimen of his style of composition, but, by the ' antitheta' at the end, shows the way in which he marshalled his arguments in his own mind, before beginning to write. 1561—1626.] BACON. 361 (Essay 17. On Superstition). It were tetter to have no opinion of God at all than such an opinion as is unworthy of Him ; for the one is unbelief, the other is contumely : and certainly superstition is the reproach of the Deity. Plutarch saith well to that purpose : ' Surely,' saith he, ' I had rather, a great deal, men should say there was no such a man at all as Plutarch than they should say there was one Plutarch, that would eat his children as soon as they were born, as the poet speaks of Saturn : and as the contumely is greater towards God, so the danger is greater towards men. Atheism leaves a man to sense, to philosophy, to natural piety, to laws, to reputation — all which may be guides to an outward moral virtue, though religion were not ; but superstition dismounts all these, and ereoteth an absolute monarchy in the minds of men : therefore atheism did never perturb States ; for it makes men wary of themselves, as looking no further ; and we see the times inclined to atheism, as the time of Augustus Caesar, were civil times ; but superstition hath been the confusion of many States, and bringeth in a new priinum mobile that ravisheth aU the spheres of government. The master of superstition is the people, and in all superstition wise men follow fools ; and arguments are fitted to practise in a reversed order. It was gravely said by some of the prelates in the Council of Trent, where the doctrine of the schoolmen bare great sway, that the schoolmen were like astronomers, which did feign eccentrics and epicycles, and such engines of orbs, to save the phenomena, though they knew there were no such things ; and, in like manner, that the schoolmen had framed a number of subtile and intricate axioms and theorems, to save the practice of the Church. The causes of superstition are pleasing and sensual rites and ceremonies ; excess of outward and pharisaical holiness ; over-great reverence of traditions, which cannot but load the Church ; the stratagems of prelates for their own ambition and lucre ; the favouring too much of good intentions, which openeth the gate to conceits and novelties ; the taking an aim at divine matters by human, which cannot but breed mixture of imaginations ; and, lastly, barbarous times, especially joined with calamities and disasters. Superstition, without a veil, is a deformed thing ; for as it addeth deformity to an ape to be so like a man, so the simili- tude of superstition to religion makes it the more deformed ; and as wholesome meat corrupteth to little worms, so good forms and orders corrupt into a number of petty observances. There is a superstition in avoiding superstition, when men think to do best if 362 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XVIII. tliey go fartlieat from the superstition formerly received ; there- fore care should be had that (as it fareth in ill purgings) the good be not taken away with the bad, which commonly is done when the people is the reformer. (Antitheta on Superstition.) Pro. — Qui zelo peccant, non proband!, sad tamen amandi sunt. Those who go wrong from excess of zeal, cannot indeed be approved, but must nevertheless be loved. • Contra — Ut simise, similitudo eum homine deformitatem addit ; ita superstitione, similitudo cum religione. As an ape is the more hideous for its resemblance to a man, so is superstition for its resemblance to religion. Preestat nullam habere de diis opinionem, quam contumelio- sam. It is better to have no opinion at all of the gods, than a de- grading one. (Essay 18. Of Travel.) Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education ; in the elder, a part of experience. He that travelleth into a country, before he hath some entrance into the language, goeth to school, and not to travel. That young men travel under some tutor, ox grave servant, I allow well ; so that he be such a one that hath the language, and hath been in the country before, whereby he may be able to tell them what things are worthy to be seen in the country where they go, what acquaintances they are to seek, what exercises or discipline the place yieldeth ; for else young men shall go hooded, and look abroad little. It is a strange thing that, in sea-voyages, where there is nothing to be seen but sea and sky, men should make diaries ; but in land-travel, wherein so much is to be observed, for the most part they omit it — as if chance were fitter to be registered than observation : let diaries therefore be brought in use. The things to be seen and observed are the courts of princes, especially when they give audience to ambassadors ; the courts of justice, while they sit and hear causes; and so of consistories ecclesiastic ; the churches and monasteries, with the monuments which are therein extant ; the walls and fortifications of cities and towns ; and so the havens and harbours, antiquities and ruins, libraries, colleges, disputations, and lectures, where any are ; ship- ping and navies, houses and gardens of state and pleasure near great cities; armouries, arsenals, magazines, exchanges, burses, ware- houses ; exercises of horsemanship, fencing, training of soldiers, and the like ; comedies, such whereunto the better sort of persons do 1561— li526.] BACON. 363 resort; treasuries of 3 ewels and rotes ; cabinets and rarities ; and, to conclude, -whatsoever is memorable in the places where they go - — after all which the tutors, or servants, ought to make diligent enquiry. As for triumphs, masks, feasts, weddings, funerals, capital executions, and such shows, men need not be put in mind of them ; yet they are not to be neglected. If you will have a young man to put his travel into a little room, and in short time to gather much, this you must do : first, as was said, he must have some entrance into the language before he goeth ; then he must have such a servant, or tutor, as knoweth the country, as was likewise said ; let him carry with him also some card, or book, de- scribing the country where he travelleth, which will be a good key to his enquiry ; let him keep also a diary ; let him not stay long in one city or town, more or less as the place deserveth, but not long ; nay, when he stayeth in one city or town, let him change his lodging from one end and part of the town to another, which is a great adamant of acquaintance ; let him sequester himself from the company of his countrymen, and diet in such places where there is good company of the nation where he travelleth ; let him, upon his removes from one place to another, procure recommenda- tion to some person of quality residing in the place whither he removeth, that he may use his favour in those things he desireth to see or know ; thus he may abridge his travel with much profit. As for the acquaintance which is to be sought in travel, that ■which is most of all profitable is, acquaintance with the secretaries and employed men of ambassadors ; for so, in travelling in one country, he shall suck the experience of many. Let him also see and visit eminent persons of all kinds, which are of great name abroad, that he may be able to tell how the life agreeth with the fame. For quarrels, they are, with care and discretion, to be avoided — they are commonly for mistresses, healths, place, and words ; and let a man beware how he keepeth company with choleric and quarrelsome persons, for they will engage him into their own quarrels. When a traveller retumeth • home, let him not leave the coiratries where he hath travelled altogether behind him, but maintain a correspondence by letters with those of his acquaintance which are of most worth ; and let bis travel appear rather in his discourse than in his apparel or gesture ; and in his discourse let ,him be rather advised in his answers than forward to tell stories ; and let it appear that he doth not change his country manners for those of foreign parts, butonly prick in some flowers of that he hath learned abroad into the customs of his own country. 364 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XIX. CHAPTEE XrX. ABDISON. A.D. 1672-1719. Veet different in the structure of his mind and in the style of his composition from him o£ whom we have just spoken is he who is generally accounted the most perfect writer of the class, Joseph Addison. His essays, too, have one claim to notice that belongs to no other works of the same kind, that they procured him a place in the govern- ment of his country. He was born in 1672, being the son of a clergyman in Wiltshire, who, when he was about twelve years old, was promoted to be Dean of Lichfield. He was educated at Charter House, and at Oxford, as a member first of Queen's College, and afterwards of Magdalen, where he acquired a considerable reputation for an undergraduate, by the classical tone of his Latin verses. But he had hardly taken his degree when he came before the world at large as an English poet also, addressing Dryden, then uni- versally acknowledged as The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme, and pubHshiug a translation of the greater part of Virgil's fourth Georgia ; on, which Dryden, won perhaps by the youth's admiration of him, which was evidently sincere, bestowed high commendation ; declaring that, after it, ' his latter swarm ' (the subject of the Georgic is the care of bees,' and second swarms are notoriously valueless), ' was hardly worth hiving : ' a verdict in which those who examine it, without having any compliments from the author to be grateful for, wiU hardly coincide. We may even infer that he himself did not wholly agree with it, or at least did not think his English equal to his Latin verse, since in his next poem he returned to the ancient language. Dryden had made him acquaiuted with a young man, 1672—1719.] ADDISON. 365 William Congreve, who, though only of exactly his own age, had been introduced earlier into the society of the metropolis, and who, at the age of twenty-one, had made himself famous by one of the best comedies that at that time had been produced on the stage. ' The Old Bachelor ' had won him the favour of the accomplished Chancellor of the Exchequer, Charles Montagu, as much devoted to literature as to the weightier cares of finance, who had given him a valuable place, and to the same friendly minister Congreve presented his new friend. Montagu at once showed a willingness to serve him, and Addison ■wishing to recommend himself to Montagu's master, the king, wrote a poem on the peace of Ryswick, which, as I have already said, he composed in Latin, partly, perhaps, from a knowledge that William, though no great scholar, understood that language better than English. If the treaty had needed a defence, the advocacy which it received from the poem would not have been very efiectual ; but the verses answered the end which was really aimed at by them, since they procured the author a pension of 300Z. a year, which, however, is said not. to have been very regu- larly paid. It was given, however, professedly in order to enable him to travel ; and accordingly he went abroad, visiting France and Italy, and wrote an account of his travels, in which Johnson, partial as he is to him, can find little to praise. His talent lay in observing men, not countries, and as Johnson confesses, the greater part of his book might have been written at home as easily as abroad. The new .reign did not greatly diminish his prospects of ministerial patronage ; Montagu, who had become Lord Halifax, was still zealous to befriend him, and in 1704 the events of the war gave him an opportunity. Everyone who could pen a stanza tried his hand at celebfating the great victory of Blenheim, a triumph especially grate- ful to a people ashamed of Charles's naval campaigns against the Dutch,. and wearied with William's bloody and profitless warfare against Louis. Blenheim seemed at once to recall the glories of Crecy and Agincourt ; and Lord Godolphin, doubly interested, as minister and relative, in the fame of the hero who had conquered, lamented to 366 ENGLISH LITEEATURE. [Ch. XIX: Halifax the imwortliiness of all the panegyrics which had yet been pronounced on it. Halifax undertoofc to find a poet who should celebrate the achievement in fitting strains, provided the Treasurer would find a fitting reward ; and the fruit of the negotiation was Addison's poem of ' The Campaign,' which is of itself quite sufficient to prove thatthe author was no poet. It is now pretty generally adniitted that there are but six tolerable lines in the whole poem.' But those six lines gilded all the rest, and the poet's fortunes with it. He at once received a lucrative post, the Com- missionership of Appeals ; two years afterwards Be was made an Under Secretary of State, and obtained a seat in the House of Commons as member for Malmesbury ; and when the Marquis of Wharton was sent to Ireland aS Lord Lieutenant, Addison accompanied him as his secre- tary, thus filling the same post that had formerly been occupied by Spenser. He obtained also a seat in the Irish Parliament, as- member for Cavan, and seems indeed by this time to have been regularly enrolled as one of the officials of the great Whig party, on whose fortunes his own were henceforth to depend ; though he probably was never a very e£B.cient man of business, and the only peculiarity in his way of transacting the duties of his various offices is one which has been preserved by Johnson, who has recorded that from the beginning he made a rule of never remitting a-ny of his fees out of courtesy to his friends. But in 1709, while still in Ireland, he was led to try his hand at a new species of composition, which speedily developed a talent in him of which he himself was pro- bably hitherto unconscious, but to which he has ever since ' The simile of the angel : no very extraordinary effort of the imagi- nation, in the opinion of Dr. Madden, a critic whose judgment Johnson quotes with unusual deference. So, when an angel, by divine command, With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, (Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd) Calm and serene he drives the furious blast, And, pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform. Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.' 1672—1719.] ADDISON. 367 owed tlie wtole of Lis repixtation as a man of letters. Eioliard Steele, an old Charter House sctooLfellow, after trying more than one expedient for earning money : as an officer of the Life Guards,; as author of a solemn, semi- religious treatise, and of one or two plays far from desti- tute of humour, though not quite entitled to rank in the first class of such works ; in 1709 came before the world with a composition of an almost entirely novel kind, a series of periodical efesays, the subjects of which were to be some- thing like those of JuTenai's satires, Whate'er men hope or fear, or love or hate, . Do, say, or feel, our volume shall relate. They were to appear three times a week. Nothing was to be foreign to them. They were to paiut the manners of the age, to laugh at the follies, sometimes to scourge the vices, of society; to inculcate principles of virtue'; to lay down rules of criticism ; occasionally to allure by a lively allegory the attention of impatience or frivolity that would not endure a sermon. To supply every number of such a work was beyond the powers of any single in- dividual. Steele sought the aid of friends, and especially of his old schoolfellow, which was willingly given. And, though his own papers were far from devoid of wit and well-turned phrases, he frankly owned thd superiority of Addison. He even feigned a comical kind of distress at the result of the alliance. ' He fared,' he said, ' like a distressed prince, who calls in a powerful neighbour to his aid. He was undone by his auxiliary. When he had once obtained his aid, he could not subsist without depen- dence on him.' The confession was the genuine expression of Steele's honest heart, which he afterwards showed in the most convincing way by giving up to his ally, when the ' Spectator' was substituted for the ' Tatler,' the task of filling up the character of Sir Roger de Coyerley, of whom he himself had drawn the original sketch, and his own age and every succeeding generation has confirmed his judg- ment. Tor, indeed, in keen observation of all the nicer shades and more delicate varieties of human character, Addison has no superior ; in quiet, gentlemanhke humour 368 ENGLISH LITEEATUEB. [Ch. XIX. he has no rival ; while some of the allegories and fables which he at times scatters among his contributions display so fertile an invention, so rich and playful a fancy, that they excite our wonder that he did not shine more in poetry when he had so many of the qualities of a poet. It may be added that his pleasantry is invariably good-natured ; we look in his pages in vain for sneers or sarcasms ; and that, whether his mood be gay or serious, his pen is always exercised in the cause of virtue and religion. ' The Tatler ' lasted till January 1711 ; and, after a rest of a few weeks, as has been already intimated, was re- placed by the ' Spectator,' of which Addison became the ostensible chief, as Steele had been in the case of the 'Tatler.' The 'Spectator' was published daily; and, like its predecessor, lasted about two years, during which time it may be said almost to have created a body of readers such as certainly no publication, unconnected with politics, had ever previously attracted. It numbered nearly 4,000 subscribers ; > of some particular articles 20,000 copies are said to have been sold. And when it stopped, and was republished in volumes, the number of purchasers more than doubled that of the original subscribers. At the end of 1712 the ' Spectator ' was stopped, to be in its turn replaced by a third periodical, entitled the ' Guardian,' with which, however, Addison had but little connection, pro- bably because, as Lord Macaulay surmises, he was occupied in finishing ' Cato,' a tragedy on which he had been em- ployed at intervals for many years, and which in the spring of 1713 was produced on the stage. Lord Macaulay, one of Addison's warmest champions, extends the admiration whichhe lavishes on his ' Tatlers ' and ' Spectators ' to ' Cato ' likewise ; allowing indeed its inferiority to the master- pieces of the French stage, to ' Athahe ' or ' Saul,' but placing it 'not below " Cinna," ' and above many of the plays of Corneille, Racine, or Voltaire. It is, indeed, only with the dramas of the French school that it can be compared ; for it is written wholly on their model. But I confess it ' This is Lord Macaulay's statement ; bnt Johnson infers from the produce of the tax that, at all events after the imposition of the stamp duty, the sale did not reach 2,000. 1672—1719.] ADDISON. 369 seems to me that it has all the faults of the French trage- dies, sometimes even in an exaggerated form, and but little of their occasional fire. ' Oato ' and ' Sempronius ' resemble Romans as little as the ' Titus ' of Racine. Racine's ancient heroes are fine gentlemen of the court of Louis -with classical names ; and Addison's are members of the Royal Society, or rather, perhaps, Oxford tutors, in the same disguise, if it can be called one ; while the unity of place is so strictly preserved that the -whole action passes in a single room, the vestibule of Gate's house. But, luckily for the author, its success on the stage did not depend on its merits, but partly on the zeal of his friends, and partly on the peculiar position of the two great political parties at the moment. Pope wrote an admirable prologue for it ; Steele undertook the act of packing a house, nad exerted his skill with the most hearty energy. The Whigs, in a body, came down to support their brother Whig. The Tories, who affected a general disapproval of standing armies on principle, and a particular dread lestMai-lborough might turn against his own country the arms which lier enemies had found invincible, professed to see an advocacy of their own sentiments in the animadversions on Cfesar, who had used his legions to subvert the old constitution of Rome. And thus, as Pope describes the scene, ' the numerous and violent claps of the Whig party on the one side of the theatre were echoed back by the Tories on the other; . . . and after all the applause of the opposite parties, my Lord Bolingbroke sent for Booth, who played Cato, into the box, and presented him with fifty guineas, as he expressed it, for defending the cause of hberty so well against a perpetual dictator.' ' The friendship, however, between Addison and Pope, which the supply of the prologue seemed to intimate, did not last long. The ostensible cause of quarrel was the conduct of Addison on the subject of the translation of Homer, which has been already mentioned in the sketch of Pope ; and which, as Pope believed, proceeded from a jealousy of his abilities and reputation, which the ' Rape of the Lock ' had placed almost on a level with that of Dryden. ' Letter to Sir W. Trumball. BB 370 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. [Ch. XIX. When tke feeling of ill-will was once kindled, other circum- stances soon tended to exasperate it. The Earl of War- wick, whose mother was Addison's wife, told Pope that a pamphlet which contained some severe reflections on him had been prompted by Addison. And Pope, in retaliation, wrote that stinging satire on Atticus, which he sent to Addison to peruse, in order, apparently, to deter him from venturing on any repetition of such unfriendly conduct, and which many years afterwards he inserted in one of his satires. The publishing of such an attack on Addison after his death cannot be defended, and, the question who was most to blame for the whole quarrel has been revived with some zeal in recent years, when Addison had the ad- vantage which, a generation earlier, was enjoyed by Pope, of having his cause advocated by writers of great power and deserved popularity. But with all, their ingenuity, neither Macaulay nor Thackeray can prove that Addison was capable of honest friendship, or do away with the odious fact of his having put an execution into the house . of Steele, and sold off all his property to compel payment of a small loan, though he himself was a wealthy man, and his old schoolfellow was never out of difficulties. And on the question of the pamphlet Lord Warwick's authority seems indisputable. It may be added that it clearly was not to Pope's interest to quarrel with Addison, for, under the new Brunswick dynasty, the latter had beponie a person of great political power. The council which carried on the government till the arrival of the new king, appointed him Secretary to the Board ; in 1716 he married a highly- dowered and noble wife, the Countess of Warwick, and in 1717, on the retirement of Lord Townsend and Walpole from ofB.ce, he became Secretary of State, a promotion which was a remarkable tribute to his literary powers, as he was not only destitute of eloquence, but so timid in the House that he could hardly be induced to attempt to speak. But, besides his articles in the ' Tatler ' and ' Spectator,' others of his writings had shown his pen to be as well- suited for political warfare as for moral discussions or humorous descriptions. In Anne's time he had not been afraid to measure himself against Swift in the ' Whig 1672—1719.] ADDISON. 371 Examiner,' which even Johnson, who disapproves of its views, admits to be so full of humour that ' every reader of every party must wish for more of it.' And at the begin- ning of the new reign he supported his party with a n-ew serial, the ' Freeholder,' in which, according to the same most impartial judge, he displayed the same characteristic quality in as great perfection as ever. ' In argument he had many equals ; but his humour was matchless.' And such a talent was more profitable to an author than it would be at the present day. For while the publication of the debates in Parliament was prohibited, a lively pamphlet, ■*\'hich could be circulated abroad, was often of greater ser- vice to its party than the most eloquent speech, which was known to none but the few members who chanced to hear it. But Addison was not fated long to enjoy his secretary- ship, or his noble wife ; the latter indeed being no great addition to his happiness, since she was mean, imperious, and jealous. At the beginning of 1718 he was compelled to resign his office by a severe attack of asthma, ac- cording to Macaulay, though Pope affirmed (and Johnson quotes his assertion with evident belief and approval) that he relinquished his post because he found by experience his inability to discharge its duties. He was a victim to his own nicety of taste, as Pope said : ' He could not issue an order without losing his time in quest of fine ex- pressions.' His colleagues, however, conferred on him a pension of 1,500Z. a year ; and he began to occupy himself in planning fresh literary works, when he was arrested by the disease which, at all events, naay have had some share in determining him to retire from official life. He even contemplated an English dictionary, a publication in which his wit and humour would have been thrown away, his elegance of style could have found no room to exert itself, and for which we have no reason to think him possessed of sufficient learning to be at all qualified. But, whils revolving such ideas, he was once more called on to exer- cise his talents as a pamphleteer, and once more descended into the political arena, with great zeal, in defence of the un- constitutional and mischievous Peerage Bill. Steele was the chief writer on the other side, and Addison had the E B 2 372 ENGLISH LITERATURE. [Ch. XIX. mortification not only to be beaten by bim in argument, but to have some of his antagonist's keenest weapons sharpened ■ by quotations from his own favourite ' Cato.' The controversy was not terminated when Addison died, breathing his last with cheerfulness and pious resignation, in June 1719, when he had but just completed his forty- seventh year. Johnson, imitating Quintilian's eulogy on Cicero, closes a well-balanced panegyric on his virtues and talents with the assertion that ' whoever wishes to attain an English style familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostenta- tious, must give his days and nights to the study of Addison.' The author of the ' Rambler,' who ~was not unconscious of the defects of his own style, not unnaturally admired those qualities in which he felt himself to be most deficient. Ajid perhaps some deduction from such high praise will be made by those who think that Addison polished his style to such a degree as to deprive it of all strength. The same panegyrist admits that his argumen- tative powers were of no high order ; and I confess I think that, whenever his tone is serious, his manner is far more valuable than his matter : that his phrases, if smooth, are soft, and wanting in vigour ; and that his moral re- flections, like his criticisms, show but little depth of thought. But from his wit and humour no deductions can be made. He was certainly endowed with both qualities in as high perfection as any writer in our language ; and it is a still greater praise that they were uniformly em- ployed, as Johnson (quoting his friend Tickell) remarks, ' on the side of virtue and religion.' His contemporary Congreve, seemed to think these faculties incompatible with morality, and even with decency ; but Addison ' not only made the proper use of wit himself, but taught it to others ; and from his time it has been generally subservient to the cause of reason and of truth. He dissipated the prejudice that long connected gaiety with vice, and easi- ness of manners with laxity of principle. He restored virtue to its dignity, and taught innocence not to be ashamed.' ' ' Lives 0/ the Poets, iii. 166. 1672-1719.. ADDISON. 373 Of the following extracts, the first combines with, his habitual humou.l' a richness of poetical invention of which he has given ns but few specimens. The second is more characteristic of his style, and is one which it is not impos- sible that the changes of fashion may again render appro- priate to the time. It may be remarked, too, tliat they show a diiference in some usages of grammar or expression from the mode which prevails now. Thus Addison writes, 'stands in a readiness' and 'in course,' where a modern writer would say ' in readiness ' and ' of course.' (The Spectator, No. 159.) When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several Oriental manu- scripts, which 1 have still by me. Among others I met with one entitled the ' Visions of Mirza," which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend to give it to the public when I have no other entertainment tor them ; and shall begin with the first vision, which I have translated word for word, as follows: — On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation of the vanity of human life ; and, passing from one thought to another, 'Surely,' said I, 'man is but a shadow, and life a dream.' Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes tr)wards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him, he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different to anything I had ever heard. They put one in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures. I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a Genius, and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned 374 ENGLISH LITERATUEB. [Ch. XIX. to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature, and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The Genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarised him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and, taking me by the hand, ' Mirza,' said he, ' I have heard thee in thy soliloquies ; follow me.' * He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it, ' Cast thy eyes eastward,' said he, ' and tell me what thou seest.' ' I see,"" said I, ' a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it' ' The valley that thou seest,' said he, ' is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest, is part of the great tide of Eternity.' ' What is the reason,' said I, ' that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other ? ' 'What thOu seest,' said he, ' is that portion of Eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now,' said he, ' this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.' ' I see a bridge,' said I, ' standing in the midst of the tide.' ' The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life ; consider it atten- tively.' Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I foun